I went on a photographic trip to Lincoln and then Mablethorpe and Skegness.

I loved Mablethorpe – a flat expanse of sand, crazy golf with a pirate theme, ice cream and chip stands, little kids playing in the park, grey clouds and a slight mist in the air – Martin Parr on steroids, but I was too scared to push my camera in people’s faces even though the flash probably too weak to scare strangers. I trundled my Brompton along the coastal path, dodging mobility scooters, grand-parents and yapping dogs before moving on to Skegness.

Skegness was not for me – too loud, too busy, too commercial, too bright, too rushed, too bracing, buffeted by those famous swooping winds. I rode along the seafront past fluffy sand dunes and then the noisy funfair and brash Butlins, dismounted and pushed my bike along the little pier – the benches all taken, ice creams melting down bright shirt fronts, the waves gently lapping far out to sea.

I stopped and looked over the edge and caught this scene. Alone on the vastness of the beach, hosting the sun, a hat shielding his (her?) eyes, the sands stretching away, deserted, into the lost horizon, oblivious to everything. 

I’d left my camera behind but had my trusty iPhone. I tried it in colour and then in black and white but preferred the black and white.