One morning I was hunting sunrise on the South Kent Coast and I’d decided to take a section of the coast path that was unfamiliar to me. I’d been unable to find a parking spot and eventually just jammed the car into a sketchy lay-by and literally ran for the best part of a mile with my heavy camera pack to try to find a composition in time for the rebirth of the day.
Back then I had a cheap tripod that didn't cope well with the elements, and a strong on-shore breeze and relatively low light made for a series of terrible, smudgy images. My composition sucked and my execution was even worse, so I turned and started slowly trudging back to the car.
On my way back, an old Second World War bunker caught my eye and I tentatively encircled it to check I wasn't going to disturb any 'activities'. It was empty. The sun's rays were still deep in Golden Hour territory and, as they grew, they began to clip elements of this lonely, derelict space. As I entered the main chamber I was confronted by this 3-legged chair, which sat in the exact centre of the frame. I stood, transfixed, ruminating on its purpose, and contemplating the myriad of stories this place had to tell.