return, passes through Hollington and Crowhurst. At the latter place
is one of the most famous yews in the country; at the former is the
notorious "Church in the Wood". Just why this little church should
ever have attained to its present eminence as a goal of pilgrimage we
fail utterly to comprehend. There is nothing remarkable about the
edifice itself, either in the way of structure or ornaments; the
graveyard is too crowded with the hideous monuments of parvenu
strangers to be interesting; the approach is little more than
commonplace. Yet for all that, thousands come and go through the
summer months, and on fine Sundays the little sanctuary is packed to
the door, doubtless to the entire satisfaction of the clergy. Charles
Lamb discovered the place many years ago, when the surroundings were
rather more favourable; and we should certainly give thanks, for the
visit gave rise to an inimitable passage: "It is a very Protestant
Loretto, and seems dropt by some angel for the use of the hermit, who
was at once parishioner and a whole parish.... It is built to the text
of 'two or three are assembled in my name'. It reminds me of the grain
of mustard seed. If the glebe land is proportionate, it may yield two
potatoes. Tithes out of it could be no more split than a hair. Its
first fruits must be its last, for 'twould never produce a couple. It
is truly the strait and narrow way, and few there be--of London
visitants--that find it.... It is secure from earthquakes, not more
from sanctity than size, for 'twould feel a mountain thrown upon it no
more than a taper-worm would. Go and see, but not without your
spectacles."
ECCLESBOURNE AND FAIRLIGHT
East of the old town is a stretch of cliffs several miles long, made
up, like the Forest Ridge, of Lower Cretaceous rocks. Several little
wooded valleys extend from the high lands right down to the sea, and
two of these have attained to a desirable celebrity under the names of
Ecclesbourne and Fairlight Glens.
Many folk, visiting these two spots in August, go away with a feeling
of utter disappointment, for the grass is rusty and the place strewn
with the indescribable litter of a myriad picnic-parties. But in the
spring of the year, when the little watercourse at the bottom is at its
fullest, when there are countless primroses beneath the fine old trees,
when everything is green down to the water's edge, then do these glens
deserve their reputations.
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[Illustration: FAIRLIGHT GLEN]
In the spring of the year, when the little watercourse is at its
fullest, there are countless primroses beneath the fine old trees, and
everything is green down to the water's edge.
(_See page 39_)
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In Fairlight there are two famous spots--the Dripping Well and the
Lovers' Seat. The well, situated at the northern end of the glen,
shows a decided tendency to follow the custom of most local waters, but
we can nevertheless get some idea of what a pretty little spot it must
have been at its best. The Lovers' Seat is a little to the east, high
up on the face of a steep, shrub-grown cliff. A large rock overhangs
at the top, and beneath is a tiny platform, slowly disappearing. It is
a fine place, especially on an early summer morning, when the air is
athrob with the tumultuous melody of the birds in the glen below, and
the sea birds wheel round the aerie--a place well fitted to stir even
Charles Lamb to praise: "Let me hear that you have clambered up to
Lovers' Seat; it is as fine in that neighbourhood as Juan Fernandez, as
lonely too, when the fishing-boats are not out; I have sat for hours
staring upon a shipless sea. The salt sea is never so grand as when it
is left to itself." Of course it has a story: what similar romantic
spot has not? Doubt has been cast on the veracity; but such pretty
tales certainly _ought_ to be true.
East of the glen lies Cliff End, where the brown sandstone cliffs dip
down sharply once more to the level marshlands. The path thither
meanders along the top of the cliffs, now approaching perilously near
the edge to give a glimpse of some sweet little hanging dell with trees
right down to the waves, now wandering inland a little through acres of
bee-thronged gorse and heather. It is such a spot as Richard Jefferies
loved: "All warmly lit with sunshine, deep under liquid sunshine like
sands under the liquid sea, no harshness of man-made sound to break the
isolation amid nature".
Once at Cliff End we marvel, and yet offer up fervent thanks that it is
not one of the "show places" of the district. The low rolling hills,
having constituted the coast-line for half a dozen miles, at this point
break away inland to form a delightful country-side. By so doing they
enclose what was formerly a great lagoon or inland sea, having long
arms, or fiords, running up into the different river-valleys of Brede,
Tillingham, and Rother. Now the sea has gone, and there, in its place,
stretch away acres upon acres of marshland, marked out like a piece of
old patchwork by the countless watercourses--a place of stressless
labour and contentment.
As we stand at this place and gaze out eastwards upon those broad acres
of sun-washed, wind-swept meadow-land, where now the cattle and sheep
graze peacefully and the shepherd slumbers at his post, it is difficult
to realize that here the fishermen once dropped their nets, and the
ships of war rode majestically at anchor--ready at any moment to
venture forth against marauding foes. Yet Winchelsea, which stands out
in the distance--seeming one day miles away and another barely a
stone's throw--and Rye, a tiny town, perched on its little hill some
three miles farther on, were each ports of the first
magnitude--veritable cradles of the navy and the Empire.
From the Cliff End here we have a choice of two routes: either we can
proceed by road to Icklesham, a place well worth a visit for the sake
of its interesting old church, and then on to Winchelsea; or, better
still, we can tramp the few miles beside the old military canal, which
serves to link up that town with the sea. This latter is certainly a
delightful walk, and well worth the fatigue of an extended effort. As
we drop down the slope, we note, on the lower ridges of the hills,
Pett, the insignificant village which has given its name to the Level,
or tongue of "polder", stretching away to Rye, and extending eastwards
into that greater flat, the Romney Marsh; and, farther on, Guestling.
Not hastily, however, must Guestling be passed by, for though the
village is commonplace enough to the eye, the name is charged with
ancient memories. Originally the "Guestling" was a sort of conference
between the Ports and distant fishing colonies such as Yarmouth; but
gradually it developed into a local Parliament held to settle disputes
among the folks of the rival fisher towns as to questions of rights and
privileges. It met in the church itself, and possessed a Speaker and
something of the paraphernalia of full judicial power. Here is what
the good old Jeake says about it in his ancient _History of the Cinque
Ports_: "By the same name of _Guestling_, is also a Court called, that
consisteth but of _part_ of the _Ports_ and _two Towns_, as suppose
Hastings, Winchelsea, and Rye, raised upon request of one of them;
where by consent, and as by brotherly invitation, they appear to agree
on something necessary to their respective Towns."
The old canal, like the Martello towers, roused the scorn of Cobbett:
"Here is a canal _to keep out the French_; for these armies who had so
often crossed the Rhine, and the Danube, were to be kept back by a
canal, made by Pitt, thirty feet wide at the most". But despite
Cobbett's words it was no mean feat of military engineering for those
days, as the following particulars, culled from Horsfield, the old
county historian, will show: "The Military Canal, which was cut, during
the late war with France, as a protection to the lowlands in the
eastern part of this county and the adjoining portion of the county of
Kent, by impeding the progress of an enemy, in the event of a landing
on this shore, commences at Cliffe End, in the parish of Pett, and
following the course of the rising ground, which skirts the extensive
flat forming Walland and Romney Marsh, crosses the Roman Road near
Hythe, and extends, in nearly a straight direction, along the coast to
its termination at Shorne Cliffe, in Kent; a distance of about
twenty-three miles. Its breadth is about twenty yards, and its depth
three; with a raised bank or redan on the northern side to shelter the
soldiery, and enable them to oppose the foe with greater advantage."
Now everything is changed; this monument of warlike stupidity has
become a haunt of peace. Thus has Time effected another of its little
travesties.
Following the reed-grown, bird-haunted waterway, we skirt the peninsula
on which the town is perched, and come finally to the foot of the road
which winds diagonally up to the Strand Gate. Thus is the town entered
by its most beautiful approach.
WINCHELSEA
Every spot in this delectable corner of England--Pevensey,
Hurstmonceux, Hastings itself, Bodiam, Rye--is redolent of the triumph
of change; but Winchelsea stands before us a perfect memorial to the
futility of man's efforts against Nature, a tangible reminder of the
irony of Time.
This ancient town, perched, like Rye, on a solitary hillock projecting
into the midst of a vast plain, is, despite its years and its ruins,
really a _new_ Winchelsea. The old town--the city proper--a prosperous
place of seven hundred householders and fifty odd inns, lies beneath
the ever-changing sea, some two miles (some say, five) south-east of
the present site. Serious trouble began in 1250 with a great tempest,
concerning which Holinshed writes: "On the first day of October (1250)
the moon, upon her change, appearing exceeding red and swelled, began
to show tokens of the great tempest of wind that followed, which was so
huge and mightie, both by land and sea, that the like had not been
lightlie knowne, and seldome, or rather never heard of by men then
alive. The sea forced contrarie to his natural course, flowed twice
without ebbing, yielding such a rooring that the same was heard (not
without great woonder) a farre distance from the shore.... At
Winchelsey, besides other hurt that was doone in bridges, milles,
breakes, and banks, there were 300 houses and some churches drowned
with the high rising of the watercourse." Not even then did the people
give in; but from 1250 to 1287 Neptune and other sovereign powers
descended mightily on the poor old town, and its tragedy was completed
when, during an utterly disastrous tempest, the whole district between
Pett and Hythe was inundated.
At this time Edward the First was Warden of the Cinque Ports, and the
planning of the new town seems to have been to him and his associates a
simple and congenial task. The present triangular plateau was chosen,
falling precipitously on three sides, with its narrow end towards
Hastings; and the new town was projected and begun on truly magnificent
lines. Edward seems to have been quite a pioneer in the modern science
of town-planning, for Winchelsea, like several other towns set out by
him, was given an oblong shape, and this was divided up into
thirty-nine or forty squares by means of wide streets intersecting at
right angles.
On the north the town stood upon a cliff overhanging the Brede fiord;
on the east the land fell away precipitously to the sea itself. At the
north-east and north-west corners of the plateau, roads were made down
to the sea, with quays at the bottom of each, and great gates, the
Strand and Ferry, at the top. At the land end yet another gate was
built, the New, and the extremity protected by a moat and stone walls.
A castle was built, and full provision made for the resumption of the
commerce of the port.
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[Illustration: THE STRAND GATE, WINCHELSEA]
Winchelsea stands upon a plateau, at the north-east and north-west
corners of which roads were made down to the sea, with quays at the
bottom of each, and great gates, the Strand and Ferry, at the top.
(_See page 49_)
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The various religious houses were reproduced as in the dead town, and
ere long the lusty life of the old place began again in earnest. The
town became self-supporting with its shipbuilding and fishing, and its
galaxy of representative craftsmen, and offered a splendid channel for
trade to and from the mainland. Being a serviceable defensive port, it
rehabilitated itself as a rendezvous for the navy, and combined with
that importance the added attraction of being the best base on the
coast for pirates. So well was the latter occupation organized that we
read of one of the mayors of the town--one Robert de Battayle--being
caught red-handed and summarily punished for acts of piracy.
And what remains? Very little. At the northern end certain of the
spacious streets are inhabited but generally grass-grown. These show
the original divisions and dimensions; but southwards and westwards the
majestic squares have become merely green fields, until at last the
boundaries have been lost altogether. Ancient words of doom ring in
our ears as we survey the scene: "Thorns shall come up in her palaces,
nettles and brambles in the fortresses thereof.... They shall be left
altogether unto the fowls of the mountains and to the beasts of the
earth; and the fowls shall summer upon them, and all the beasts of the
earth shall winter upon them."
The church, or rather a certain portion of it, still stands, with a
generous margin of green surrounding it, and within its walls the fine
canopied tomb of Gervase Alard, admiral of the Cinque Ports. A short
distance down the road, south-east of the church, is the mansion known
as "The Friars": in its beautiful grounds stands practically all that
remains of the religious houses--the ivy-grown ruin of the chapel of
the Franciscan Monastery. With this mansion and with the brothers
Weston, the rogues who dwelt in it, all lovers of Thackeray's _Denis
Duval_ will doubtless be familiar. The gates of the town still frown
down on the approaching roads; but wall, castle, quays, all are gone,
and the place is now, to use Wesley's words, "that poor skeleton of
ancient Winchelsea".
======================================================================
[Illustration: WINCHELSEA CHURCH]
The church, or a certain portion of it, still stands, with a generous
margin of green surrounding it, and within its walls the fine canopied
tomb of Gervase Alard, Admiral of the Cinque Ports.
(_See page 48_)
======================================================================
And small wonder too, for every hand has been against it. At the time
of its building the Black Death made its appearance, destroying
countless inhabitants and dispersing the craftsmen. The town was
sacked by the French in 1359, when three thousand entered with sword
and torch. Again, in 1378, the same catastrophe occurred. In 1449
they visited once more, but did little damage. For by this time
another enemy had set to work--the worst enemy of all. The sea, which
in its inconstancy had made the new Winchelsea at the expense of the
old, was calmly receding and leaving the Antient Town high and dry,
with a perpetually increasing bank of shingle in between.
Now, as we stand at the Strand Gate, and watch the sea away to the
south, with its ever-changing pageant of azure and amethyst, and as we
turn about and enter through the old gate to walk the grass-grown
streets, we laugh at Neptune's jest; but there is something tragic in
the laughter.
RYE
Rye, as it stands, is the completest place in England. A little
conical hill rises abruptly out of the encompassing marshes, and all
around that little hill, wherever it can gain secure hold, clings the
town. The tall houses rest tier upon tier, as if standing on tiptoe to
get a better view of the approaching enemy; and the cobble-paved
streets wind in and about, so that every available inch of space may be
utilized for house or hanging garden. Crowning it all rises the
ancient church with its high red roofs and tower.
======================================================================
[Illustration: RYE]
A conical hill rises abruptly out of the encompassing marshes, and all
around that little hill, wherever it can gain secure hold, clings the
town.
(_See page 50_)
======================================================================
Probably the best approach is from Camber. We can tramp the three long
dusty miles of the military road from Winchelsea, catching just a
glimpse of the massive, low-lying structure of Camber Castle on the
other side of the stream; or else we can take the road to the right,
and, sweeping seawards, come round to the castle itself, pausing a
while to wander about these walls which have stood the rough usage of
the south-westerly gale so well since the time of the eighth Henry.
Leaving Camber, the way across to Rye is hazardous. So many waterways
intersect the shingly meadows that by the time we come out at the right
place an extraordinarily tortuous path has been followed.
The history of Rye is much akin to that of the sister town, a story of
one long succession of struggles against the two enemies, the sea and
the French. Although the place was a natural stronghold by reason of
its unique formation, yet, after a time, the necessity for artificial
works was felt, and in the twelfth century a small tower, afterwards
known as the Ypres, was constructed near the top of the southward
cliffs, a square structure of two stories with a circular turret at
each angle. A few years afterwards, in the reign of Richard the First,
licence was granted for the building of a town wall; and still later,
in the reign of Edward the Third, the fortifications were completed by
the building of a gateway with portcullis at the north-east end of the
town.
These fortifications were rendered necessary by the _inning_ of the
shallows which separated Rye from the mainland, the sea having set to
work, with the true ironic touch, depositing shingle where salt water
was essential, and irrupting where it was most unwelcome. And, sure
enough, as the one enemy did its worst, filling in the harbour and
making access to the little hill more easy, so the other enemy took
advantage of the facilities offered, and the raids of the French
gradually became more frequent and more severe. In the fourteenth
century things were parlous for the island town. When it was not the
turn of Winchelsea, Rye suffered, and vice versa. They set upon the
town in 1337 with no great success, but in 1360 they spoiled both
Hastings and Rye. Immediately after the death of Edward they came
again, and "within five hours brought it wholly into ashes, with the
church that was there of a wonderful beauty, conveying away four of the
richest of the towne and slaying sixty-six; left not above eight in the
towne. Forty-two hogsheads of wine they carried thence to the ships
with the rest of their booty, and left the towne desolate."
In 1378 the men of the Cinque Ports took some sort of revenge,
according to the following interesting account in Fuller's _Worthies of
England_: "May never French land on this shore, to the losse of the
English! But if so sad an accident should happen, send them our
Sussexians no worse success than their ancestors of Rye and Winchelsey
had, 1378, in the reign of Richard the Second, when they embarked for
Normandy: for in the night they entered a town called Peter's Port,
took all such prisoners who were able to pay ransome, and safely
returned home without losse, and with much rich spoil; and amongst the
rest they took out of the steeple the bells, and brought them into
England, bells which the French had taken formerly from these towns,
and which did afterwards ring the more merrily, restored to their
proper place, with addition of much wealth to pay for the cost of their
recovery." But their triumph was short-lived, for in 1380 the place
was again burned, despite the wall. Comparative quiet then reigned
till 1448, when the last and most terrible invasion occurred. Then,
according to Jeake, Rye was entirely burned, with the exception of the
Landgate, the walls of the parish church, Ypres Tower, and the
so-called Chapel of the Carmelite Friars in Watchbell Street. The town
was devastated to such an extent that it was unable to furnish its
quota of ships to the navy.
Then the sea encroached once more, and, washing away the cliffs on the
east, destroyed the walls built under commission of Richard the First;
and such was the condition of the town that Chaucer could write:
"As many another town is payrid and y-lassid
Within these few years, as we mow se at eye
Lo, Sirs, here fast by Wynchelse and Ry".
Folks discovered that by skilful artificial drainage they could assist
the inning, and so obtain an additional field at the extremity of their
rightly-acquired land. In 1724 we have Defoe writing: "By digging
Ditches, and making Drains there are now Fields and Meadows where
antiently was nothing but Water. By this means Ships of but a middle
Size cannot come to any convenient distance near the Town, whereas
formerly the largest Vessels, and even whole Fleets together could
anchor just by the Rocks on which the Town stands."
But still, despite its struggles--perhaps by reason of them--Rye has
always managed to carry on. It has had its systole and diastole of
success; but, unlike Winchelsea, it has never given up the fight.
Periods there have been when every hand has seemed against it; but
times there have been too--the Commonwealth, for instance--when the
town has enjoyed a compensating prosperity. It has fought for its
existence, and it has survived; and there are no more apt words
concerning the two Antient Towns than those of Coventry Patmore:
"Winchelsea is a town in a trance, a sunny dream of centuries ago, but
Rye is a bit of the Old World living on in happy ignorance of the New".
At Winchelsea the church is the centre of everything: you cannot move a
hundred yards without coming into sight of it. But you might walk
round and about Rye all day and not notice it. Shut away at the top of
the hill, behind and away from all the everyday business of life, in
its isolation it somewhat resembles a cathedral. But there the
resemblance stops: there is no cathedral atmosphere. True, there is a
quiet in the square, but it is not the cold ghostly hush of the close
or the cloister. Instead, all is sunlight and warmth. The walls are
grey, the buttresses are grey, the tombs are grey, but it is a warm
familiar colour, at one with the red of the lichen-grown roofs, in full
harmony with the surrounding mosaic of colour.
======================================================================
[Illustration: RYE CHURCH]
Rye church stands at the top of the hill, behind and away from all the
everyday business of life. Its walls are grey, but it is a warm
familiar colour, at one with the red of the lichen-covered roofs.
(_See page 54_)
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Just below the churchyard, in the south-east corner, the Ypres (or, as
it is called locally, the Wipers) Tower still stands, a squat,
heavy-looking building, not altogether beautiful; and at the other end
of the town the Landgate, the sole survivor of the town's five portals.
Between these two, dotted about here and there in the winding,
cobble-stoned streets, are buildings of great beauty, some
unfortunately modernized on the outside. One is the old rubble-stone
building in Watchbell Street, commonly known as the Carmelite Friary.
It is an interesting specimen of a small mediaeval hall with chambers
below, but its association with the order is now pretty generally
recognized as a mistake. Steep little Mermaid Street--perhaps the most
beautiful of all the quaint turnings--has two notable buildings, the
Old Hospital and the Mermaid Inn. The Hospital is a fine timbered
structure with huge gables. The Inn is a Tudor building, surrounding a
tiny court. Little is to be seen from the road; but inside it is a
charming old-world place, with latticed windows and massive oak beams,
fine panelling and great fireplaces. In the stately red house at the
head of the street Mr. Henry James for many years found inspiration for
his wonderful studies of modern temperaments,--about as remote as
possible from the atmosphere of the quaint little grass-grown street.
Perhaps the most interesting of all the buildings is the Old Flushing
Inn. It possesses some fine oakwork, but the greatest attraction is
the quaint mural painting in imitation of tapestry, covering the whole
of one wall, and dating from 1574. In olden days the place was a
popular rendezvous among gentlemen of the "free trade", for in the rear
it possessed a courtyard which extended right to the edge of the
cliff--at that point practically vertical and about sixty feet
high--and it was a simple matter to beach a boat just below.