Out and about in Rye.

Painting of Rye by a local artist in the bar of 'The George."

Ever since reading "The Master" by Colm Toibin about Henry James in Rye I've wanted to visit Lamb House where he lived from 1898 'til 1914.  As soon as we had left our overnight bags at the hotel I went hot-foot round the corner to knock on his door.

 See the little white note taped over the entry details? They were closed until the 21st!!

We had driven for four hours to get there and I wasn't even able to peep into the garden.

The reason for the closure was filming, a new BBC production of Mapp and Lucia. The name above the door had been changed from 'Lamb House' to 'Mallards' and a whole new false bow window and plastic railings built to one side by a local carpenter. (Someone had leant against the railings and they'd been put back together with sticky tape!)

A shop window had become the Tilling Emporium displaying period clothing

with information about E.F. Benson, the writer.

Filming was in progress around pretty Church Square

and extras were waiting in the churchyard.

The cameras were in action inside 'The Old Vicarage.' (Our receptionist told us that the owners were delighted because the kitchen had been totally reconstructed and they were going to be able to keep the Aga !)

It seems that Rye has been full of characters both fictional and real

with houses are as varied as the personalities,

from the grandeur of Nash's house to this little place where the door height is 5ft 4 inches!

On our second night we stayed in Mermaid Street.

My, those pebbles take some walking on!

Here's our B&B.

Rather appropriately we were put in 'Benson' room.

 And after so much sight-seeing it was good to flop into bed!

D-Day

I've been watching a fair bit of television over the past couple of days, quite often with tears rolling down my face. The programme on Thursday evening, "If I don't come home: letters from D-Day" featured the stories of four Allied solders who had written to their families in the clear knowledge that they may never see them again. Two of the men survived and, heartbreakingly, two did not. One of the latter was a young Canadian writing to his widowed mother and I cannot remain dry-eyed when I think of it now.
Much of yesterday's coverage of  the commemoration of the Normandy landings was very moving. I'm aware how incredibly fortunate I was to have enjoyed the company of my adored father over a long and happy life. When he was demobbed from the army and returned home he found his young daughter, as he described me, "running wild." His discipline was strict. Who was this stranger who had come to live in our house and was bossing me about? Our characters were very similar and for a while he had another battle on his hands!
At school in the late 'forties some of the pupils had no father and teachers had lost husbands and fiancés. The country was pretty much on it's knees, but my memory is of everyone being very happy. Family gatherings and get-togethers with friends, group picnics or parties with silly games, these occasions were always full of laughter. I realise now that the adults were euphoric just to be alive.

In this photo I'm standing with my father on the old pack-horse bridge in Thornthwaite, Yorkshire, where we had a small weekend cottage. My long hair has been tightly plaited and a Fair isle beret, a present from my Scottish relatives, is crammed down on my head. I've just about out-grown that coat, but in post-war Britain there was still rationing and you hung onto things for as long as you could! And you can tell from my stance that I was a bit of a madam!

The Bell Tent

When war was over

and Dad was free

to come back home and live with me

he bought a bell tent from the army.

Other people thought him barmy.

Huge and dark the space within,

where we could play and make a din,

run rings around the central pole,

emerge to sunlight like a mole

from dark brown canvas, flattened grass,

odour sweet as memory has.

No thoughts from us of men at war,

boots to the pole, heads to the door.

On holidays away we went,

dogs, parents, children in the tent.

My mother would not sleep inside

unless the door was opened wide,

and several times we'd start the day

with a cow's face or donkey's bray.

We'd climb up hills and gaze around,

our home a little mole-hill mound

beneath, and way up in the sky

we saw a golden eagle fly.

No thoughts from us of those poor men

who'd never see this land again.

A week in the sun!

What a delight, to have a week in the sun! Every morning I swam to and fro between the three small jetties. The hotel was full but at eight in the morning I was the only person in the sea.

The water was cold, hence the towelling robe,

but wonderfully invigorating.

At nine I joined the fitness coach for yoga or pilates - still no-one about but me so I enjoyed one-to-one sessions. Thank you, Despyna!

Ten o'clock, time for a long and disgracefully indulgent breakfast. (Greek delight and chocolate cake, anyone?)

We had come for warmth and sunshine, but it is quite a shock for our pale English skin. Himself started out bravely exposed (and blathered in high factor cream)

but he soon had to cover up.

Eagles Palace is the perfect place to relax and recharge,

read,

and ruminate.

(I'm very good at that!)

This repeat visit was every bit as good as last year. A few things had changed; nice little touches such as cushions on our sun beds and a new water feature in the central courtyard.

I used to travel with just an in-flight case and a shoulder bag but last year at the airport was asked to pack the bag into the case. Impossible! My case had to go in the hold. Was I mad!! So last autumn I bought a mid-size case for the hold. The result is that I now pack far too many clothes. Half the things that I took were never worn. How ridiculous. This is a comfy cotton/linen slip-over from Noa Noa, handy for both beach and casual dining with the addition of leggings.

I took one or two fairly smart dresses, but there is no need, it's a very casual hotel.

I did nothing cerebral in the library

but looked at an enormous and beautifully illustrated book about Ralph Lauren, where I was amused by this description of English style, a polite description of tatty! 

I would have liked to have photographed the clothes on display but the images were copyright.