Rye, in East Sussex, is another of my favourite places because of its history, its friendliness, its proximity to the sea and to Romney Marsh and of course because of its “olde worlde” charm and picturesqueness.

St Anthony’s, Rye, © Copyright by Keith Marshall, 2010.
Following on from my post of a couple of days ago about Fairfield church, I came upon this poem by Patric Dickinson (the poet, 1914-1994, not to be confused with my friend Patric Dickinson who is currently Clarenceux King of Arms and still very much alive).

Rye

It seems solid enough
As you come through the Landgate
And the streets climb up to the church
That, like a stranded ark,
     Straddles the hilltop.

But Time is different here.
The streets are full of beggars
You cannot see, who speak
The tongues of centuries
     To the deaf tourists.

‘We have always been perverse
And unprofessional beggars,
For we want to give, not take,
To offer you this town’s
     Particular nature.

‘It is not what you see
As you trip on the cobbles
And say the houses are quaint,
Nor was it ever like that,
     It is our presence.

‘The town keeps whispering
Its history – fishermen, merchants –
Lifetimes that have been built
From unimportant scraps
     To construct a clement

‘Enclave and sanctuary.
Once you have understood this,
You will feel Rye within,
And be disposed to come back,
     If you ever leave it.’