Lola enjoying the beach (Image: MyLondon)
I managed to botch my wife’s birthday celebrations this week, but I’ll get to that shortly. Roughly a month before her special day, I inquired if she fancied a getaway. She chose Rye in East Sussex, seeking a change from last year’s jaunt to Margate, affectionately nicknamed Shoreditch-on-Sea for its trendy cafes and vibrant art scene.
This year, we brought along my mother’s dogs: Lola, the senior pointer, and Wilf, the rather plump chihuahua. My wife adores dogs, and after consulting the collective wisdom of AI-generated blog summaries online, we learned that Rye and the adjacent Camber Sands are touted as dog-friendly spots. Plus, the journey from St Pancras via Ashford International is just over an hour, making it a bearable trip for the pooches amidst the July warmth.
Our first port of call was Paws n Claws, a pet store with a sideline in British wildlife funerary services. “It’s all quite macabre,” I remarked to the shopkeeper, eyeing a container of furry deer limbs while trying to shield my wife from the sight of rabbit ears, as per Kent Live.
The dogs, however, were utterly captivated. We departed with a dehydrated duck neck and a can of Lily’s Fish and Chip flavoured dog food (a concoction of chicken, herring, potato, and peas – likely a hit in some Eastern European country and destined to cost £27 on a Dalston small plates menu soon).
Rye can be traversed in a mere 10 minutes, so we ambled through the town multiple times, scrutinising the charming boutiques and debating whether the ‘dog-friendly’ labels justified the potential for a territorial mishap. Rye’s hilly terrain and quaint cobblestone streets can certainly work up an appetite, which led us to our first stop at the Mermaid Street Cafe. The crab sandwich, just under £10, was worth every penny, with its fluffy multigrain bread and generous filling of succulent crabmeat. The rum and raisin ice cream also hit the spot.
With our energy replenished, we embarked on a journey towards Camber Sands, following a footpath adorned with verdant brambles and patches of mugwort. At least two of us found ourselves frequently pausing to take in the scents and sights.
Locally grown cherries from a road-side stand were a highlight of the trip (Image: MyLondon)
Early into our walk, I spotted a sheep with a rather intimidating countenance behind a tall metal fence that seemed straight out of a 1950s research facility. As we neared the beach, the farmland gradually gave way to a more natural landscape, with sandy brushlands teeming with lively rabbits. The sight of these creatures brought to mind their unfortunate counterparts in pet shops, but we chose not to dwell on it.
Just a few hundred metres from the beach entrance, prior to the only child safety warning sign I’ve ever encountered, I purchased a pound of cherries and a punnet of strawberries from a man under a marquee by the roadside. According to him, they were freshly picked that morning. Both the cherries and strawberries were juicy and sweet, putting the lacklustre offerings in supermarkets to shame.
Regrettably, our cherries were the first casualty of our mini holiday. Overwhelmed by the sight of the inviting sea, I dashed towards it, neglecting to safeguard our cherries from Britain’s seagull population.
It was during an impromptu yoga pose that I spotted the birds decimating our lunch through my own legs. By the time I raced back, the culprits had flown off, leaving behind only a lone paper bag.
Left without any fruit and feeling peckish, we decided to try Frankie’s At The Beach, a burger joint with a 4.8-star rating on Google. Despite appearing ordinary, this place exceeded our expectations with its succulent, sauce-laden burgers.
Beef nestled between two eggs. Venison sourced directly from a local farm. What’s not to like? We skipped the chips only because the serving size seemed so large that you’d need a bucket and spade to tackle them.
On our return journey to Rye, we popped into The Owl for a quiet pint before checking into The River Haven Hotel. Given the considerable amount of time it takes to travel anywhere with a dog, especially if you allow them to lead and sniff everything en route, we arrived at the hotel too late for a pub dinner or to grab fish and chips from the highly-praised Marino’s Fish Bar.
Despite having indulged in a McDonald’s breakfast, crab sandwich, and a double-deer burger, I found myself drawn to Jempson’s, a family-owned supermarket chain rooted in Sussex since 1935. Although it partners with Morrisons, the prices for its speciality items were more akin to Marks and Spencer.
Mermaid Street Café does good coffee, baked treats, and crab sandwiches (Image: MyLondon)
Nevertheless, I walked away with a delightful assortment of fresh bread, cheese, and cider, embracing Rye’s distinct medieval charm.
I believe our dogs relished their first – and likely final – hotel experience. After hours of frolicking on the beach, they collapsed onto a blanket in the corner of the room, allowing us to rediscover the joy of having multiple TV channels.
The following morning, I took them to the car park to assess the impact of their unusual diet of duck neck and herring compared to their regular fare of leftover pasta and kibble, but all seemed well.
The day marked my wife’s actual birthday, so we savoured the complimentary breakfast (eggs royale), followed by another stroll around town to whet our appetite for some authentic seafood. We spent a few leisurely hours ambling about, pausing to watch bees buzzing around lavender bushes and letting the dogs sip holy water from a bowl outside the rectory.
Regrettably, due to my oversight and embarrassment, the highly-rated Fish Market Seafood Bar I had earmarked for a birthday surprise was closed. We settled for a pub lunch instead.
We sampled nearly every seafood dish on offer, including the oysters, and the accommodating barman even whipped up a Bloody Mary despite it not being listed. The food was scrumptious, with the oysters being particularly delightful.
The sun was shining brilliantly, elderly ladies were bemoaning the lack of doubles coverage at Wimbledon, my wife was content, and so were the dogs. If you had asked me then, I would have declared Rye as the best place on earth, just ensure to visit when it’s not swarming with tourists.
However, as we journeyed back to London, where we intended to spend the evening at a comedy night in Angel, I started to feel peculiar. I usually experience a certain level of distaste upon returning to London, but this was different.
This odd sensation amplified the moment I alighted from the Tube at Arnos Grove to drop off the dogs at my mum’s.
I’m almost entirely convinced it was a rogue oyster, but out of respect for the pub and the oyster farm, I’ll consider the possibility that it might have been the slice of brie I left out overnight.
Regardless of the culprit, nothing has made me more acutely aware of my mortality. Even the dogs recoiled at the sight of me.
Waves of nausea, freezing sweat, and violent retching reduced me to a pitiful, writhing heap. Commuters disembarking the train on a Tuesday afternoon could easily have mistaken it for a Saturday night.
The compassionate station staff even enquired if I required an ambulance. I had been poisoned, and according to a quick Google search on my phone, there was no antidote.
Following two episodes of severe discomfort, and with the dogs safely returned home while I languished miserably outside the station, my wife arranged for a taxi to take us home, bypassing what would typically be a simple Tube journey.
Trembling and subdued, I sank into the backseat, my ashen, stunned face concealed beneath a hoodie and sunglasses. I found a certain humour in watching my usually forthright wife awkwardly attempt to mislead the driver about our reasons for this highly irregular trip.
The car’s air conditioning was a relief, but upon exiting the vehicle, our neighbour’s begonias bore the brunt of my continuing discomfort.
I spent the remainder of my wife’s birthday confined to bed, nursing a cold Coca-Cola, too unwell even to watch Puss in Boots, and holding onto my most vital muscles. Rye is wonderful, especially when accompanied by dogs, but I discovered that oysters can be a risky choice.
They may be considered an aphrodisiac, but their effects were far from desirable. They only served to create dreadful memories and nothing more.
For now, the mere thought of them incites fear.
This story originally appeared on Express.co.uk
