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The guide

Rye

Rye Ypres Tower — part of Rye Castle, guarding the town since the 1200s.

Mermaid Street — cobbles, crooked timber frames and the Mermaid Inn sign.

Getting there

London St Pancras → Ashford International on the high-speed line (about 38 minutes), then change for the Marshlink to Rye (about 22 minutes) — roughly 1h 06m to 1h 10m all-in, with the Marshlink running about hourly on weekends.

Famous for

A medieval hill town that the sea forgot — Rye was once an island port, and it still feels marooned in the best way. Cobbled Mermaid Street climbs past smugglers’ inns to St Mary’s church, the harbour marshes spread out below, and Camber’s vast sands are ten minutes away. Writers, painters and ghosts all moved here and stayed.

Where to eat

What to do

Oystercatcher

Oystercatchers on the shingle at Rye Harbour Nature Reserve.

Jess's favourite

Rye Harbour Nature Reserve, two miles south of town

open all day, every day, free. Oystercatchers pipe on the shingle, little egrets stalk the saltmarsh, and the five wheelchair-friendly hides are perfect for quiet watching. The Discovery Centre’s Lime Kiln Café does the cake afterwards.

Good to know: Rye is a hill town on cobbles — wear proper shoes. The nature reserve is a 40-minute walk or a short taxi ride from the station; Camber Sands pairs perfectly with a Rye day but check the tide. Weekends are busy — arrive before 11 for the quiet streets.

Jess plans her trips the week before, but trains have a mind of their own. Routes, times and fares in these guides were checked at the time of writing — engineering works, timetable changes and last-minute alterations can still happen. Please check your journey before you travel (National Rail Enquiries or the Trainline app) — and if a replacement bus sneaks in, we hope the day makes up for it.

Read Jess's diary of the day ↓

Jess's Day Off · Diary No. 24

Rye: Cobbles, Smugglers, and Oystercatchers

I woke up at 5:45am. Old habits. The meerkats were standing to attention in my head, and I promised them I’d bring back a story worth their breakfast.

The journey

St Pancras to Ashford on the high-speed — thirty-eight minutes, the countryside doing its green blur — then the little Marshlink train trundling through the marshes to Rye. I had my flask of tea, a cheese sandwich, and a notebook with Barnaby’s latest dictation (a badger, a lantern, a secret — I’ll tell you when it’s finished). The plan said only “hill town, see what happens.”

The arrival

Rye station, and there it is: the whole town stacked on its hill like a wedding cake made of brick and tile. No lion roars, no parrot opinions — just gulls, and church bells, and the smell of the sea that isn’t quite there anymore. The walk up into town is all cobbles and crooked doorways, and every other house looks like it’s leaning in to tell you something.

The walk

Mermaid Street first, obviously — the famous cobbled climb, the Mermaid Inn with its smugglers’ ghosts. I took one wrong turn — my mandatory one — and ended up at St Mary’s church instead of the castle, so I climbed the tower instead. The rule of day trips held: the wrong turn was the right one. From the top you can see the whole story — the rooftops, the marshes where the sea used to be, and the harbour glinting two miles off.

Then down to Rye Harbour Nature Reserve, because a zookeeper can smell a wetland from two miles away. Five hides, all wheelchair-friendly, and the oystercatchers were performing on the shingle — black and white, orange beaks like traffic cones, piping at each other about absolutely nothing. A little egret stalked the saltmarsh like it was late for an appointment. I sat in a hide for forty minutes and forgot to check my phone once, which for me is practically meditation.

The café

The Lime Kiln Café at the Discovery Centre — hot chocolate with a view across the reserve, and a slice of something with lemon in it that I’m still thinking about.

Lunch

Marino’s on The Mint — the Rye institution. Fish and chips, crisp outside and fluffy inside, eaten in the little courtyard while the gulls conducted negotiations overhead.

Home

The Marshlink back through the golden marshes, then the high-speed home. Tired, windswept, notebook smelling faintly of chips and salt air. Happy.

Story seed

The oystercatchers did it. All that piping and strutting on the shingle with beaks like orange pencils, making a tremendous fuss about nothing at all. I’m writing a scene where Pinafor meets a bird who shouts about everything and learns — gently, from Clarence — that the loudest voice in the wood isn’t always the one worth following. Barnaby says there’s a whole chapter in a beak. He’s probably right.

Barnaby's text“Forty minutes in a hide without touching your phone — that’s fieldwork, Jess, the real kind. The oystercatchers chose to carry on their business right in front of you, and that’s trust earned the slow way. You’re becoming the keeper the animals gossip about — in the good way.”

— Jess

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