Every now and then, the planet Earth gets bored of being a sphere and decides to see how sharp it can make a corner before the Atlantic Ocean notices.
The result is this: three jagged splinters of ancient, compressed plankton marching in single file off the western tip of the Isle of Wight, determined to discover if there is anything out in the Solent worth impaling.
At the very end of this geological dare stands a lighthouse. It is painted red and white, exactly like a festive peppermint stick, and sports a flat roof specifically designed so that a helicopter can land on it in the middle of a force-eight gale while its occupants wonder why they didn’t just take the hovercraft to Ryde instead.
Far above on the cliff edge sits a discreet brick building. Historically, this was used for testing top-secret rocket engines in the 1950s—an exceptionally British project that combined thermonuclear ballistic research with the quiet consumption of vacuum-flask tea while staring through binoculars at a distant, uncooperative cloud.
Below, the sea continues its relentless, multi-millennium task of turning all of this dramatic scenery into a slightly damp sandbank. In the meantime, it serves as the ultimate backdrop for people holding plastic souvenir bottles filled with multi-coloured sand that they bought for six pounds fifty at the top of a chairlift.