The town of Rye is one of my happy places. I go there at least once or twice a year to visit in-laws and its charm never fails to make me smile. It’s all twisting alleys and cobblestone and centuries-old houses. Retail and restaurant chains haven’t got the same hold here as they do in every other town in the UK – there’s a Boots and a Waterstones, but no Primark, H&M, Pret or Caffé Nero. There isn’t even a Costa.
It’s a place that takes pride in its independent shops and restaurants. Some are quirky – a shop that sells antique French confit pots for hundreds of pounds, for example, or a pub called the Waterworks that renovated and refurbished the old, unused public toilets and now sells local beers and ciders. It’s very historic, too; the oldest hotel, The Mermaid Inn, was built in 1156 and is said to be haunted. I’m inclined to agree as my partner and I received a phone call just after falling asleep during our one night there, but no one was on the other side. Spooky indeed. But I’ve always thought there was one thing that the town desperately needed: a Nice Restaurant.
