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My superpower, it seems, is being able to make any place, anywhere, at any time, resemble the wide open ranges of a 1960s cowboy movie. An English tea room. The top floor of the Empire State Building. Your gran’s downstairs loo. Anywhere.

I started developing an idea about roads to nowhere for last week’s course homework. It just sort of happened while I was making photographs on the bleak, beautiful shingle beaches of the wonderfully strange Dungeness headland in Kent (I have so much more to write about this bizarre place later, it’s where darling, wonderful Derek Jarman lived out his final years in his beachside shack, Prospect Cottage, in the shadow of the power station and lighthouses on the nature reserve, what an amazing amazing place ugh I love it I love it OK I’ll stop now).

So I found myself beginning a sort of story in photographs, a story I’m carrying on over the next few days. Something about disappearing paths, directionlessness or unknown direction, tracks through wilderness, being lost, rootlessness, having somewhere to go but nowhere to end up at. That sort of thing, the idea’s still not fully cooked. Here are a few of my favourites so far. I had such a great time making these, felt happy and hoboish. Despite an arctic wind the weather was perfect, bright sunshine with plenty of fair-weather clouds. You know they’re infinitely better on Flickr don’t you? You do, don’t pretend you don’t. Gwan see mi pictures dem, I’ll wait right here.

I’m hoping to go back to Dungeness very soon. Maybe this time I’ll find a lonely twist of tumbleweed rolling along the shingle, a western saddle slung across the salt-scoured ribs of an abandoned fishing boat, a dusty-heeled cowboy chewing on a stalk of sea kale, staring at the ocean as he waits for me. Maybe.

Yee-haw, little dawggies. Yee-frikkin-haw.