2025 was a year of working closer to home and learning to respond to conditions rather than chase them. From misty dawns on the South Downs to woodland waterfalls in the High Weald and long exposures on Romney Marsh, this review brings together one standout image from each month — moments that best reflect how and where I photographed across the year.
Continue reading Landscape Photography Review 2025Early one August morning, I filmed along the eastern edge of Hastings known as Rock-a-Nore — a name that comes from “rock against the north.” The light was perfect, spilling across the cliffs and over the shingle beach, where fishing boats still launch directly into the sea.
Below is the short film from that morning — a quiet look at one of Britain’s last working beaches.
You can view the area on Google Maps or on my own collection of All Map Locations.
Rock-a-Nore sits between the Old Town and the eastern cliffs, right where the land gives way to the sea. Unlike the white chalk faces of Beachy Head or Seven Sisters, these are Hastings sandstone — darker, layered, and more easily eroded. At low tide, it’s possible to walk from here all the way to Covehurst Bay and even on to Cliff End, though conditions can change quickly.
This part of the coast doesn’t get the same attention as the more famous cliffs along the Sussex coast — but in many ways, it’s far more alive.
The shingle beach here is called The Stade, from the old Saxon word for landing place. It’s home to the last full-time beach-launched fishing fleet in Britain.
There is no harbour. Boats are pulled out to sea using tractors and heavy winches, and returned the same way. This technique dates back centuries — adapted to the geography, and kept alive by generations of Hastings fishermen.
I was lucky enough to film a team launching one of the smaller boats into the morning tide. You can still feel the rhythm of work here — quiet but constant.
Behind the boats stand the black wooden towers known as Net Shops — often called net huts, but their true name is older.
Built on tiny plots of land, each one is tall and narrow, designed to store and dry hemp fishing nets before the days of nylon. The tarred wood keeps them waterproof, and some reach three or four storeys high. You won’t find anything like them anywhere else in the world.
They’ve become an icon of Hastings — as much a part of the town as the boats and cliffs themselves.
Above Rock-a-Nore, the East Hill Lift rises up the cliff — the steepest funicular railway in England. At the top, you’re rewarded with views across the Old Town, the pier, and even Beachy Head in the distance.
From up there, you really see how the town fits together — hemmed in by the sea, the cliffs, and its own layered history.
High on Wilmington Hill at the end of August, the weather turned blustery and dramatic. A rainbow briefly appeared before storm clouds rolled over the Downs. Against this backdrop, a herd of Exmoor ponies grazed the slopes, with Firle Beacon soft in the distance. These hardy ponies are more than just a beautiful sight — they play a vital role in conserving the chalk grassland of the South Downs.
Here’s a short reel from the day:
Exmoor ponies on the South Downs are here for a reason — conservation grazing keeps the slopes open for wildflowers, butterflies, and other wildlife.
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Wilmington Hill rises steeply above the Sussex Weald, offering world-class views across the patchwork fields of the Downs. Just below lies one of the region’s most iconic landmarks — the Long Man of Wilmington, a mysterious chalk figure cut into the hillside.
The ponies here are Exmoors, one of Britain’s oldest native breeds. Their hardy build and steady grazing make them ideal for managing rough chalk grassland, preventing scrub from overwhelming the delicate ecosystem. This form of conservation grazing helps to preserve habitats for species such as the Grayling butterfly, which depends on open, sunny slopes.
The light on this day was constantly shifting — clouds racing in the wind, the land below glowing one moment and darkening the next.
Photographing the ponies against this backdrop created a natural contrast: the immediacy of a living subject set against the timeless South Downs landscape.
The Exmoor ponies add something special to Wilmington Hill — a reminder that the South Downs are not just scenery but a living landscape, shaped by centuries of grazing, farming, and human imagination. With the Long Man at their feet and Firle Beacon on the horizon, this is Sussex at its most evocative.
What follows is a collection of my best photos taken during August 2025. Including trips to Ashdown forest on the high weald and walks over the south downs all within the boundaries of east Sussex.
Continue reading August 2025 Landscape Photography ReviewSt Leonards Gardens is one of the most historic green spaces in Hastings. I first came across it after visiting the James Burton memorial, and soon realised the gardens tell their own remarkable story — from the town’s Regency beginnings to Alan Turing’s childhood.
Here’s a short video walk through the gardens:
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The gardens were originally laid out in the 1830s by James Burton, the great Regency builder who founded St Leonards-on-Sea. Designed as private pleasure grounds for the residents of Burton’s new seaside resort, they featured sweeping lawns, ornamental planting, and a serpentine lake at the centre.
The lodges at the edges of the park became homes in their own right. At North Lodge, Henry Rider once lived — father of novelist H. Rider Haggard, author of King Solomon’s Mines. Later, the area became associated with another extraordinary figure: Alan Turing, pioneer of modern computing, who spent part of his childhood in a house overlooking the gardens during the 1920s.
By the later 19th century the private grounds had fallen into decline, but they were eventually restored and opened to the public. Today the park still follows Burton’s original layout, with its winding paths, ornamental lake, and a duck pond full of lilies and life.
Walking from South Lodge through to North Lodge, you can still sense the Regency ambition that shaped this corner of Hastings, alongside the stories of the remarkable people who lived here.
At the northern end of Hastings’ Alexandra Park lies a hidden valley once celebrated as a jewel of Victorian landscape design: Old Roar Ghyll. In the 1860s, when Robert Marnock laid out the park, the ghyll was meant to be its dramatic finale – a roaring sandstone waterfall, shaded woodland paths, rustic bridges and wild scenery just a short walk from town.
Today, the scene is very different.
Here’s a look at what I found on my recent visit:
Even now, you can trace the old walk through Little Roar Ghyll upstream to where the waterfall once roared. And yet, what was once a highlight of Hastings is now blocked by landslides, dried by drought, and hemmed in by housing estates.
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I started at the upper entrance, only to be stopped straight away by barriers and a sign – another path closed due to landslip.
So I dropped into Little Roar Ghyll instead, which still runs through the shaded woodland. It’s probably looked after more by locals than the council.
With the stream almost dry, I followed the bed upstream, pushing through nettles and scrambling over fallen logs. Eventually I reached Old Roar Ghyll itself – the great sandstone cliff that once carried a waterfall so loud it gave the place its name. This time it was silent, the stream cut off or dried to nothing, the rocks scarred by fresh collapses.
Just beyond, a smaller, unnamed waterfall spills prettily down the valley side – perhaps the loveliest sight of the day. But even here, blockages of timber and more closed paths show how little maintenance is done.
Alexandra Park below is still neat, polished, and well-funded, but the wild ghylls at the top are being left to rot. Some argue this is nature reclaiming itself – and there’s truth in that – but from walking it, it feels more like abandonment.
Local people know why: these valleys sit within protected SSSI land, meaning any work involves endless surveys, health and safety paperwork, and permissions. Residents who’d happily clear paths and keep the place open run into 50-page forms and bureaucracy. Meanwhile, houses stand right on the unstable edges, blighted by landslips, their values falling.
We’re told there’s no money, no will, and no plan – yet billions are found for other projects elsewhere.
There used to be a streamside path leading up to Roar Gyhll with it being the prize spectacle. During the 70s due to development right up to the valley edge it began to subside and gradually got closed off now completely inaccessible. This is what happens when short sighted housing is prioritised over rare natural environments like this.
Places like Old Roar Ghyll are more than neglected corners of a park. They’re part of our heritage and our wellbeing. Every child should have somewhere wild to roam close to home. Adults need green space for mental health, especially in towns. And in Hastings, these sandstone ghylls are rare landscapes found nowhere else in Sussex.
To let them collapse through short-sightedness and red tape is to lose a treasure forever.
Lake Wood, on the western edge of Uckfield, is a hidden corner of the High Weald. It offers a peaceful woodland walk, dramatic sandstone outcrops, and a spring-fed lake with a history that blends natural geology with human design.
Here’s a short reel from my visit:
A reminder of how geology, landscape, and community care combine to create something special.
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Lake Wood sits within the High Weald, one of the most geologically distinctive landscapes in southern England. Around 140 million years ago, during the Cretaceous, sands and clays were laid down in a shallow sea. Over time, erosion stripped away the softer clays and left behind the harder sandstone ridges.
The outcrops here belong to the Ardingly Sandstone — the same formation that gives rise to Eridge Rocks and other striking cliff faces across the Weald. These rocky ledges, caves, and gullies create a unique microclimate where mosses, lichens, and ferns thrive.
The lake itself is spring-fed and seepage-fed through surrounding rocks and peat, forming a balanced ecosystem for aquatic life and woodland species.
In the early 19th century, the estate owner landscaped Lake Wood in the romantic picturesque style. Tunnels, steps, and even a boathouse were carved directly into the sandstone, blending natural features with human design.
What feels ancient and untouched is partly a crafted vision, shaped to enhance its beauty and mystery. Today, the Woodland Trust manages the site, preserving both its ecological value and historic character.
Lake Wood is no ordinary woodland — it has survived repeated threats of development thanks to decades of effort from the local community. Volunteers work tirelessly to keep the paths open, clear litter, and protect wildlife.
Erosion from footfall can expose tree roots and wear away the sandstone ledges, so staying to the marked paths is important. Signs also ask visitors not to swim or fish, as the delicate pH of the lake must be preserved.
The latest challenge came as recently as 2024, when a large housing appeal was dismissed after strong local opposition. Lake Wood stands today because people continue to care about it.
On a winter’s day in February 1944, a United States Army Air Forces B-24 Liberator named Ruth-Less tried to limp back across the Downs after a raid on V-1 rocket sites in northern France. It never made it. The bomber struck the ridge at Butts Brow above Eastbourne, killing all ten men on board. Today, a simple plaque set into the hillside remembers their sacrifice.
Here’s a short reel capturing the memorial and the view across the Downs:
A small stone, a wide landscape, and a story that travelled across the Atlantic.
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On 2 February 1944, B-24D Liberator 41-24282, code BAR-Y, of the 44th Bomb Group, was returning from a mission over northern France. The aircraft had been badly damaged by enemy fire and was flying through heavy cloud and severe icing.
The crew tried to reach the emergency landing strip at Friston, just beyond Eastbourne. But in low visibility the bomber clipped the ridge at Butts Brow and broke apart. Eight men died instantly; the remaining two succumbed to their injuries later that day at Princess Alice Hospital.
The crew are remembered by name on the plaque: Edward J. Ackerman, James H. Bales, James O. Bolin, George M. Dewald, Aubrey J. Maloy, Harold W. Schwab, Ralph E. Strait, James L. Wilson, Orville L. Wulff, and Chester W. Yurick.
Ruth-Less had already survived the famous 1943 Ploiești raid on Romania’s oil fields — one of the toughest missions of the war. That it was lost here, within sight of safety, gives the stone on Butts Brow an added poignancy.
The memorial plaque was unveiled in 1995 through the efforts of local historian Kevin Watson.
Location: Butts Brow, Willingdon, Eastbourne, East Sussex (plaque lies south of the main car park on the ridge).
Access: Public footpaths across the Downs; easiest from the Butts Brow car park.
Best time to visit: Clear days for far-reaching views, or quiet winter afternoons for atmosphere.
Nearby:
It’s easy to walk past a small plaque in the grass. But standing here, looking across the same horizon those ten men never crossed, the scale of the sacrifice becomes real. Butts Brow holds not just a view, but a memory.
Hidden away off Bulverhythe Road in St Leonards, surrounded by mid-20th century houses, stand the ruins of St Mary’s Chapel. Once part of a thriving medieval harbour settlement, the fragment that survives today is one of Hastings’ strangest and most overlooked historical sites.
Here’s a short film exploring the story:
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The ruins you see today are the chancel walls of a medieval chapel, first built in the Norman period by the Earls of Eu, then later rebuilt in the 13th–14th centuries in Early English style.
Archaeological digs in 1861 and again in 1929 revealed burials, carved stones, and the ground plan of a church that was once over 100 feet long. The tower foundations now lie beneath Bexhill Road, but the surviving flint and rubble walls — mixed with Norman carved masonry — remain above ground.
St Mary’s once served the harbour village of Bulverhythe, then a limb of the Cinque Ports. Over centuries, coastal erosion, storms, and shifting trade led to its decline. By the 17th century most of the harbour settlement had vanished, leaving the chapel and the Bull Inn as isolated reminders.
In the 20th century, housing estates grew up around the site as St Leonards expanded. Most of the homes date from the 1930s to 1960s, yet the chapel fragment was left standing. It’s remarkable that it wasn’t cleared away, since other remains nearby were built over completely.
Look closely at the Bull Inn on the corner and you’ll even see some of the chapel’s original stonework reused in its walls — a practice seen throughout English history, from the Roman city of Verulamium being quarried for medieval St Albans, to local villagers “robbing out” abandoned ruins for new buildings.
St Mary’s is now a Grade II listed monument, consolidated in the 1980s to prevent further decay. It stands as a rare reminder of Hastings’ medieval past — a fragment of a lost harbour town, marooned in the middle of a modern suburb.
It raises bigger questions too: how many villages and chapels have vanished entirely? The Domesday Book of 1086 gives us the first nationwide survey, but thousands of settlements have since disappeared. Over 3,000 “deserted medieval villages” are known across England, with many more lost without record. St Mary’s is a rare survivor that reminds us how fragile communities once were.
For more Sussex ruins and hidden corners, see posts on Camber Castle, Winchelsea Gates, and Exceat Hill.
St Mary’s Chapel is easy to overlook, but that’s what makes it powerful. A ruin hemmed in by ordinary houses, whispering of a harbour town long since claimed by the sea. Not every fragment of the past gets swept away — some survive in the strangest of places.
Tucked away beneath the towering cliffs of Hastings Country Park, Covehurst Bay is one of the most remote and dramatic beaches in East Sussex. With no facilities, no phone signal, and only steep footpaths for access, it feels like a world apart. At low tide, the sea pulls back to reveal wide stretches of sand and rock, creating a raw coastal landscape that’s unlike anywhere else along the Sussex coast.
Here’s a short reel to give you a glimpse of the bay:
For location details, check it out here on Google Maps, or see it in my collection of All Map Locations.
Covehurst Bay is part of Wild Hastings — a rugged coastline where nature is left largely to itself. At low tide the golden sands stretch between slippery rocks and jagged ledges, with the red sandstone cliffs rising steeply behind. The place feels almost Martian in parts, with giant boulders scattered across the beach and no signs of human development in sight.
The cliffs here are millions of years old, formed from sandstone and shale layers that have yielded fossil plants and even dinosaur footprints. But finding them without precise knowledge is like searching for a needle in a haystack. For most visitors, it’s the sheer drama of the cliffs and the shapes in the rocks that leave the strongest impression.
This secluded bay has become a quiet haven for wildlife. Grey seals are sometimes spotted hauling out on the sands at low tide, basking just offshore, or bobbing curiously in the waves.
The remoteness of the location makes it one of the few places along the Sussex coast where seals can rest undisturbed.
Since the 1970s, Covehurst Bay has also been known as an unofficial naturist beach. Its isolation and steep paths keep visitor numbers low, and those who do make the trek often value the sense of freedom and privacy the bay provides.
On the ridges of Ashdown Forest, surrounded by purple heather, lies one of the most poignant memorials in Sussex. The Airman’s Grave marks the spot where a Wellington bomber from RAF 142 Squadron crashed on 31 July 1941, killing all six crew. It is not a burial site, but a place of remembrance, created by the mother of one of the airmen and cared for ever since.
Here’s my short video from a late August evening, with the heather in full bloom:
The memorial sits in the heart of Ashdown Forest, a landscape famous for its open heath, forest walks, and connections to A. A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh. But here, the beauty of the High Weald meets the weight of wartime history.
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In the early hours of 31 July 1941, a Vickers Wellington bomber from RAF Binbrook, flying with 142 Squadron, was returning from a raid on Cologne. The aircraft had engine trouble and was struggling in poor weather. At 04:56 GMT, it came down on the southern slopes of Ashdown Forest.
All six crew — Flight Sergeant Harry Vidler, Sergeant Vic Sutton, Sergeant Wilf Brooks, Flight Sergeant Ernest Cave, Sergeant Stan Hathaway, and Flight Sergeant Len Saunders — were killed. Their average age was just 24.
Soon after, the mother of Sergeant Sutton placed a simple wooden cross at the site. Over the years, this grew into the stone memorial we see today, enclosed by a low wall and marked with a plaque naming each of the crew. It has become a place of quiet remembrance, still visited and honoured each year.
Ashdown Forest is a place of beauty: open heath, purple heather, and wide skies. It was once a medieval hunting ground, later common land, and now a landscape of walks and views across the High Weald. Standing at the Airman’s Grave, with the colours of late summer all around, it’s hard to reconcile the peace of the forest with the violent end of that July morning in 1941.
It is precisely this contrast that makes the memorial so moving. The forest endures; the heather blooms again each year; but the story of those six young men remains tied to this spot.
The Airman’s Grave is one of Sussex’s most touching memorials — not grand or imposing, but personal and enduring. It stands for the young men who flew from Lincolnshire that night and never returned, and for the countless others whose names are remembered across our landscape.
High on Exceat Hill above the Cuckmere Valley stands a simple memorial stone. It marks the site of a village long vanished, where only wind and grass remain. From here the views sweep south over the winding river, Cuckmere Haven, and the white cliffs of the Seven Sisters. At golden hour it feels timeless – a reminder of both beauty and loss.
To bring the story to life, I also made a short film about Exceat. It tells the tale of the village, its church, and how it vanished from the map.
The stone on Exceat Hill is all that remains, but walking here you can still imagine the village that once overlooked the Cuckmere.
Exceat Hill lies within the South Downs National Park, East Sussex, just above the meandering Cuckmere River.
The memorial stone sits along the walking routes that connect with the popular paths to Cuckmere Haven and the Seven Sisters cliffs. From this vantage point the entire valley opens up, making it one of the most evocative places in Sussex.
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Exceat is recorded in the Domesday Book of 1086. In medieval times it was a small settlement with a flint church at its heart and access to the sea via the river mouth at Cuckmere Haven. The fourteenth century brought disaster: famine, plague, and French coastal raids left the community shattered. By 1460 only two parishioners remained. The parish was absorbed into West Dean, the church crumbled, and the village was lost to time.
In 1913 an excavation uncovered the footprint of the church, and the memorial stone was set up to mark the site. Today it is all that survives.
I came up here with the camera at golden hour. First to photograph the stone itself in the warm light of evening, then to turn my lens downriver to capture the Cuckmere as it curled through the valley toward the sea.
The light was soft, the cirrus clouds drifting, and the whole valley glowed. These are the moments that remind me why I love still photography as much as making reels – freezing a view that feels both ancient and alive.
Standing by the memorial, it’s hard not to think of how fragile life once was. An entire community erased by forces beyond its control. And yet, looking out at the valley, it’s also a place of renewal – fields, river, and sky carrying on long after the village disappeared. Sharing these stories through photos and film feels important: the more people value these landscapes, the more likely they will be preserved.
