Europe > United Kingdom > South East England > Romney Marsh > Articles > Romney Marsh

‘Better be no service today. Pulpit full o’tobacco, vestry full o’brandy.’ So the parson sent his flock home and no one batted an eyelid. How else could a sheep farmer feed his family over the winter?

With its deserted stretches of shingle, its hidden creeks, its twisting lanes and waterways drifting through the mist, this slice of Kent bordering on Sussex was a smugglers’ haven. The Ingoldsby Legends called it the Fifth Continent and Kipling sang its praise, as the ‘land… that our fathers made where the flats and fairway join’. Rivers changed their course, harbours silted up but on the twin marshes of Walland and Romney, much land was reclaimed in the Middle Ages by the monks from Canterbury.

In an area covering barely 100 square miles, opening like a fan from the wilds of Dungeness to Appledore, Rye and Hythe, the Marsh claims more churches per population than anywhere in the country. Here’s the ‘Cathedral of the Marsh’ in Lydd, the longest parish church in Kent, there St George’s in Ivychurch linked to the pub by a secret smugglers’ tunnel, St Thomas a Becket’s in Fairfield, mirrored in a placid stream, St Augustine’s in Brookland built, they say, from the timber of local shipwrecks. Legend has it the freestanding belfry jumped back in wonder when in days of loose morals, a virgin bride entered the church.

Take time to wander along the meandering lanes and you will discover ancient ruins and quaint medieval chapels where sheep graze right up to the gate in meadows strewn with daisies and buttercups. Luminous dragonflies flit in the sun, marsh frogs croak all around, perfectly camouflaged, and from time to time a salty breeze sends ripples across the dykes. You might spot a swan nesting in the rushes or a heron waiting for his prey.

Not so far away on a hill, the buttressed church of St Mary the Virgin watches over Rye, the Gateway to the Marsh. Rye was a late addition to the Cinque Ports which included Romney and Hythe. For 200 years the ports provided ships to the Crown in exchange for self-rule and tax exemption.

Today neither Rye nor Romney are by the sea but both are delightful. Rye is all cobbled lanes and half-timbered buildings tumbling down to the river Rother, with superb views across the Marsh from the Ypres Tower and Gungardens. Look out for Lamb House, once home to Henry James, and the Mermaid Inn, the town’s largest medieval building. New Romney is a sleepy little place with a grand title, ‘Capital of the Marsh’. There you can enjoy a Kentish cream tea or relax on the green with a human sundial, then take a look at the Townhall, the Old School or St Nicholas’ which took fifty years to complete and where ships once tied up to the door. Today the floor is below road level and the nearest beach a fair walk down the lane.

The beaches of the Marsh are a mix of shingle ablaze with valerian and gently sloping sands ideal for families. Summers are for buckets and spades, picnics and ice creams and multicoloured kites soaring into the sky, or windsurfing sails drifting along the coast or on the old gravel pits, winters are for brisk walks when gusts of icy wind sweep your lungs clean and play havoc with your hair. Whatever the season, there’s room for everyone but beyond the holiday camps and the odd funfair, resorts remain low key, from the dunes of Camber in the south to Great and Littlestone, Hythe and Dymchurch on the east coast. The army firing range may take a chunk of coast but barely disturbs the peace.

Tucked behind the seawall, guarded by Martello Tower No.24, Dymchurch has a double claim to fame with its tales of Dr Syn, the smuggling vicar celebrated every two years and just inland, in the churchyard of St Mary in the Marsh, the grave of E. Nesbit, author of the Railway Children.

It’s a perfect connection. Dymchurch is served by one of the world’s smallest public railways running all 13½ miles from Hythe to Dungeness. Opened in 1927, it’s still known as ‘the line that Jack built’, after its founder, racing driver and miniature railway fan Jack Howey. When you rattle across the new bridge, remember the old one, known as ‘The Duke of York’, which was completed in just six days to enable the future king to drive a train over it on his way to Dymchurch. The railway has a fleet of 15’’ gauge steam and diesel engines taking turns to pull a string of fairytale carriages, just a third of normal size. There are special Santa rides in December and you can buy an ‘All Stations, All Day’ ticket for £9.80, half price for children. This includes entrance to the Toy and Model Museum in New Romney station which displays historic posters and photographs, dolls and a model railway with over 20 running trains to tickle your childhood imagination. If museums are to your taste, don’t miss the Aeronautical Museum (Brenzett) or Town Museum in Lydd.

Hythe marks the start of the miniature railway line, a place to buy souvenirs at the station and stroll through medieval streets past antique and craft shops. This ‘little town with a big heart’ rewards you with freshly caught local fish, a colourful market Friday and Saturday in the old Malt House and shaded walks along the Royal Military Canal. Like the Martello Towers, the canal dates back to Napoleonic times and celebrates its 200th anniversary this year. Where coal barges once chugged around the marsh all the way to Rye, only rowing boats glide on the water, past fishermen dozing on the banks. Every other year, a Venetian carnival is held on the canal, a sparkling feast of music and colour which lingers in your mind long after the last fireworks have lit up the sky. The canal never had to fulfill its defensive role but provides excellent drainage for the marsh.

Broad face and Roman nose, the sturdy Romney sheep still enjoy lush pastures but today they share much of the land with new crops. Little do they know the grass they lost once turfed the precincts of St Paul’s cathedral. Cars stop along the lanes to look at newborn lambs then head for Port Lympne Wild Animal Park or the rare breed centre in Woodchurch to gaze at Jacob sheep and long-horned cattle. In the spring, the bulb fields of Appledore draw garden lovers from across the county, offering the opportunity to see the blooms at their best, before placing your order for the next season.

The marsh has changed but the desert remains. Desert? Make your way to Dungeness, the ‘nose of the land’, and on this forlorn peninsula, you may as well be on another planet, mile upon mile of sand-coloured shingle and ancient ridges left by pounding waves, stretching as far as you can see. It’s the largest shingle formation of its kind in Europe. Visit if you must the nuclear power station tottering on the edge then climb the 169 steps to the top of the old lighthouse, now an exhibition space, and look across the wilderness and the sea where in the deep water, ships seem to sail amazingly close to the shore. Here and there, a few timber cottages cling to the shingle, fronted by pretty flower gardens and artistic displays of driftwood and other flotsam and jetsam.

In Dungeness, the desert blooms in many ways and has been designated a ‘Site of Special Scientific Interest’, supporting 450 species of plants, over 1500 of invertebrates and one of the largest seabird colonies in southern England. Summer brings a blaze of wild flowers, dwarf broom, sea kale, foxgloves, yellow-horned poppies smothered in butterflies, autumn and spring are the time to watch migrating birds, wheatears, warblers and whinchats, ducks and geese, who pass through or winter here. The RSPB reserve covers 2000 acres and events are organised year round, from bird watching and pond dipping to evening walks, ‘see and draw’ outings and minibeast safaris. Children aged five and over are welcome but booking is essential.

The marsh grows on you. Ramble through the meadows on well-marked footpaths or cycle along the trails, rest for a while in a deserted church and as darkness falls and lights twinkle along the shore, you might just spot a smuggler or two heading down to the beach.

Articles

• More from Solange Hando