Wandering through the concrete remnants of the watchtowers, searchlights, stores and gun emplacements left here in the aftermath of the Second World War is one of the few times where I’ve found it’s possible to feel enclosed. We live in such an open landscape, one friend (via another friend) described walking our island to me recently as like walking on the surface of a map. It’s a strange thing: to step from wild open space to this, with the sounds of the sea shushed by hard concrete, and the sky reduced to the postage stamp of city dwelling. I love the drama of it, and the brutal shapes the concrete imposes, which feel even moreso perhaps because they are so alien to this landscape? Vernacular concrete is full of the evidence of place: shells and beach stones punctuate the grey substrate. But this? Imported, foreign and dominating, with no connection to the island, yet spectacular in its scale nevertheless.