An English Diary ~ Rye

Lynn called him Grumpy McGrumpy Pants. He was slight and short, in his seventies, and he was, well—grumpy. McGrumpy was the hotel manager of The Mermaid Inn in Rye, East Sussex, England. It turned out he was also the hotel clerk, custodian, and housekeeper, though he drew the line at bellhop.

Thirteen years ago, after checking in to The Mermaid Inn, Lynn and I followed Mr. McGrumpy Pants up the staircase to our room. We had two suitcases, a large zippered duffle, a carry-on, and a laptop. After it was clear that McGrumpy would not be helping with the luggage, Lynn picked up the carry-on and the laptop; I gripped the two suitcases and slung the duffle over my shoulder. "Leave that," groused McGrumpy. "She'll never fit up the stairs like that. You'll come back for it."

The staircase started out narrow, not wide enough to carry the luggage at my side. I turned around and set one suitcase down next to the duffle, then, holding the other suitcase in front of me, knees bumping with every step, followed our little host up to the second floor. The dark hallway was a little wider, and I wondered which door was our room. McGrumpy opened the door of what I had assumed was a small closet, only to find it was another staircase, even tighter than the main stairs. "You're all the way up top. Mind the wall 'round the corner now." I got a distinct feeling Mr. McGrumpy Pants was thinking to himself, " Daft American tourists with all their—things" as we climbed the steeper, equally dark, winding steps to the third floor.

"We re-did the pipes in the eighties. There's the loo in there. Open that window over the tub now, let out the steam." He turned and started back down the stairs, then stopped and mused, "She's haunted, you know. The room. Just noises. You might think you see something, but you never do." After a pause, he added with a shrug, "I never do." And with that, he went back down the stairs.

The Mermaid Inn has a sign on the wall outside the entrance to the car park: "Re-built in 1420." Oh good, I thought as we were driving in; at least it's been modernized. I should preface that by saying we are not world travelers. This was my second time out of the United States unless you count Texas (I do), which would make three times I left the country. The other time was a luxury stay at the Ritz-Carlton in the heart of Montreal (paid for by Jeopardy!), though I'm not sure if Americans really think of Canada as a foreign country, eh? We were spoiled Americans, used to American-style hotels and motels: elevators, oversized windows with heavy drapes, coffee maker, TV, fridge, complimentary toiletries, always next door to the ice machine. (Why are all ice machines only used after midnight? Actually, I'm not sure Europe has ice.) England was different, or at least the Mermaid Inn was different. I'm not totally insensitive, though: I get that plugging in a coffee maker in a building renovated in 1420 might cause problems. But no free tiny bottles of Bliss Lemon+Sage Body Butter?

The brochure at the front desk—literally a desk—states that when Queen Elizabeth I visited in 1573, the Inn had already been open for more than 150 years. The basement dates from when the building was built in 1156. The Mermaid Inn supposedly looks today much like it did after the remodel in 1420. Maybe Grumpy McGrumpy Pants helped with the remodel.

The town of Rye was unlike the other areas we visited in England. It's a tourist town filled with quaint, steep cobbled streets and rose-covered houses bathed in colorful history. You get the feeling the town folk pride themselves in keeping things just the way they are and reveling in the town's history of murderous pirate smugglers, French invaders, and literary luminaries, like Henry James and E. F. Benson. But the town doesn't seem deliberately touristy, like so many historical places in America. There isn't a gift shop; the entire town is a gift shop. Rye has a very long, fascinating history, and the town has been kept old and charming. It was glorious. I had a proper cuppa in a room where, very possibly, Queen Elizabeth I took tea¹. I'm not a tea drinker; it was from an M & S grocery store for all I know. But in that place, with Grumpy McGrumpy Pants behind his desk nodding off behind his Rye News, I became suddenly immersed in England.

It was an easy place to relax after navigating the bustle of London. In Rye, we meandered the quiet streets and felt the fog from the stress of travel melt away. We stood outside Lamb House where Henry James and his friend Benson wrote. Lynn was so excited. Of course, unlike illiterate me, she'd read James's "The Awkward Age" and the whole of E. F. Benson's "Mapp and Lucia" series. She pointed at the bend in the narrow street with its sharp S-turn as we walked along and said, "Oh look! That's where the Wyse's had to inch backward and forwards to get the big old Rolls Royce around the corner, and the cobbled sidewalk where Miss Mapp had to press herself against the wall to avoid the creeping car. This is Tilling! We're standing outside The Mallards!"

We stayed two nights in Rye. The day we arrived was spent exploring the little town and avoiding Grumpy McGrumpy Pants. The only ghost I saw was in the bathroom, where I could have sworn I saw an actual stand-up shower complete with a showerhead. It was a fleeting aberration: wishful thinking. The bathrooms had been updated since the 1420 re-build, so there was plumbing, but the tub was a typical English affair with a hand-held shower wand. Also, because of the gabled roof, the ceiling over the tub was only 4 - 5 feet high: you couldn't stand anywhere in the tub. You had to sort of crawl over the side and sit. Everywhere I went in England, I felt like a giant. I guess centuries of living on an island make you frugal with your spaces. Our little cape cod seemed like a mansion when we got back home.

The second day in Rye, we drove to nearby Battle Abbey, site of the Battle of Hastings and the death of King Harold of England by the Norman forces of William the Conqueror in 1066. There was history and literature everywhere Lynn and I went, and not just in England. Lynn saw the world through the lens of history and literature. When I was with her, she always shared that lens. Lynn was the one to have on any trip. She was the one to have with you just watching TV. That lens was/is always foggy for me without her. I miss the clarity, the connections. Oh, I miss the stories.

Click the images below to enlarge them and get a description of what you're seeing.

The beach at Foulkstone	The corner of our room
At the top of Mermaid Street	The Mermaid Inn
"The House Opposite"	The ancient town of Rye
St. Mary's Church	A path to St. Mary's Church
The Landgate	The view from the lookout