For this week’s offcuts, I thought I’d bring you all the bits and pieces from my trip to Rye. I got the train down from London on Thursday (disasterous), went on lots of walks (really fucking windy), and drank copious amounts of hot chocolate from Knoops (the best I’ve ever had).
I will confess that I didn’t read a single page of my book in Rye. There was too much going on to find a quiet moment and settle in. The collection of books in the Airbnb was incredible. In each bedroom there was a bookshelf, one overflowing with vintage orange Penguin classics. In the living room, we all stood over the side table and flicked through Annie Leibovitz Portraits 2005 - 2016, admiring the theatre and drama of her work. They were also big Hockney fans. We theorised the owners were retired architects or photographers and fantasised about the lives they might have lived.
As the trip was for my 30th, I wanted to leave with relics from the weekend. I know somewhere I have a little box of tiny treasures and keepsakes from my 18th, and maybe my 21st as well (it’s been a while since I looked under the bed at my mum’s house). I wanted to continue with a sort-of tradition. I pocketed a fallen conker from my long, wet, windy walk on Friday; multiple shells and sea glass from the beach on Saturday; a free town map of Rye; a lottery ticket that my brother bought (we won absolutely nothing); and an empty bottle of sparkling wine we drank at the mini dinner party we threw at the Airbnb. I love stuff.
Rye is a picturesque and quaint little town of cobbled streets and old crooked houses.
On Mermaid Street (the most famous and photographed setting of Rye) houses The Mermaid Inn, where the street derived its name from. The inn was originally built in 1156, making it one of the oldest inns in England. Some of the cellars still remain though the building was rebuilt in the 15th century. It has a reputation for ghosts and haunting, and had strong connections to a gang of smugglers in the 1700s. Pubs can be culturally enriching, too.
We ate amazingly. For dinner on Friday night I booked The Uninon. The food was modern British/ European with with a focus on seasonal and local produce, inlcuding a long list of English wines. My highlight was probably the snack of cheddar beignets, a perfect little bite of pillowy warm cheesy cloud. On Saturday, we threw a mini dinner party propped up largely (entirely) by my sister who cooked up everything I asked for including a gorgeous pink and frilly cake for dessert.
I had envisioned listening back to long recordings of bird songs I’d identified through my app, like I did when I stayed down the road in Tenterden back in April. I managed to pick up an abundance of different birds tweeting away just off out of sight, most memorable of which was the common chiffchaff. Who’s in charge of naming birds and can I help? Blame will be placed onto Storm Amy who thrashed about so much that all but one bird, the Eurasian Oystercatcher, were too scared to lend me their voice.
Lamb House, the home of writer Henry James at the turn of the twentieth century, is at the very top of Mermaid Street. The house became a literary salon, with guests such as H.G. Wells and Edith Wharton. In a letter to H.G. Wells from 1915, James wrote:
“It is art that makes life, makes interest, makes importance... and I know of no substitute whatever for the force and beauty of its process”
