Whitstable for a walk to Margate, Leica D Lux 8 over the shoulder, a warm day, summer trying to sidle in like a late comer at the theatre.

Big skies, pebbled pavement, dog walkers galore, the slowly turning sails of the wind farm standing sentinel along the horizon.

The beach huts at Tankerton, serried ranks of pastel colours defending the ridge like Saxons at the Battle of Hastings. Some still bright and cheerful, freshly painted, others empty and a bit forlorn, for sale signs tacked to the door, barbed wire barring the way, cost of living crisis shoving its tentacles everywhere.

The huts higher up the slope have steps leading up to a veranda, many of them barred now before full summer, but a few still open and allowing access. I stood on one gazing out to sea, loving the angle that drew the eye out to the horizon, the textures of the wood, the glittering path, the patterns in the sky. I took a few photos, then with one eye gazing through the optical viewfinder, I saw the little white dog ambling into view, sniffing the air like a browser at a car boot sale. I pressed the shutter and caught the dog, frozen between the bars, a canine prisoner completing the composition.

A little bit of silvertone photo-shopping later and I had my picture, just reward for what became a 16 -mile hike on hard paths before collapsing at Margate.