The downs are driven by a fierce westerly. The dry valleys built of soft Cretaceous chalk are a kaleidoscope of greens and yellows as the sun catches the grasslands and trees. Water is whipped from the eyes; ears deafened by the roar.

From the crest of the escarpment there is a dim view of Dungeness sunk by the immutable mark of the power station. Somewhere among the clouds above a Spitfire flies into the sunshine. All our yesterdays and todays blowing in the blinding summer wind.

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