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 2025From the slopes of Mount Caburn that September morning, I could just see Lewes Castle rising through the mist — the twin mottes catching the first light over the town. It’s one of the earliest Norman castles in England, begun around 1069 by William de Warenne, one of William the Conqueror’s most trusted knights.
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Lewes Castle | Born from Conquest after 1066
It’s hard to believe this view has changed so little in nearly a thousand years.
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Lewes Castle was the second Norman stronghold in Sussex, built soon after Hastings Castle to secure the route inland and protect the road to London. Its position on the ridge above the River Ouse made it both a defensive lookout and a statement of dominance over the surrounding Saxon population.
The earliest castle would have been a timber motte-and-bailey, replaced in stone through the 11th and 12th centuries. The outer towers seen today were added in the 13th century under the Angevin kings — part of the continual strengthening of Norman fortifications across southern England.
Lewes controlled the key route between the south coast and the old capital at Winchester. From here, Norman lords could oversee trade and movement along the Ouse Valley and the approaches to the Downs. It formed one link in a chain of coastal strongholds, including Hastings, Pevensey, and Arundel, that secured William’s new kingdom against rebellion and invasion alike.
You can still climb the steep steps up to the keep and take in the same commanding view that once overlooked the Norman road north. Inside the walls, the museum tells the story of Lewes through Saxon, Norman, and medieval times.
It’s not just a monument — it’s a reminder of how one battle reshaped an entire country.
Location: Lewes, East Sussex
Access: Public entrance via Castle Gate, Lewes town centre
Best Time to Visit: Clear mornings or late afternoon for best light from the Downs
Nearby: Mount Caburn, Anne of Cleves House, Lewes Priory ruins
What follows is my landscape photography review of all the photo walks I have taken during September 2025. These included many dawn shoots along the east Sussex coast and on the south downs.
Continue reading Landscape Photography Review September 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 in the low-lying fields between Rye and Winchelsea stands Camber Castle, a strange and striking ruin that seems oddly out of place — a fortress marooned in farmland, far from the sea it once defended.
This is the story of how a powerful Tudor stronghold built by Henry VIII became a forgotten relic of a vanished coastline.
Watch the video short below to see it from the air:
What you’re seeing here is more than just a ruined castle — it’s a monument to lost landscapes and shifting tides.
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Built between 1539 and 1544 on the orders of Henry VIII, Camber Castle (originally called Winchelsea Castle) was part of a chain of artillery forts designed to defend England’s southern coastline against threats from France and Spain. At the time of construction, the Camber was a wide tidal inlet of the sea, and the castle sat in a prime position to guard shipping lanes and protect the nearby ports of Rye and Winchelsea.
Its unique cloverleaf design — with four rounded bastions and a central keep — was built to house heavy guns and withstand siege warfare, reflecting Henry’s obsession with new, gunpowder-based fortifications.
But the sea had other plans.
Over the centuries, the Camber inlet gradually silted up due to longshore drift, storm surges, and natural sedimentation. The coastline pushed steadily seaward, leaving Camber Castle increasingly stranded inland. By the late 1500s, the once-coastal fortress was now over a mile from navigable waters.
Its military usefulness declined just as England’s naval strategy evolved. By the 1630s, it was abandoned.
Today, it sits in open countryside, its thick stone walls a ghost of the sea that once lapped at its base.
Though long out of use, Camber Castle wasn’t entirely forgotten. It was visited by antiquarians in the 18th century, drawn by its unusual layout and melancholic setting. In recent decades, it’s become a managed heritage site under English Heritage and the Sussex Wildlife Trust.
Inside, Tudor-era graffiti still survives, scratched into the stone by long-forgotten hands. And around the site, nature thrives: skylarks, sheep, and sweeping views of Romney Marsh.
A drone flight over the castle reveals its layout clearly — and helps us imagine how it might have looked in the days when it stood watch over a busy inlet. We’ve even included an AI reconstruction in the video to bring that forgotten coastline back to life.
Location: Between Rye and Winchelsea, East Sussex, England
Access: On foot via public paths from Rye Harbour Nature Reserve or Winchelsea
Best Time to Visit: Early morning or golden hour for photography and wildlife
Nearby: Rye, Winchelsea, Camber Sands, Pett Level, Mary Stanford Boathouse
Camber Castle isn’t just a ruin — it’s a lesson in how landscapes change, how coastlines move, and how the ambitions of kings can be undone by mud and tide.
If you find yourself near Rye, it’s worth the walk. There’s something strangely powerful about standing in a field where the sea once crashed, and where the past still echoes off every stone.
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.
