I'd always wanted to visit Dungeness – a part of the world I'd first heard of through the work of film-maker Derek Jarman. I once made a half-arsed attempt at completing his diaries but failed. The book was lent from the library and, from what I recall, was long overdue. But it was returned, because on retrospect, navigating toward the final excoriating detail of his demise from AIDS was too much for even me. I didn't care much for his films, notable for their avant-garde pretensions and ostentation, but in his journals, the elegiac and often searing accounts of his final years, tending to his exquisite garden in Dungeness while contemplating mortality, left such a curious impact that I decided when chance allows, I must visit.
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