Rye - cracking the flags
To Winchelsea
A raw cold unremitting wind cracks the flags on the town gate, jingles the ropes on the harbour masts, threatens the trees with falling, and passes through our coats with ease.
The wind is from the east, skirting along the barren shingled south coast of Sussex, racing through the hill-top streets of Rye, funnelling along wide wet drainage channels, keeping the sea birds close to the ground, thankfully behind us as we stride west towards Winchelsea.
We are entertained by the sand hue bullrushes dancing in Folies Bergère unison along the water’s edge, water fast with ripples between the undulating short-cropped grassland that barely covers the long-shore drift.
We wonder at pre-cast protection from misguided bombs, we circle wind-hewn stone battlements that have never battled, we make our way past huddling cattle and stock-still ponies up to the hill-top grid of a Cinque Port that is a port no more.
Huddling against church walls, hot chocolate in gloved hands, the sun breaking through the wind-broken clouds, warming our frozen faces, flooding through stained glass, throwing cold shadows from Spike’s pagan-crossed resting place.
The not so New Inn, mulled wine by an open fire, rekindles our souls for the walk back to Rye by the 1066 path, a shoreline memory at the ridge foot, the way protected by bramble and gorse from the unyielding wind.
A raw cold unremitting wind cracks the flags on the town gate, jingles the ropes on the harbour masts, threatens the trees with falling, and passes through our coats with ease.
The wind is from the east, skirting along the barren shingled south coast of Sussex, racing through the hill-top streets of Rye, funnelling along wide wet drainage channels, keeping the sea birds close to the ground, thankfully behind us as we stride west towards Winchelsea.
We are entertained by the sand hue bullrushes dancing in Folies Bergère unison along the water’s edge, water fast with ripples between the undulating short-cropped grassland that barely covers the long-shore drift.
We wonder at pre-cast protection from misguided bombs, we circle wind-hewn stone battlements that have never battled, we make our way past huddling cattle and stock-still ponies up to the hill-top grid of a Cinque Port that is a port no more.
Huddling against church walls, hot chocolate in gloved hands, the sun breaking through the wind-broken clouds, warming our frozen faces, flooding through stained glass, throwing cold shadows from Spike’s pagan-crossed resting place.
The not so New Inn, mulled wine by an open fire, rekindles our souls for the walk back to Rye by the 1066 path, a shoreline memory at the ridge foot, the way protected by bramble and gorse from the unyielding wind.
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To Pett Level
Along the newly captured shoreline at Pett Level we realise the respite of our Winchelsea walk.
What was yesterday a purging release is here the crack of the whip; the relentless thrust of ice-cold air mixed with sharp sea spray.
We are pushed along towards the cliffs, thankful for the grip of our boots, daring not to walk out to the slippery wet sands.
Half a mile further and the beachcomber instincts are driven from our thoughts.
We duck behind the sea wall and find solace along the Military Canal at the foot of Toot Rock and WW2 battery, neither as defeated as we.
Along the newly captured shoreline at Pett Level we realise the respite of our Winchelsea walk.
What was yesterday a purging release is here the crack of the whip; the relentless thrust of ice-cold air mixed with sharp sea spray.
We are pushed along towards the cliffs, thankful for the grip of our boots, daring not to walk out to the slippery wet sands.
Half a mile further and the beachcomber instincts are driven from our thoughts.
We duck behind the sea wall and find solace along the Military Canal at the foot of Toot Rock and WW2 battery, neither as defeated as we.
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Rye
Rye is a place of Christmas card cheer; not a straight wall to be seen, not a smooth road to be felt through the soles of our shoes.
Walls of unplanned intersections, tiled roofs clustered with unknown purpose, smoke billowing from juggled chimneys, yellow light spilling through timbered windows.
We duck below doorways to be greeted with richly decorated plates over-burdened with all the trimmings, warming spirits of the season, good red wine quaffed from goblet glasses, the low-toned hum of contentment spiced with hints of joyful celebration.
Rye is a place of Christmas card cheer; not a straight wall to be seen, not a smooth road to be felt through the soles of our shoes.
Walls of unplanned intersections, tiled roofs clustered with unknown purpose, smoke billowing from juggled chimneys, yellow light spilling through timbered windows.
We duck below doorways to be greeted with richly decorated plates over-burdened with all the trimmings, warming spirits of the season, good red wine quaffed from goblet glasses, the low-toned hum of contentment spiced with hints of joyful celebration.
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Christmas Eve
As we walk along the Sussex coast I see the strong frosty breeze shaping the water And the tips of the drowned grass create an unknown hatch in the remaining water of the last rains. The wet footpath is wending through the swinging landscape shaped by the sea. In the distance a church spire with homes at its feet form a rising on the straight horizon against the glistening low winter sun. Sitting now on the soft padded window sill in the attic of our cosy room the afternoon winter sun warms my still chilled body. My view over and between the roof tops and smokey chimneys wanders between the parallel lines of fields and hedges in different shades of fading greens towards the sinking sun. My beloved husband immersed in his armchair lost between the lines of his book against the dark blue of the night sky. Christmas Eve. |
December 2025