It’s Wednesday. It’s Tony and Sally’s day off so, yet again, I’ve hitched a ride for another brief five mile walk during the course of which, a few birds might be spotted. This time, we’re off to Portland where the stone comes from. The map shows Portland in 1899 and let me tell you, little has changed. At one point, I see a car bearing a sticker in the back window: ‘keep Portland weird’. I think they’ve succeeded. The photograph is the view from the car park: not one of my best but it shows a) the glorious weather after the recent ice age and b) the fabulous view of the Dorset Jurassic Coast.

Here’s Portland’s idea of a cliff-top holiday home. Yes, that is smoke; probably from a fire over which a few locals are roasting a clay-covered hedgehog. In fact, this is what’s left of the allegedly bomb-proof Cheyne Pumping Station, built by The Admiralty in 1861 to supply water for the new Royal Navy base. The station, along with its 10,680 feet cast iron pipe, was purposely covered in grass to give the impression of a grassy knoll. Those damned grassy knolls – they pop up in the least unexpected places in history.

We take a bit of a detour to look along the cliffs for a raven’s nest. I’d already told them I didn’t want to be too near the edge so I stood back and looked the other way. ‘Is that a raven?’ I ask as they’re staring blankly into the distance.

After this, we head off back to the road, cross into no-man’s land and head off across country. In the distance, we see the welcoming sight of the prison. There are two prisons on this tiny island and there used to be a prison boat moored off the edge. This is the main one – The Verne. I was once unlucky enough to go there to witness a teaching practice. ‘They’ll be a murderer in the room’, said the candidate happily. ‘Guess which one it is’. Terrific. I didn’t much care for that place.

We jog along past the mediaeval strip lynchetts. In this exclusive part of the world, they call them lawn sheds. It’s a derivation. Or maybe they’re just hard of hearing. Either way, the path is ridiculously muddy and the going is hard. Tony sent me a map beforehand on which he’d written ‘terrain variable’. Well that’s one interpretation. However, we’re high enough that the working lighthouse at Portland Bill is always in view. Not many birds though – just the odd kestrel. What I do notice is the air. I’m lucky enough to live in a part of the country where the freshness of the air is apparent the minute one steps off the train from London Town. Up here, however, breathing is a joy. The clarity of the atmosphere is noticeable enough to warrant comment. We should be struggling this far into and up the incline but it’s joyous.

Eventually, we begin our descent towards the lookout station which is the last thing I’m allowed to photograph before we hit MOD territory. You’ve got to be pretty committed to drive up here and voluntarily pass the day watching out for abnormalities. The place that I can’t take photos of is, apparently, where they make bombs of some sort or another.

We’re getting perilously near the edge again. I lean against the MOD fence and take a picture of that lot who are taking pictures of guillemots. Good luck with that then. In the background, being as we’re now on the other side of the island, you can see the Dorset-into-Devon stretch of the wonderful Jurassic Coast.

Anyway, whilst they’re busy with the seagulls, I’ve spotted a stonechat. What a good job they brought me along.

Finally, we’re allowed to stop for lunch near Pulpit Rock which is the first photo. The other picture is the view from our picnic place which was freezing. Yesterday, I made chicken tikka for my mum’s birthday; today, I ate the leftovers with hood up and gloves on.

Then, after having a look around, we trundle up to the bird observatory. I think it to be a place of little consequence but, actually, it’s quite nice sitting on the heat-retaining wooden bench. Along comes a large brown rat and all the twitchers start with their cameras. Next, a quite beautiful cock pheasant appears which is marginally better. I notice something tiny and colourful fall below me. It’s a goldfinch which no-one else has noticed. Too speedy for the camera.

Eventually, we begin our trudge up the hill and I point out a buzzard resting on a post. Two ravens do their best to worry it away but its having none of it. The buzzard flies from one post to another. It’s seen the rabbits. And the rabbits in these parts are of a mutant variety. On Portland, it’s unlucky to say ‘rabbits’. They were thought to undermine the workings of the quarries and mines and, having seen the size of them, I can understand this. For a while, we walk along referring to ‘bunnies’ but the temptation is too great: RABBITS I scream. This is what Portland does to you.

I wouldn’t want to be here on a day when the sun wasn’t shining. It’s a bleak old place dependent on the whims of nature. I’ve omitted much of the weirdness of the place because I had such a fabulous walk. But I was pleased to see the car once more and drive away from the scariness that is Chesil Beach. I don’t know why folk try to romanticise the place: the McEwan’s book was a drag along the stones. We sat awhile with a hot chocolate. Then we ran for the hills.