Beings looking like they’ve just landed from an unknown world.

Objects strewn cross pebbly landscape, looking like they’d just dropped from the sky.

This is a strange place.

Tis a bleak beauty.

Film director and artist Derek Jarman put this place on the map, so to speak, when he bought a wooden shack here in ‘86. It wasn’t just some holiday home, he lived in it until his death in ‘94. He even used it for his film The Garden, released in 1990. This place became a draw for tourists, who come in droves to see it for themselves. A friend of mine, showing an interest in my pending trip, had sent me a link before I visited but I preferred to see it for myself, keeping my experience clean of influence. Glad I did. I prefer to form my own impression of people, places and things. What an impression! 

What makes this place feel so strange? What is the attraction?

This is no quaint fishing village, nestled by water’s edge, cottages climbing steep hill, part of some geological feature that helped form tiny inlet and natural harbour. No. Sat on the south coast of Kent, aside the English Channel, this is an almost random scattering of buildings and such. There’s a line of houses to the west and then a more sparse spread of dwellings as you go east into the estate. I mean dwellings rather than houses. They’re a mix of huts, glorified sheds, wooden shacks and chic designer modern buildings. It stretches a short way along the south coast of Kent, safe distance from the English Channel. A sea of pebbles adding a further divide.

I have to say that the atmosphere was palpable. A lady was pushing pebbles ahead of her with toes clad in soft black shoes as she ambled slowly; these strangely rounded but misshapen stones crunching beneath each tread she took. She stopped to pick one up. Felt it’s shape, almost caressed it between fingers and thumb as it nestled against her palm in warm grip. She’s been here several times before, loves the place. Knows to wrap her head in beautiful scarf; the scarf that attracted my attention from way away. She knows the wind bites hard enough to make susceptible ears ache. Her friend, sometimes frustrated with her, goes off and does the photography thing. But this lady? She’s just happy to smell the sea, feel pebbles beneath feet and bend now and again to fetch into her grasp one that she knows will feel right.

Looking beyond the dwellings in the estate, with your back to the sea, you see again the huge power stations; all three of them! Not something you’d fail to notice as you got close to Dungeness. They’re skyline blockers. I suppose on another day, if the sea mist formed some barrier like pea soup, as we Brits say, then they might not be so visible; but they’d still be an eerie presence.

But there’s more to this strangeness. It’s not some stretch of coastline suitable for bathers. So a few sea faring boats line the shore. Some fishing boats, others for fishing excursions. So, of course, you’ll find the odd shack used as store or booking office; safe haven in stormy weather. Naturally, there are fishing baskets, nets and so forth too. But there’s more. Old cargo containers and shacks are scattered randomly between shore and road that leads to the lighthouses, more conventional houses and power stations. Not only that but many, many old engines used to haul boats or catch from the sea and drag further inshore. Add to that boats discarded, sometimes upturned like stranded whales and image is complete. A strange mix indeed.

This is no place for the average beach attracted holiday maker. Certainly not the bucket and spade brigade. Ain’t no sand. No, a good number of the people I saw were contemplative, all kinds of things going through their heads. Like the camera was rolling and they envisaged themselves in this significant moment ...in significant landscape...insignificant film.

Bleak but beautiful.

One group of five people, in their early thirties, looked like thespians, out for the day. They weren’t dressed like people normally would for a coastal hike or perusal. Posh picnic or birthday celebration perhaps? I spotted them from far off. Made my way toward them, my interest piqued; alas I got to them as they were packing up, party over. They folded up the director’s chairs and packed up their other paraphernalia and headed back across the pebbles towards their cars. I did manage to capture two of them by the old boat though; inspiring amica italiana to think of Fellini’s film. So fitting. Result. 

I was supposed to be with others this week but for this pandemic. Fuck Covid! I couldn’t take the planned flight, nor could I meet up with my brother instead. Yeh, I know, I’m luckier than many. Just found out my eldest son and his wife are suffering in isolation with it, tested positive. I couldn’t concentrate properly on my research of my Kentish childhood, I felt alone. But it’s ok, this strange and desolate place suited my circumstance, answered my call. I was better able to absorb the chill of loneliness that this desolate scape offers. Feel it, accept it, rejoice in it almost and head home. Happy to return to the warmth and love that I know.

It may be a beautiful place but even in late summer it sure is bleak.

EDITOR & PROOFREADING of PPH

I’m English and live in Britain but I have lived in many places, home and abroad. It has made a difference to how I perceive things. My dad used to take a lot of photographs as we grew up. There was something special about that moment caught. However, I didn’t get a proper camera until I was a young man. I didn’t get serious about my photography until I discovered Street, four years ago. I’m not limited to this genre but it has propelled my passion forward. I love to capture slices of life, moments, moods and memories.  Both story and keepsake. They are not simply images but layers of life...mine and sometimes theirs.