Rye Is A Town By The Sea
It’s a year of travel, a gap year, sabbatical from daily life, whatever you want to call it. Husband George and I left San Francisco in the Spring of 2018 and now Vancouver, Washington is our home, although we have not been there very much. When I started this blog shortly after moving, I expected to be writing about a particular geographic area, the Pacific Northwest. But after unpacking, it was decided that we should set off on an adventure, visiting places we love and discovering new spots. At the moment The Couve is my base and I’m being called elsewhere.
Christmas Lights in Covent Garden/2018
London is a place I love, mainly because family lives there but also because it is a great city. When the Christmas lights go up at the end of November, there is true joy in the air. Angels and snowflakes strung between buildings shimmer and dance in the cold night air while beneath them, throngs of holiday shoppers make walking two-abreast nearly impossible.
Regent Street/London 2018
One can easily escape the frenzy of the season with a walk in the park.
Hyde Park, London Photo Credit/Rebekah Lichter
For a more comprehensive respite from the pre-Christmas fervor, on November 27th, 2018 my husband and I took the train to Rye in East Sussex. Two miles from the sea. A million miles from the commercialism and commotion of London. Passing through the Landgate Arch built in 1329, is still the only vehicular route into a town full of surprises and a very welcoming populace.
Landgate Arch, Rye, England At Dusk
I booked three nights at the Standard Inn, a 15th century pub with a few bedrooms for guests. We headed up a steep flight of narrow steps to the attic room, a charming medieval suite. Perfect. Then a storm blew in from the sea.
Standard Inn Attic Room/Rye, England
Sitting in a rocking chair by the window, I was regaled by a symphony of iron and wooden signs banging against houses. The gulls, however, were apparently not happy at all and expressed their exasperation with intermittent choruses of irritated squawks. They seemed to be shrieking, “We are only wanting refuge from the driving wind and rain!”
View From Attic Room at Standard Inn/Storm Approaching/Rye England
Good thing I brought my waterproof down coat, as it was put to good use next day at the Rye Harbour Nature Reserve.
Coots Sheltering From The Wind/Rye Harbour Nature Reserve
I don’t mind weather. I like being out in it. If there’s a wildlife refuge or botanical garden nearby, my interest is piqued.
Rye Harbour Nature Reserve
We careened along three miles of trails while being pelted with raindrops that made my cheeks sting. Huge gusts of wind turned the seaside sanctuary into a true refuge. Birds huddled together, protected by clumps of grass. Sometimes they took to the sky all at once, amazingly without a single collision despite the fierceness of the atmosphere. Luckily the door to a simple wooden birdwatching hide was unlocked and we were able to duck inside, throw open the shutters and observe wildlife. At this reserve, one of the most important in Britain, there are approximately 1,000 acres of diverse habitats including marsh, scrub, woodland and shingle storm ridges.
Wild Weather/Wild Hair In A Birdwatching Hide at Rye Harbour Nature Reserve
The hardiness of a coastal town is apparent when it is stormy. Business as usual with smiling faces despite the ever-looming possibility that Mother Nature could throw a fit and ruin your life. That was the case on November 15th, 1928 when the lifeboat, the Mary Stanford succumbed to a southwest gale while embarking upon a rescue operation. She capsized in heavy seas and the crew of seventeen men all drowned. That day the fishing village lost most of its male population. Tragic not only for the community’s loss, but also because a delay in messaging caused the Mary Stanford to be unnecessarily launched in a dangerous storm.
Honoring The Wreck of the Mary Stanford From An Exhibit at Rye Castle
The crew of the boat seeking assistance, had already been saved by a nearby vessel at sea but the Rye Harbour Coastguard received this information five minutes after the Mary Stanford set out on her mission. Waves were tremendous, visibility was poor, flares that hoped to signal, “Return to Harbour” were not seen by the crew in the teeth of the squall. Five minutes too late and not a single survivor.
Tragedy Strikes The Rye Fishing Village
In some towns, the defining historical events are joyful ones where generations of residents continue to celebrate their good fortune and still profit from it…like Beaumont Texas, location of the first big oil gusher in that state. Other places are notorious for misfortune or tragedy.
Ypres Tower Looking Down Onto The Rye Castle Garden/November 2018
I was enjoying the requisite visit to Rye Castle Museum, an early 14th century fortress, second oldest building in town open to the public. Artifacts like Lt. Col T.D. Lamb’s cavalry coat invited inspection. What a beautifully crafted garment!
Rye Castle Museum
Felt like whiplash to be suddenly gripped by the photos and newspaper articles in the next display case documenting tragedy and heartache at sea. The soul of a people was revealed. Did not expect to be so deeply moved by the loss of the Mary Stanford and was further stunned as I continued along the exhibit into the next turret room of the castle. Here was the history of a brutal coastal smuggling trade which began in the 13th century when the Customs System was introduced. Rye was a key port for this nefarious enterprise. Think of it as having being ruled by a watery Mafia including the Hawkhurst Gang, notorious wool smugglers who were eventually apprehended and executed in the late 1700’s. You would never know, according to the ferociously good-natured and gracious demeanor of the current residents, that such a tumultuous past lay just beneath the surface.
The Cobbles Tea Room Scones/Rye, England
The English have perfected the antidote to afternoon doldrums. When a pick-me-up is most needed, home-made scones, cream and jam come to the rescue, served beside a fragrant pot of tea. Needing a place to recharge and reflect, we secured a table at The Cobbles Tea Room, which did not disappoint. After the powerful castle experience I suggested that we also visit the oldest building open to the public in Rye and so we did, next morning. The Parish Church of St. Mary dates from the early 1100’s.
Parish Church of St. Mary/Rye, England
Here was afforded a rare opportunity. For a small fee, one may climb up through a centuries-old belfry and out onto the roof. Another piece of local lore unfolded. Being a casual tourist is one thing. Being sucked down the history drainpipe of a town is something else, more meaningful and in this case, emotional.
I learned that in 1377 French invaders who once laid claim to the property, burned the town and took the bells from the nearly demolished church. Unacceptable. One year later a militia of men from Rye and the neighboring town of Winchelsea, sailed to Normandy, sacked a couple of towns themselves and took back the bells. But it wasn’t just the history of the church that blew my mind.
With absolute certainty I can say that never ever would a visitor to an American monument be allowed to climb an ancient, rickety, unevenly spaced 80 stairs weaving through five dust-encrusted tons of church bells. It was like being squeezed through the innards of an extinct dinosaur that could kill you. At the top there was a tiny, ponderous door that opened creakily onto a roof, with views galore and absolutely no protective railings.
The View From Parish Church of St. Mary Roof/Rye, England November 2018
The steep descent backwards, down the ladder-like steps was intense, especially in the presence of such massive bells.
I was expecting to see some beautiful old examples of scrimshaw and I did. Whaling was big in the 1800’s as whale oil was the only source of oil for lamps. Sperm whales were most desirable. They have about forty teeth and at the time, it was common for the whalers to decorate them, carve them and turn them into useful household items such as combs, sewing boxes, rolling pins and jewelry.
What I did not expect was the depth to which I would be catapulted into the history of the place and the people. Quite a three-day journey.
How remiss of me not to have taken a single photograph of the many kind citizens of Rye who enriched my visit.
Simon the Pieman /Lion Street/Rye, England
Just down the street from Simon the Pieman on Lion Street, I purchased a book from Miss Aoife Coleman of Rye Old Books. I saw it in the window, first edition of The Maisie Daisie Book. Conversation ensued, a rather lengthy one about Brexit, books that are rare and highly sought after and lastly about American politics, a subject I try mightily to avoid and rarely can. People are curious.
The Maisie Daisie Book Illustrated by Anne Anderson
Published circa 1912, the little book that came home with me is yielding up marvels of its own. I showed it to a friend and told her where I bought it. “You know that Rye, New York was founded by 3 guys from Rye, England, right?” How could I have missed that connection? Rye is a town on the Long Island Sound with many fine homes lining the waterfront. I grew up next door to it, in New Rochelle, New York.
Christmas Lights Last Week of November 2018/Rye, England
