Back in the 13th century, Dunwich was one of the largest ports in Britain, with eight churches, five monastic houses and two hospitals. But a terrific storm in 1328 swept away part of the city and, even more disastrously for its economic importance, silted up its harbour. For centuries, Dunwich fought a long, slow war of attrition against the sea. By the beginning of the 19th century, most of it was lost. With just a few score voters, however, it still returned two MPs to Parliament, until the seat was abolished along with the other Rotten Boroughs by the Reform Act of 1832.

Anyone who has been to Dunwich will testify to the magic and mystery of the place. Standing on the clifftop looking out over the North Sea, imagining what must lie beneath, one is put in mind of Debussy’s haunting prelude "La Cathedrale Engloutie". My photograph, taken in 1986, shows the gravestone of John Brinkley Easey standing on the cliff edge, solitary survivor of the burial ground of All Saints (the last remnants of the church collapsed into the sea in 1919).

When I returned in 2002, the cliff had receded dramatically: the path that once ran along the seaward side of the ruins of Greyfriars, the one surviving monastery, had been rerouted inland – and the monastery itself was clearly in danger. Easey’s grave was nowhere to be seen. I asked about it in the Ship Inn, and was referred to an old local who told me it had fallen over the cliff some years before – along, presumably, with John Brinkley Easey’s bones They found the gravestone on the beach the next day, but before they could retrieve it a storm carried it out to sea. The stone, or part of it, was last sighted down the coast near the nuclear reactor at Sizewell.

As sea levels rise throughout the world, the fate of this once-thriving city is sobering to contemplate.