Southern England: Notes from a small island

The view up the Mint in Rye. Photo / Supplied by VisitRye.co.uk

A four-day road trip convinces Shayne Currie there's a lot more to England than the bright lights of London.

The ruddy-faced Londoner sits, legs outstretched, at the massive oak table, sipping a pint of Tetleys beer in the corner of the 850-year-old The Mermaid Inn.

He repeats the same one-liner to the rest of the bar for the fifth time.

"I was just saying to my wife," he rambles, "that if any ghost haunts me while I'm here, I am going to 'ave him in my afterlife."

The lounge-room guests laugh, for fear that not doing so might incite the big man to 'have someone' in this life.

The Poms love a good ghost story and The Mermaid Inn in the village of Rye, Sussex, is as good a place as any to hear one.

It has featured on British television as one of the most haunted locations in southern England; indeed almost every room appears to have a ghostly tale.

Guests in Room 16, for example, have apparently seen apparitions of two men fighting; Room 5 is haunted by a lady in white.

As the geeky young bartender regales us with ghost stories, a surly looking American family strolls into the bar. They order drinks, and demand that they be placed on their tab - Room 5, as it happens. The bartender has great delight in telling them the same story.

Ghost stories abound in four days on the road in southern England, trundling along the English Channel coast in a silver VW Golf with an open itinerary and a semi-open wallet.

It is a combined history, geography and social studies lesson all wrapped in one, a chance to avoid the traditional tourist hotspots and venture into some hideaways, rich in tradition.

The area offers a number of easily accessible adventures for tourists tired of the London lights. And the ghost stories are everywhere.

They come from 1066, on the very battlefield where William the Conqueror overcame King Harold. They stretch back to more recent history as I visit the grave of our very own Sir Peter Blake. And they come from 1966, the last time England lifted the football World Cup.

I've managed to coincide the trip with the build up of World Cup fever in England. About every third motorist has a St George flag flapping from their vehicle. When the bloke from London wasn't talking about ghosts in the Mermaid Inn, and how he'll deal to them when he's dead, he was talking football and how Beckham or Gerrard would carve up the opposition. It's the topic of just about every conversation, in every bar, in every town. They might be a superstitious lot; but they're also extremely optimistic.

The geographic ghosts are conspiring against me as I aim the VW Golf out of Gatwick Airport and gun it along the M23. Fifteen minutes later, I'm in a service station, pulling out the map for the first time and realising that if I keep heading this way, I'll end up in Manchester or another northern county.

Four hours later, as I check into the upmarket bed-and-breakfast Jeakes House in Rye - at the other end of the country - a hissing noise comes from the right rear tyre. It may be a 12th Century cobble-stoned street, but for now a 21st Century nail has cobbled me.

Rye is an idyllic spot, a former hangout for the likes of writers Henry James and Radclyffe Hall. Their names, like the ghosts, pop up everywhere.

At Jeakes House, I stay in the spectacular Radclyffe Hall four-poster suite. Jeakes House was once owned by Pulitzer Prizewinner Conrad Aiken. TS Eliot used to visit him here.

After just an hour in the place, and feeling very literary and worthy, I head out in search of a splendid local meal to wash down with the best red wine while thumbing a dog-eared novel. I venture out with great hope and expectation but find, to my dismay, Rye's shut up shop. I end up at the local chippie.

Nowadays, rather than ghosts, you're more likely to see Sir Paul McCartney strolling the streets of Rye, and visiting its boutiques and antique shops. He owns nearby Peasmarsh Estate and has apparently been spending a fair amount of time at the lodge since THAT separation.

Rye is an extremely beautiful village in which to spend a day, or to use as a base from which to see the rest of south-eastern England.

From here, I had organised my first, and only, adventure of physical exertion. Next year, part of the Tour de France winds its way through Kent (The French were never that great with geography). On my second day in England, I'm scheduled to jump on a bike and spend a day in the Romney Marshes, to get a feel for how the professionals will find it.

This cycling adventure caused much mirth amongst colleagues back home. My idea of a mountain-bike ride is a genteel pedal around Tamaki Drive in Auckland, so it was with some trepidation that I opened my eyes on my first morning in Rye.

The ghostly stories of the previous evening had only led to alcohol-induced double visions. I could, however, clearly see it pouring with rain outside. The cycling is off; the tour organiser sounds genuinely disappointed. I slink back to bed and offer to drive the route instead. Well, if Floyd Landis can cheat, so can I.

Later on in the day, and from behind the wheel of the VW, the countryside seemed very lovely. I'm sure the Tour cyclists will love it.

Instead of struggling in the saddle, I point the car in the direction of Britain's most famous land battle, The Battle of Hastings (which didn't really take place in Hastings, but at a spot 10km inland). It was here that William the Conqueror and his invading Normans swarmed up a rather daunting hillside in 1066, overcoming King Harold's Anglo-Saxon Army, who were quite clearly in the superior fighting position.

Nowadays, tourists can stroll through the battlefield, guided by a superb, handheld audio guide, giving different perspectives of that infamous day. William had a magnificent Abbey built to mark his victory, and you can stand in the very spot where King Harold was bludgeoned to death.

There are ghost stories here, too. There's tales of haunted horsemen and sightings of King Harold himself.

According to some reports, the blood of victims still pours from the grass during wet weather. More scientifically-minded people say it's iron ore in the soil.

As I traipse around the battlefield, I bump into a group of kids on a school day trip and feel envious that history lessons in New Zealand are seldom this good.

In October, the English will re-enact the Battle once again, to mark the 940th anniversary. More than 1000 people will take part. With some amusement, I notice that organisers describe the re-enactment as "family friendly".

Possibly more family friendly than Battle is the city of Bristol.

After I leave the coast and a visit to Sir Peter Blake's grave at Emsworth (see below), I swing the VW inland and up through Stonehenge - and it is almost literally that. I am astounded that two roads pass so closely to the ancient monument that, if you want to, you hardly need to get out of your vehicle and pay a hefty fee to enjoy them.

Controversy is raging in Britain over what should be done about the two roads, the A303 and the A344, which pass by the stones. People say it ruins the view of, and from, the stones. Others say tunnelling will remove a stunning highlight for many passing motorists.

Controversy has always surrounded Stonehenge - whether it's the mystery or its history - and nowadays you can't even get up close and personal with the 5000-year-old stones as you once could. They are an awesome monument - and incredibly captivating.

I'd read a lot about Stonehenge before the trip - but I didn't know what to expect of Bristol.

I found a city rediscovering itself: an old dame starting to lift her skirt - the city has a lively student population, an impressive waterfront and a thriving nightlife.

After a quick visit to the superb Arnolfini gallery, a friend from New Zealand, now living in Bristol, took me into the heart of its pub and restaurant district for a night out.

For the first-time visitor, you'll do no better than a guided walk of Bristol, organised by Bristol and South West Tour Guides. I had a guide to myself for three hours.

On this tour I learned more about Isambard Kingdom Brunel, the 19th century engineer responsible for the stunning Clifton Suspension Bridge and the SS Great Britain.

When the ship was launched in 1843, it was the largest vessel afloat. It was the world's first iron ocean ship, and carried new immigrants from Britain to Australia, and wartime troops to Crimea. In 1970, it was hauled back to Bristol as a wreck, but has since been stunningly transformed into one of Britain's best museums.

We capped off the tour of Bristol with a ride on a canal boat, taking in the SS Great Britain, and the waterfront development which has helped transform the city.

As I hand over the slightly worse for wear VW and board the train in Bristol for London, I reflect on the past four days. It's been an easy drive through dozens of small villages and hundreds of kilometres of beautiful countryside.

With so much to see at each stop, the drive was a breeze. The longest I spent in the car was 3-4 hours. As I drift off on the train, I'm haunted not by ghosts, but the knowledge that in a few days' time, it's time to go home.

Understated tribute to a great man of the sea

The Southern Cross flutters against the headstone in a stiff breeze, swirling off Chichester Harbour and around the graveyard. The headstone is very stark, a pale grey - but also tall and upright, a bit like the man himself used to be.

He is buried next to Charles Samways, who "fell asleep" on April 24, 1979, aged 78, and Charles' wife, Barbara, who died in 2003.

At the base of the headstone is another flag, a smaller black one with the silver fern. There are two paua shells with a handful of New Zealand coins.

There's also a rimu bookmark, with the inscription Kia Ora from New Zealand.

Sir Peter Blake was a man of the people, and there is nothing overstated about his final resting place.

This is what it says on the headstone:

Sir Peter Blake, KBE 1948-2001, Yachtsman Adventurer of New Zealand and of Emsworth

Every year a few Kiwi expats and tourists head to Emsworth and pay tribute to one of the greatest New Zealanders. At first it may seem a little peculiar that his final resting place isn't slightly more spectacular - this was a man who sailed the world in five Whitbreads, had set the world speed record for circumnavigation of the globe, only to meet his fate at the hands of pirates - but such was Sir Peter's understated attitude.

The people of Emsworth share Sir Peter Blake.

At the museum, there's a small shrine to him. There are red socks and one of his America's Cup jerseys and caps. There are a couple of broken shackles from his Enza yacht. And there are newspaper clippings about his untimely death.

They also have tape recordings. He talks about his life, his family, his sailing. They were done in August 2001, a few months before his death.

In Emsworth, Sir Peter helped the juniors with sailing at the local club. Lady Pippa Blake still owns a house there.

"When the news came through that he died, everyone in Emsworth phoned everyone else," says Emsworth Museum administrator Tessa Daines.

"It was like we had lost a member of the family. People were in tears. We couldn't believe it."

NEED TO KNOW

Getting there: Emirates flies into a number of British airports, including Gatwick and Heathrow, with connections from Auckland through Dubai.

Where to stay: Jeakes House in Rye; The Langstone Hotel in Portsmouth and The Grand in Bristol.

Further information: See visitbritain.org and rye-tourism.co.uk.