Nash Point, doing its best impression of a Victorian painting having an existential crisis.

That sky isn't messing about. It's the kind of sky that's clearly had an argument with someone and hasn't decided whether to storm off or just sulk over the sea for a bit. Meanwhile the lighthouse stands there, blazing white and utterly unbothered, like the one adult at the party who showed up in a clean shirt while everyone else is still finding their shoes.

Then you've got the little row of cottages huddled at its feet, looking distinctly smug about being tucked in next to a 200-tonne emergency contact for passing ships. "Oh, us? No, we're fine, we've got a lighthouse."

Down on the beach, the tide's gone out and left behind what I can only describe as a crime scene for seaweed. Proper moody rock pools and mudflats, the sort of terrain that ruins a good pair of trainers in about four seconds flat.

And that cliff edge, doing its very best "dramatic coastal erosion" cosplay, daring anyone with a tripod to get just that little bit too close for the shot.