Rye Looks

I went to Rye for two reasons: because I drove through it accidentally last year on my way to Winchelsea, and because Ms Brightshades and her partner were there a few weeks ago and her photos looked most appealing, so I wanted to make the effort to get there. It turned out to be more of an effort than anticipated because thanks to being hemmed in by lorries I missed the turn off the motorway and spent half an hour getting back to where I should have been. 

Rye is extraordinarily picturesque, Mermaid Street allegedly one of the most photographed thoroughfares in Britain, so I could hardly avoid following suit. There is a museum divided into two sites - one closed when I was there, but the other the grim little medieval fortress and former prison known as the Ypres Tower. References to Captain Pugwash (creator John Ryan was a Rye resident) and the presence in the displays of a box of 'Dr Wilson's Hydrostatic Balls' (which I realised you can sing to the tune of Dr Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band) can't detract from the awfulness of the tiny turret cells where prisoners contemplated their usually dreadful fates.

What fascinates me most is Rye's geography. Warehouse streets and wharves (or former wharves) form the skirts of the town, but in its centre - the Citadel - its roads wind around a lump of Wealden sandstone that rears above the muddy flats that spread for miles around. In places, behind and below the houses, you can still see it.

Rye Church reminds me very much of the now-curtailed church at Winchelsea, the town's twin Cinque Port which stares at it across the Rother Estuary, and I suppose that's no surprise. Its most charismatic relic is the pendulum of the tower clock which swings majestically against the roof timbers ...

... but the Roman Catholic church of St Anthony of Padua just along the way is a surprise. Built in 1929, it retains pre-Vatican 2 character at its vulgar, tasteless best. In contrast with most Anglican churches, there is nothing polite about St Anthony's. It had no past to accommodate and, despite a slight Art Deco blush, no real present to acknowledge. It must be heavenly, because it ain't earthly.