RYE AND WINCHELSEA
Out of the vagueness and loneliness of the Marsh, with its strange
level light and tingling silence, I climbed one spring evening at
sunset into the ancient town of Rye, and at first I could not believe
I was still in England. No one I think can wander for more than a few
days about the Marsh, among those half deserted churches, far too big
for any visible congregation, whose towers in a kind of despair still
stand up before God against the sea, raging and plotting far off
against the land, without wondering at last into what country he has
strayed. In Rye all such doubt is resolved at once, for Rye is pure
Italy, or at least it seems so in the evening dusk. When I came up
into it in the spring twilight out of the Marsh, I was reminded of one
of those Italian cities which stand up over the lean shore of the
Adriatic to the south of Rimini, but it was not of them I thought when
in the morning sunlight I saw those red roofs piled up one upon
another from the plain: it was of Siena. And indeed Rye is in its
smaller, less complete and of course less exquisite way very like the
most beautiful city in Tuscany. Here, too, as in Siena, the red-roofed
houses climb up a hill, one upon another, a hill crowned at last by a
great church dedicated in honour of the Blessed Virgin. But here the
likeness, too fanciful for reality, ceases altogether. It is true that
Siena looks out beyond her own gardens and vineyards upon a desert,
but it is a very different desolation upon which Rye gazes all day
long, out of which she rises with all the confidence, grace, and
gaiety of a flower, and over which she rules like a queen.
From the Porta Romana of Siena or the outlook of the Servi, you gaze
southward across the barren, scorched valleys to the far-away
mountains, to Monte Amiata, the fairest mountain of Tuscany. From the
Ypres Tower of Rye or the Gun Garden below it, you look only across
the level and empty Marsh which sinks beyond Camber Castle
imperceptibly into the greyness and barrenness of the sea. To the
east, across the flat emptiness, the Rother crawls seaward; to the
west across the Marsh, as once across the sea, Winchelsea rises
against the woods, and beyond, far away, the darkness of Fairlight
hangs like a cloud twixt sea and sky.
Indeed, to liken Rye to any other place is to do her wrong, for both
in herself and in that landscape over which she broods, there is
enough beauty and enough character to give her a life and a meaning
altogether her own. From afar off, from Winchelsea, for instance, in
the sunlight, she seems like a town in a missal, crowned by that
church which seems so much bigger than it is, gay and warm and yet
with something of the greyness of the sea and the sea wind about her, a
place that, as so few English places do, altogether makes a picture in
the mind, and is at unity with itself.
And from within she seems not less complete, a thing wholly ancient,
delightful, with a picturesque and yet homely beauty that is the child
of ancientness. Yet how much has Rye lost! The walls of Coeur de Lion
have fallen, and only one of the gates remains; but so long as the
church and the beautiful strong tower of William de Ypres stand, and
the narrow cobbled streets full of old and humble houses climb up and
down the steep hill, the whole place is involved in their beauty and
sanctity, our hearts are satisfied and our eyes engaged on behalf of a
place at once so old and picturesque and yet so neat and tidy and
always ready to receive a guest.
A place like Rye, naturally so strong, a steep island surrounded by
sea or impassable marsh, must have been a stronghold from very early
times; it is in fact obviously old when we first hear of it as a gift,
with Winchelsea, of Edward the Confessor's to the Benedictine Abbey of
Fécamp just across the grey channel in Normandy. Both Rye and
Winchelsea remained within the keeping of the Abbey of Fécamp until,
for reasons of State easy to be understood, Henry III. resumed the
royal rights in the thirteenth century, compensating the monks of
Fécamp with manors in Gloucestershire and Lincolnshire. For before the
end of the twelfth century it would seem Rye with Winchelsea had
become of so much importance as a port as to have been added to the
famous Cinque Ports, Sandwich, Dover, Hythe, Romney and Hastings. From
this time both play a considerable part in the trade and politics of
the Channel and the Straits.
It was to enable her to hold herself secure in this business and
especially against raids from the sea that the Ypres Tower was built
in the time of King Stephen, by William of Ypres, Earl of Kent. It was
a watch tower and perhaps a stronghold, but it was never sufficient.
Even in 1194 Coeur de Lion permitted the town to wall itself.
Nevertheless Louis the Dauphin of France took Rye, and it may well
have been this which determined Henry III. to take the town out of the
hands of the monks of Fécamp and to hold it himself.
Doubtless Rye's greatest moment was this thirteenth century, nor did
she appear much less in the fourteenth and the first half of the
fifteenth century. But often sacked and burned, the town was
practically destroyed by the French in 1378 and 1448, when only the
Ypres Tower, part of the church, the Landgate, the Strandgate and the
so-called chapel of the Carmelite Friars escaped destruction. But from
this blow Rye recovered to play a part, if a small one, in the defeat
of the Armada, and though the retreat of the sea, which seems to have
begun in the sixteenth century, undoubtedly damaged her, it did not
kill her outright as it did Winchelsea, for she had the Rother to help
her, and we find her prosperous not only in the time of the
Commonwealth, but even to-day, when, with the help of a new harbour
at the mouth of the river, she is still able to carry on her trade.
[Illustration: RYE]
Nothing in fact strikes the visitor to Rye more than the bustle and
life of a place obviously so old. All the streets are steep and narrow
and the chief of them, the High Street, seems always to be gay and
full of business, and is as truly characteristic of Rye as those still
and grass-grown ways cobbled and half deserted, which lead up to the
noble great church in its curious _place_.
It is of course to this great sanctuary dedicated in honour of the
Blessed Virgin, that everyone will go first in Rye. It has been called
the largest parish church in England, and though this claim cannot be
made good, it is in all probability the largest in Sussex, is in fact
known as the Cathedral of East Sussex, and if a church became a
cathedral by reason of its beauty and size it might rightly claim the
title. It is certainly worthy of the most loving attention.
The church of Our Lady at Rye is a great cruciform building with
clerestory, transepts, and central tower, but without western doors,
the chief entrance being in the north transept. The church is of all
dates from the Norman time onward, a very English patchwork, here due
to the depredations, not so much of time, as of the French who have so
often raided and burnt the town. The oldest part is the tower, which
is Norman, as are, though somewhat later, the transepts, where certain
details show the Transitional style. In this style again, but somewhat
later, is the nave. The chancel and its two chapels are Early English,
but with many important Decorated, Perpendicular and modern details,
such as the arcade and the windows. The Early English chapel upon the
north is that of St Clare, that upon the south is dedicated in honour
of St Nicholas. In the south aisle of the nave is an Early English
chantry, now used as a vestry. The communion table of carved
mahogany is said to have been taken from a Spanish ship at the time
of the Armada, but it would seem certainly not to be older than the
end of the seventeenth century. The curious clock whose bells are
struck by golden cherubs on the north side of the tower, is said to
have been a gift of Queen Elizabeth and to be the oldest clock in
England still in good order. It is probably of late Caroline
construction, but even though it were of the sixteenth century its
claim to be the oldest clock now at work in England could not be
upheld for a moment, that in Wells Cathedral being far older. The
pulpit is of the sixteenth century. In the north aisle is a curious
collection of Bibles and cannon balls, and here, too, is a small
window with glass by Burne Jones.
To the south-west of the church is the so-called Carmelite Chapel, a
late Decorated building. What exactly this was and to whom it
belonged, is uncertain; it was not a chapel of Carmelite Friars. The
only establishment belonging to that Order within the county of Susses
was at Shoreham, founded in honour of the Blessed Virgin, by Sir John
de Mowbray in 1316.
So far as we know the only religious to be found in
Rye at the time of the spoliation were the Austin Friars. Their house
still stands--a building of the late fourteenth or early fifteenth
century--on the Conduit Hill. It has passed through many strange uses,
among others that of a Salvation Army barracks. It is now the Anglican
Church House. This was the only settlement of the Austin Friars in
Sussex, and of its origin nothing is known. In 1368 we hear that the
prior and convent of the Friars Eremites of St Austin in Rye permitted
one of their brethren, a priest, to say Mass daily, at the altar of St
Nicholas, in the parish church for the welfare of William Taylour of
Rye, and of Agnes his wife. In 1378 the town granted them a place
called "le Haltone" near the town ditch. But apart from these two facts
their history is altogether wanting.
From the parish church one descends south-east to the Ypres Tower. This
watch tower and stronghold was built in the time of King Stephen by
William of Ypres, Earl of Kent, and is in many ways the most impressive
building left to us in Rye. It is undoubtedly best seen from the river,
but it and the garden below it afford a great view over the marshes on
a clear day, eastward to the cliffs of Folkestone and westward to
Fairlight. In itself it is a plain rectangular building with round
towers at the angles, but with nothing of interest within. Yet what
would Rye be without it. For many years it was the sole defence of the
town.
Most of those who come to Rye enter the town, and with a sudden
surprise not to be found elsewhere, by the Landgate upon the north.
There were, it is said of old, five gates about the town, but
this is the only one left to us. Nothing, or almost nothing,
of the walls remain. Doubtless the French destroyed anything
in the nature of fortification so far as they could, only the
Ypres Tower they failed to pull down or to burn, and this great round
towered gateway upon the north--why we do not know?
It is the Landgate which gives to Rye its power of surprise, so that a
man coming up from the railway, at sight of it, is suddenly
transported into the Middle Age, and in that dream enters and enjoys
Rye town, which has never disappointed those who have come in the
right spirit. For besides the monuments of which I have spoken there
are others of lesser interest, it is true, but that altogether go to
make up the charm and delight of this unique place. Among these I will
name Mermaid Street where the grass grows among the cobbles and where
stands the Mermaid Inn and the half timber house called the Hospital,
Pocock's School and Queen Elizabeth's Well. Better still, for me at
least, is the life of the river and the shipyards, where, though Rye
is now two miles from the sea, ships are still built and the life of
the place and its heart are adventured and set upon the great waters.
So alluring indeed is this little town that one is always loath to
leave it, one continually excuses oneself from departure. One day I
delayed in order to see the famous poem in the old book in the town
archives which I already knew from Mr Lucas's book. It is certainly
of Henry VIII.'s time, and who could have written it but that unhappy
Sir Thomas Wyatt who loved Anne Boleyn--
What greater gryffe may hape
Trew lovers to anoye
Then absente for to sepratte them
From ther desiered joye?
What comforte reste them then
To ease them of ther smarte
But for to thincke and myndful bee
Of them they love in harte?
And sicke that they assured bee
Ehche toe another in harte
That nothinge shall them seperate
Untylle deathe doe them parte?
And thoughe the dystance of the place
Doe severe us in twayne,
Yet shall my harte thy harte imbrace
Tyll we doe meete agayne.
Then one sunny afternoon I went out by the road past Camber Castle
across Rye Foreign for Winchelsea on its hill some two miles from Rye
to the west.
There is surely nothing in the world quite like Winchelsea. Lovelier by
far than Rye, not only in itself, but because of what it offers you,
those views of hill and marsh and sea with Rye itself, like I know not
what little masterpiece of Flemish art, in the middle distance
eastward, Winchelsea is a place never to be left or at worst never to
be forgotten. One comes to it from Rye on a still afternoon of spring
when the faint shadows are beginning to lengthen, expecting little. In
fact, if the traveller be acceptable, capable of appreciating anything
so still and exquisite, Winchelsea will appear to him to be, as it is
one of the loveliest things left to us in England, place, as Coventry
Patmore so well said, in a trance, La Belle an Bois dormant. Nowhere
else in England certainly have I found just that exquisite stillness,
that air of enchantment, as of something not real, something in a
picture or a poem, inexplicable and inexpressible. How spacious it is,
and how quiet, full of the sweetness and the beauty of some motet by
Byrd. History is little to us in such a place, which is to be enjoyed
for its own sake, for its own unique beauty and delight. And yet the
history of Winchelsea is almost as unique as is the place itself.
Winchelsea when we first hear of it as given by King Edward Confessor
to the monks of Fécamp, was not set upon this hill-top as we see it
to-day, but upon an island, low and flat, now submerged some three
miles south and east of the present town. Here William the Conqueror
landed upon his return from Normandy when he set out to take Exeter
and subdue the West; here again two of those knights who murdered St
Thomas landed in their pride, hot from the court of Henry their
master. Like Rye, its sister, to whom it looked across the sea,
Winchelsea was added to the Cinque Ports and was presently taken from
the monks of Fécamp by Henry III. It was now its disasters began.
In 1236 it was inundated by the sea as again in 1250, when
it was half destroyed. Eagerly upon the side of Montfort it
was taken after Evesham by Prince Edward, and its inhabitants
slain, so that when in 1288 it was again drowned by the sea
it was decided to refound the town upon the hill above, then in
the possession of Battle Abbey, which the King purchased for this
purpose. At that time the hill upon which Winchelsea was built, and
still stands, was washed by the sea, and the harbour soon became of
very great importance, indeed until the sixteenth century, when the
sea began to retire, Winchelsea was of much greater importance than
Rye. The retreat of the sea, however, completely ruined it, for it was
served by no river as Rye was by the Rother.
The town of Edward I., as we may see to-day, by what time has left us
of it, was built in squares, a truly Latin arrangement, the streets
all remaining at right angles the one to the other. It had three gates
and was defended upon the west, where it was not naturally strong, by
a great ditch. It was attacked and sacked by the French as often as
Rye, though not always at the same time. Thus in 1377, when Rye was
half destroyed, Winchelsea was saved by the Abbot of Battle, only to
be taken three years later by John de Vienne, when the town was burnt.
No doubt these constant and mostly successful attacks deeply injured
the place which, after the sea had begun to retreat in the sixteenth
century, at the time of Elizabeth's visit in 1573, only mustered some
sixty families. From that time Winchelsea slowly declined till there
remains only the exquisite ghost we see to-day.
One comes up out of the Marsh into Winchelsea to-day through the
Strand Gate of the time of Edward I., and presently finds oneself in
the beautiful and spacious square in which stands the lovely fragment
of the church of St Thomas of Canterbury.
This extraordinarily lovely building dates from the fourteenth
century. As we see it, it is but a fragment, consisting of the chancel
and two side chapels, but as originally planned it would seem to have
been a cruciform building of chancel, choir with side chapels, a
central tower, transept and nave. It is doubtful, however, whether
the nave was ever built, the ruins of the transepts and of two piers
of the tower only remain.
I say it was doubtful whether this nave was ever built. It has been
asserted, it is true, that it was burnt by the French either in 1380
or in 1449, but it seems more probable that it was never completed
owing to the devastation of the Black Death of 1348-9, though certain
discoveries made of late would seem to endorse the older theory.
Certain it is that until the end of the eighteenth century, there
stood to the south-west of the church a great bell tower, a detached
campanile, now dismantled, whose stones are said to have been used to
build Rye Harbour.
The church, as we have it, is one of the loveliest Decorated buildings
in the county; the Perpendicular porch, however, by which we enter does
not belong to the church but possibly came here from one of the
destroyed churches of Winchelsea, St Giles's or St Leonard's. Within
we find ourselves in a great choir or chancel, with a chapel
on either hand, that on the right dedicated in honour of St
Nicholas and known as the Alard Chantry, that on the left the Lady
Chapel known as the Farncombe Chantry. The arcades which divide these
chapels from the choir are extraordinarily beautiful, as are the
restored sedilia and piscina with their gables and pinnacles and
lovely diaper work. The windows, too, are very noble and fine, and rich
in their tracery, which might seem to be scarcely English.
[Illustration: WINCHELSEA CHURCH]
In the Chapel of St Nicholas, the Alard Chantry, on the south, are the
glorious canopied tombs of Gervase Alard (1300) and Stephen Alard. The
first is the finer; it is the tomb of the first Lord High Admiral of
England. The sepulchral effigy lies cross-legged with a heart in its
hands and a lion at its feet; and about its head two angels once
knelt. The whole was doubtless once glorious with colour, traces of
which still remain on the beautiful diaper work of the recess. The
tomb of Stephen Alard is later, but similar though less rich. Stephen
was Admiral of the Cinque Ports in the time of Edward II. Another of
the family, Reginald, lies beneath the floor where of old a brass
marked his tomb (1354).
In the Chapel of the Blessed Virgin, the Farncombe Chantry, are three
tombs all canopied with a Knight in chain armour, a Lady, and a young
Squire. We are ignorant whose they may be. It is certain that these
tombs are older than the church, and they are said to have been
brought here from old Winchelsea.
But Winchelsea has other ruins and other memories besides those to be
found in the parish church.
The Franciscans, the Grey Friars, were established in Winchelsea very
early, certainly before 1253; and when old Winchelsea was destroyed
and the new town built on the hill by the King it was agreed that no
monastery or friary should be built there save only a house for the
Friars Minor. This was erected where now the modern mansion called
'The Friars' stands, the old convent having been pulled down so lately
as 1819. A part of the ruined Chapel of the Blessed Virgin remains,
however, the choir and apse. Decorated work not much later than the
parish church, and of great beauty. Unhappily we know absolutely
nothing of the Friars in Winchelsea, except that when the house was
suppressed in 1538 it was exceedingly poor.
The Franciscans, however, were not the only Friars in Winchelsea in
spite of the agreement made at the foundation of the new town. In 1318
Edward II. granted the Black Friars, the Dominicans, twelve acres on
the southern side of the hill. This situation was found inconvenient,
and in 1357 the Dominicans obtained six acres "near the town."
Nothing, or almost nothing, remains of their house.
Besides these two religious houses, Winchelsea possessed three
hospitals, those of St John, St Bartholomew and Holy Cross.
The Hospital of St Bartholomew was near the New Gate on the south-west
of the town, and dated from the refounding of Edward. Nothing remains
of it, or of the Hospital of Holy Cross, which had existed in old
Winchelsea and was set up in the new town also near the New Gate. But
the oldest and the most important of the three hospitals was that of
St John. A fragment of this remains where the road turns towards
Hastings to the north of the churchyard. Close by is the thirteenth-
century Court House.
It is always with regret I leave Winchelsea when I must, and even the
beautiful road through Icklesham into Hastings will not reconcile one
who has known how to love this place, to departure. And yet how fair
that road is and how fair is the Norman church of St Nicholas at
Icklesham upon the way! The road winds up over the low shore towards
Fairlight, ever before one, and at last as one goes up Guestling Hill
through a whole long afternoon and reaches the King's Head Inn at
sunset, suddenly across the smoke of Hastings one sees Pevensey Level,
and beyond, the hills where fell the great fight in which William Duke
of Normandy disputed for England with Harold the King. At sunset, when
all that country is half lost in the approaching darkness, one seems to
feel again the tragedy of that day so fortunate after all, in which
once more we were brought back into the full life of Europe and renewed
with the energy Rome had stored in Gaul.