retiredmartin

June 2023. Winchelsea.

Mrs RM has enjoyed her time down in Rye Harbour, tidying up the caravan, contemplating her next bottle of Shepherd Neame 1698,

and contemplating possibly engaging in some twitching at the nature reserve.

The harbour is heaving with gentlefolk in beige, armed with binoculars, heading for the hides. Twitter seems to have cottoned on to my location and is bombarding me with apps which will help me identify the birds.

Look ! Here’s one now ! All I have to do is wade through that water and point the camera at its beak and I can find out what it is.

Wonderful walks round here, though in the absence of a bridge to Camber Sands (be thankful) they’re all west to Winchelsea or north to Rye.

Mrs RM prefers the pebbles to the sand dunes and chip wrappers of Camber, and I don’t blame her.

It’s an hour to Winchelsea Beach’s caravan sites, served by a chippy, co-op, closed church (come on, Spoons)

and a pub that will never make the GBG (famous last words) but serves its community just fine.

Pub 31 (number of swear words heard in our 10 minute stop) also serves as Mrs RM’s “comfort stop”, which obliges me to have a pint. Well, a Guinness. Would YOU drink (Golden Speckled Hen) cask here in this heat ?

Mrs RM has finished her soda before my pint has settled.

“Can’t rush Guinness, can you ?” says the incredibly friendly landlady.

I don’t really know what the rise of the stout this last year really means; possibly just a reflection of the spreading of the lager market over a wider range of premium products, but Guinness is always a safe bet. But by goodness it’s a dull one.