Dunwich is one of England’s parishes that could double as the end of the world, if the end of the world were brooding and bleak, and every cottage had ornate windows where latticed lead looks as if it were hand sewn into the glass.
A windswept beach lies hidden beyond the dunes, and those who swim might then warm in the Suffolk Sauna, sat temptingly just off the sand. The Ship is Dunwich’s only pub, a pretty cottage of a place, one where dogs laze in front of idling fires, and in the wood-panelled bar everyone spends the evening tapping sand from their shoes and crisis-managing hairdos undone by the wind.
