Pevensey Bay, Bodiam Casle, Battle Abbey

Sausages from Middle Farm for breakfast. The day dawned bright and blue and still: promising to be hot. We were intending to drive to Bodiam Castle by the high road, the A 27, but as we pulled out of our driveway, Kate suggested we go along the coast road, through Eastbourne and Bexham, and maybe stop on the beach at Pevensey Bay. It was nice, slow driving. Eastbourne felt like a seaside resort (is it the clear light and gulls wheeling over those yucca-like trees?). Pevensey Bay was several streets of houses parallelling the beach, much like a resort town at the [New] Jersey shore--except everything is built of yellow brick, many of the houses have tile roofs, and the flags flying are either English or the Union Jack. But like its New Jersey counterpart, Pevensey Bay allows access to the beach at the end of each cross street. You emerge at the top of the cobbled high tide zone, with a broad view up and down the coast (all the way to the large unattractive buildings of Hastings far to the east in the haze) and then descend into the sand zone.

Tide was out, the waves were tiny, and people were walking their dogs along the water's edge. (Kate said the dogs were very happy.) The beach was cut every forty yards or so by beefy fences that ran from the upper cobble zone down almost to the water's present location. They looked like erosion control structures: a series of posts, connected by a beam the size of a railway tie. Mostly they were half buried in sand, and gave the beach the look of having lanes or compartments.

We hung out there for a while, Galen and Will wading in as far as their rolled-up pants would allow, and then a bit farther. There was some digging in the sand and the attempt to dam a rivulet that was draining a shallow pool behind the first ride in the sand. Kate and I mostly stood there and absorbed the scene, and looked for boats at sea. A huge cross-like structure was visible on the horizon, like an oil rig but unfamiliar.

Soon we departed for Bodiam Castle, driving up through Pevensey, skirting Hstings and going inland. Bodiam castle is not on a main road: we followed signs into tiny roads that twisted and tured between hedges, where the white dashed line disappeared most of the time, and oncoming traffic would pause so you could both figure out what to do. Suddenly, in the midst of this twisting maze--right after passing "Bodiam Manner School" which looked very posh indeed--there we were at a gate for the castle, with a small sign "National Trust," and we were pulling into a large field with a few cars in it, to park.

But there were more cars pouring in every minute, and by the time I came back from the toilets (always "toilets" in England, never "washrooms" or bathrooms"), the field was half full and cars were still streaming in. It seemed all of England was here for some special event, although it was probably just a beautiful day during Half Term. Families with children were streaming up to the Castle, which, as you can read in a more than one guidebook, is the classic castle, the one children draw: a moat, round towers at the corners, toothed battlements above, its exterior in almost perfect shape.

We picnicked on the grass by the car, and then walked up. The first view of the moat was a little breathtaking--you come over a rise and its right there--quickly followed by Will's discovery of giant carp swimming in it. Around the castle front a man was just about to fire a melon from a trebuchet, explaining in a loud voice to the crowd seated on the sunny lawn how it worked. We got there just in time to see the mechanism tripped and the melon describe an arc out over and into the moat. (He had wisely not aimed at the castle.) We don't know if a carp got hit. It was a Half Term bonus, and the entire show, repleat with a demonstration of how to put on armour, would be repeated hourly.

At the ticket office I asked if our English Heritage membership was worth a discount. "No, you pay double!," laughed the man. English Heritage and National Trust are competitors, I realized, each striving to own all the castles and historic sites in England.

Will and Galen led us up and down every steep spiral staircase in this castle, although of course I'd have gone up and down them if they hadn't. We often on the heels of other visitors, people were everywhere. In one room I looked up the flue of the fireplace to see a man on the parapet several floors above looking down into the chimney. The most magical room in the castle was the well, wher a small circular pool of green water filled the middle of the room, and the sky was visible high above us through the top of the tower.

The boys were wilting, so we went out for an ice cream (the National Trust sells all sorts of special posh-type ice creams) and to watch the demonstration in full. The two men leading it took a volunteer form teh audience, a 16-year old boy, and dressed him in armour, explaiing that at the batle of Agincourt, some of the commanders were 16. They told us about long bows and other nasty weapons, and then fired the trebuchet again. It was pretty fun.

Now we turned the car for home, and went to Battle, which is the town around the battlefield of the Battle of Hastings, and Battle Abbey, built by William the Conqueror after he won the battle. All the shoips of course have Battle in their name: Battle Chemist, Battle Hair styling, Battle Tearoom. Galen pointed out that in World War II, all those shops would have had to cover up or paint over the word 'Battle' on their signs, because you were not allowed to show a town name in public--the better to confuse invaders.

This site was English Heritage, and they were selling ginger wine and special shortbreads to counter the National Trust's ice creams. We watched the short film explaining the context of the battle,walked the beaitful ground of the abbey and along the battle field edge, explored some ruined parts of hte abbey and delighted in the large groups of French high schoolers around us.

Headed home, took a wrong turn at Hailsham, and therefore the back road to Lewes instead of the A27. Detoured into Kingston to find the house Kate's family lived in in 1974. Unfortuately we got completely lost in a maze of twisty narrow roads, and when we got to the A27 felt we were lucky to have made it out. A later look at the map revealed we should have turned left at a small lane called The Avenue.

Home for dinner.