October 2026. Rye.
You left us at the Winery in Rye‘s Rock Channel Quay, contemplating the merits of grape after grain, and wondering what the Martello development flats by the river sell for.
Time to get back to the caravan and the blogs; Rye Harbour really is a writer’s retreat.
The Number 313 trots back and forth the 10 minutes between nature reserve and station, but keeps irregular hours and the last time I walked back in the dark I fell in a ditch swinging a plastic bag full of Chinese takeaway, so you don’t want to miss it.
We arrive at the bus stop with 15 minutes spare, 15 minutes meant for grocery shopping at Jempson’s.
“Time for a bus pint ?” says Mrs RM, the most incorrigible of women. I was sober when I met her, you know.
Actually, a great idea, as I feel guilty about writing the obituary for Shepherd Neame, or at least their cask.
And the Cinque Ports is a bellwether pub for the hand pumped beer, though again the Spitfire is off. It’s rarer than the red triangle was when that Wickingman chap started the Bass revival.
Talking of Bass, the Cinque Ports has that unmistakeable feel of a pub you bring your shopping bags into, rather like the Cherry Tree in Leicester.
CAMRA reports a solitary pint pot, indicating “solid choice for a reliable pint”, but both Master Brew and Late Red are as good as I’ve had in ages.
It’s a cheery market pub, even if that market is only on Thursdays and mainly sells ironing board covers and hob nobs.
The perfect place for a “bus pint™“, in fact.
