Britannia Inn, Dungeness.

Dungeness is a place so weird, alien, topsy turvy, that I’m still processing it.

The name is weird. It’s old Norse, ‘Nes’, meaning headland, and the ‘Dunge’ bit might be related to Denge Marsh, up to the Northeast.

Dungeness is a headland, a cuspate foreland strictly speaking. It is not on the way to anywhere. There is nothing there. Except… some sparsely laid out fishing cottages on the shingle, oh and a massive nuclear power station, pylons dancing out of site across the horizon, and a 15″ garage steam railway that runs the kids to school.

We cycled here. It’s as close to cycling to the moon as one could probably ever do.

The pub has some lovely photographs of barrels being delivered by horse. The cart wheels are 2 feet wide to better roll on the shingle.

The ceiling of the pub is covered in key rings hanging from the cross beams. Hundreds of them. Animals, aliens, funny quotes, coast of arms, the lot.

Across the bar there are whimsical quotes: “I’m going outside to see if anyone calls me outstanding”.

Out of one window is Dungeness B nuclear reactor, a huge block surrounded by outbuildings and pipes. Out of the other is an abandoned shed, and shingle, and the English Channel.