The scenery on the drive to my next destination, the ancient town of Rye, was nearly as enjoyable. Fields of green, cattle grazing and sheep lazily milling about, and vast, shockingly bright swaths of yellow rapeseed flowers marked the countryside. I approached the tiny town, historically the first layer of defense against many a European intruder, from the south on New Winchelsea Road, passing Camber Castle. （The fort, built by Henry VIII, gives infrequent tours, around one a month.）
Carefully maneuvering my car along the narrowing streets, I arrived at my $65 Airbnb at the bottom of Mermaid Street and lucked into a free spot in the nearby lot. A relaxed walk up Mermaid to West Street, and I was quickly in the England of my dreams: tiny houses crumbling under the weight of their own history; tile roof and cobblestone streets; lanterns hanging off ivy-covered walls. I passed under a gate built in the 1300s by Edward III and quickly had covered most of the town; it's small and extremely manageable by foot.
After a quick dinner at Webbe's at the Fish Cafe, an elegant but approachable spot in an old teddy bear factory （I had a garlicky pan-fried gurnard fillet for ￡13）, I walked over to Cafe Zara for a coffee and a sweet, nutty piece of baklava （￡4.50）. While I was slightly disappointed in the lack of accessibility to some local businesses （a bookstore was unexpectedly closed; a place for afternoon tea I found online seemed to have disappeared entirely）, finding good food was never a problem. The Standard Inn, a small hotel and pub established in the 1400s, for example, serves a mean pot of buttery, smoked local mackeral （￡5.95）.
I spent part of a morning in the Church of St. Mary, the nave of which dates back to 1180. I paid the ￡3.50 fee to climb the bell tower, which provides excellent sweeping views of Rye and its countryside. （The climb up is not for the claustrophobic.）There’s also a considerable amount of antiquing to be done, if you're so inclined: I scored a beautiful old French coffee pot at Crock & Cosy for ￡30 and got lost in Quay Antiques and Collectables among a seemingly bottomless pile of bric-a-brac: toy soldiers, war memorabilia, lamps, teaspoons and backgammon boards.
And, seemingly as soon as I had arrived, it was off to see Dover’s famous cliffs, a quick and pleasant hourlong drive from Rye. The calcium carbonate cliffs, which are centered on the town of Dover itself but stretch for about eight miles along the coastline, are instantly recognizable to Britons and deeply meaningful to many. A mere 21 miles from France, they played a significant role in both world wars and, in some ways, are literally the face of the nation.
From the village of St. Margaret’s at Cliff, where I’d found a cozy Airbnb just a few miles outside Dover proper, I set out on a walk down to the sea. Descending a tricky-to-find set of stairs, I soon found myself on the beach at St. Margaret’s Bay, gazing up at the milky-white, ancient cliffs that took eons to form. Completely alone, I walked northeast up the beach as the sun was setting, across what truly struck me as an alien landscape.
Stones of pure white and others of onyx black littered the shore. Slick moss and mud plus a light rain made the footing tricky, but I pressed on until I’d reached a slightly elevated vantage point and could take in the breathtaking panorama: the lush greenness of this “sceptered isle,” as Shakespeare once wrote, broken by alabaster bluffs against a blue backdrop of sea and sky. It was truly everything I wanted in a trip to England.
I spent part of a morning in the Church of St. Mary, the nave of which dates back to 1180. I paid the ￡3.50 fee to climb the bell tower, which provides excellent sweeping views of Rye and its countryside. （The climb up is not for the claustrophobic.）There’s also a considerable amount of antiquing to be done, if you're so inclined: I scored a beautiful old French coffee pot at Crock & Cosy for ￡30 and got lost in Quay Antiques and Collectables among a seemingly bottomless pile of bric-a-brac: toy soldiers, war memorabilia, lamps, teaspoons and backgammon boards.
And, seemingly as soon as I had arrived, it was off to see Dover’s famous cliffs, a quick and pleasant hourlong drive from Rye. The calcium carbonate cliffs, which are centered on the town of Dover itself but stretch for about eight miles along the coastline, are instantly recognizable to Britons and deeply meaningful to many. A mere 21 miles from France, they played a significant role in both world wars and, in some ways, are literally the face of the nation.
From the village of St. Margaret’s at Cliff, where I’d found a cozy Airbnb just a few miles outside Dover proper, I set out on a walk down to the sea. Descending a tricky-to-find set of stairs, I soon found myself on the beach at St. Margaret’s Bay, gazing up at the milky-white, ancient cliffs that took eons to form. Completely alone, I walked northeast up the beach as the sun was setting, across what truly struck me as an alien landscape.
Stones of pure white and others of onyx black littered the shore. Slick moss and mud plus a light rain made the footing tricky, but I pressed on until I’d reached a slightly elevated vantage point and could take in the breathtaking panorama: the lush greenness of this “sceptered isle,” as Shakespeare once wrote, broken by alabaster bluffs against a blue backdrop of sea and sky. It was truly everything I wanted in a trip to England.
