If I had a photograph of you

Grange Girl and I were sitting on the grass atop the Priory ruins, trying to imagine the park covered  by an enormous festival. At present it was just us and a seagull.
“Do you know what I’m most looking forward to about the Mumfords thingy?” Grangey asked, taking out a sandwich wrapped in grease-proof paper. The seagull cocked his head expectantly.
“Um, going to sleep early as usual, despite the revelry yards from your window? Wait, don’t unwrap the sandwich yet, let me take a picture so I can show the kids what 1950 looked like.”
She raised a cynical eyebrow while I lined up my phone. “What devilment is this? A hand-held device that steals your soul…”
“Please don’t do the ‘new-fangled technology’ riff again, you’ve already hurt my pedometer’s feelings.”
“Well, honestly! A gizmo that counts your steps? This is how to tell if you’ve walked enough: when you’re ready for a nice early bed.”
I took a picture of her so I could show the children what 1850 looked like.
“So, what are you looking forward to re Mumfords?” I asked, unpacking my hoisin duck and endemame bean wrap.
“Tourists,” she murmured indistinctly through a cheese and pickle barrier.
“Tories? You’re saying the Mumfords will attract unprecedented numbers of Tories and you’re looking forward to that because… no, I’m going to need some help here.”
“Tourists, you cloth-eared clod. Probably some will be Tories, but that’s statistics for you.”
A middle-aged (eg slightly older than us) woman approached. She was definitely a tourist, but kept her politics to herself. After a few kind comments about our lovely town, she asked how to get to the castle. I let Grangey tell her. Directions aren’t my strong suit. I regularly turn the wrong way after leaving my own house. Nonetheless, people always ask me the way, perhaps working on the same principle as that which compels cats to seek the laps of the allergic. I have often inadvertently sent tourists into a perpetual loop round the one-way system. Some may still be there.
After receiving the Grangey instructions, complete with map coordinates, and recommendations for other sites of interest, the woman toddled off happily.
“See?” said Grangey, offering her crust to the seagull, who ignored it and looked at me. They have a taste for hoisin sauce, do Lewes seagulls.  “This festival is a brilliant opportunity to show off our town’s many wonders. I love sharing them with new people.” She leaned against her rucksack and pulled up her thick hiking socks.
I said, “They ought to employ you to promote Lewes. You look like you’ve stepped out from one of those Golden Age posters.”
“Like this, you mean?” Grangey whipped out an iPad mini and Googled a ‘Travel by Train Today!’ image. To my incredulous look she said, “I believe I have previously mentioned that I am large and contain multitudes.” She opened a Tupperware and offered me and the seagull a hard-boiled egg. We both declined.

 Beth Miller. Published in VivaLewes.com. Photo taken from Wiki Commons.

And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

Spring is here! The grass is riz! I wonder where the… oh. It’s still freezing. I wonder if one way to put a stop to this appalling, never-ending winter – other than flinging oneself on the next flight to Antigua -  is to write about it. Whinging on in print about the rubbishness of the weather will surely instantly herald blazing sunshine and balmy breezes? Hmm, still raining, I see. Oh actually, that’s sleet. Let’s keep trying. “This is a very late spring indeed,” says the National Trust spokesman. No kidding, cupcake. Frogs are going back into hibernation, and who can blame them? I haven’t had a single conversation for months that didn’t revolve round fleece-lined tights. Little versions could perhaps work for frogs’ legs. And I have never before needed such a stiff drink after opening the gas bill, which was about the same amount as a flight to Antigua.

For years, it never snowed. As a child I prayed hopelessly every winter for a thick layering of the cold white stuff, but my prayers went unheard; now as an adult I pray for it not to snow, and the sky chucks it down non-stop. No wonder I’m an atheist. About fifteen years ago, during the era of usually-not-snowing, it snowed briefly, and though this was considerably too late for my childhood, I hadn’t yet become jaded. Man of the House and I squeaked with excitement and dashed from our Cooksbridge home into Lewes to buy two blue plastic sledges from Homebase, or Texas as I believe it was then. Of course, the snow had already melted by the time we got home, and the sledges spent the next decade forming a crucial bottleneck in the shed, preventing us from reaching the secateurs and other tedious gardening implements. 

Our children have had a completely different experience. Since they’ve been sentient it has snowed pretty much every winter (and this year, in March as well). Global warming, natural climate variation, snow fairies working extra shifts, call it what you will, the kids expect snow as their birth-right. They gaze at us with disbelieving eyes when we warn them each autumn that it doesn’t always snow, that they should prepare for disappointment. Their disappointment preparation is very poor, I’m afraid; they would never get a badge in it like we 70s kids did.
So we’ve passed on the pristine blue sledges to the younger generation, who have a graded system of local slopes (Baxters Field, steep but crowded; Paddock, more space to build snowmen; Priory ruins, less steep, but exciting bit where you can either whizz through a gap in the wall or get concussion). This isn’t working at all because now I see the wind has got up, making the rain dance sideways. For goodness sake! I guess it is we adults who need to work on our disappointment preparation a little harder: we must get ready for there being no spring.

Beth Miller, 18th March 2013. Published in VivaLewes.com

Yeah, these are just the rules and regulations

A little known subsection of the unwritten British constitution concerns rules specific to Lewes. These are rarely discussed and remain largely untested. I’m only going to commit them to paper, or whatever this webby thing equivalent is made of, because last weekend I discovered there are two more than I realised. The standard rules, which we all know, are:

(1) We won’t be druv.

(2) Druv is an elusive concept, but essentially means our right to object if anyone does anything we don’t like.

(3) We have to not be druv a lot, because despite living in one of the most prosperous areas of one of the richest countries on earth, rotters are always trying to push us around with regard to our beer and whatnot.

(4) Talking of beer, Harveys is the best in the world. End of.

(5) There is no fence-sitting here. Lewes will not tolerate wishy-washy middle-grounders. You’re either Waitrose or Tescos. You’re either a Tory who votes Tory, or a Labourite who votes Liberal. You either hate DFLs, or you are a DFL. You either think the parking scheme is the greatest example of man’s inhumanity to man, or you say things like, ‘But I can always get into the Needlemakers car-park now and anyway you only get a ticket if you break the rules.’

(6) Bonfire Clause 1. If you’re not for it, you’re against it. Vaguely non-committal is not an option. Anyone who says, ‘Fireworks are pretty aren’t they? Mind you, seen one parade and you’ve seen them all,’ will be drummed out of town.

(7) Bonfire Clause 2. You are not allowed to say anything critical about Bonfire Societies. Unless you’re a member of a Society having a pop at another Society; this is an essential element of Bonfire experience.

(8) No useful shops are allowed to move in. They must all go to Uckfield.

Two weeks ago I went to the Southover Priory May fair thing and found I was falling in line with the hitherto unknown but clearly well-established rule number 9:

(9) Everyone who is within a ten mile radius must attend the May Fair.

Every woman and her husband was there. It was marvellous. I said, ‘hello,’ so many times I ran out and had to substitute the less satisfactory, ‘wotcha’ instead. Thing One was in her element, shooting plastic crossbow arrows, making plastic soldiers out of a mould, and interrogating me as to why there was so much plastic around in the Middle Ages. Thing Two was only interested in climbing teetering piles of Priory rubble, which have stood unmoving since time immemorial but began looking a bit crumbly after he’d happened to them.

Then the drumming started.

(10) There is often drumming at Lewes events. Do not ask why. You will like it. Or if you don’t, get you gone quietly, perhaps to a comfortable hostelry.

You will be pleased to hear that we rule-abiding Lewesians followed this one to the letter.


Beth Miller 18th May 2011. Published in VivaLewes.com and Viva Lewes handbook, May 2012

You made me feel shiny and new

It’s not often you discover that a cracking eleventh century monument has been hanging about modestly in your back yard, waiting to be noticed. Actually it’s probably only happened the once. Sure, I’ve always been aware, on a vague semi-conscious level, that there is a ruined thingy near Southdown Sports Club. I’ve even been there a few times during An Improving Walk For the Children, which usually turns out to be A Lesson In Futility For the Parents. But I’ve never really taken much notice of it. Ruined walls, yeah, whatever. Mind the dog poo, kids. I said MIND THE… damn.

Then came the pre-Christmas snow, and someone suggested the Priory as a great sledging spot. And it was. Not just because there was a little nursery slope for cowardy custards and a steep scary one for show-off dads. (Plus a Cresta Run for teenagers: to speed through the arch without being knocked senseless against the beautiful ancient walls.)

But it was also terrific because an incredibly sensitive restoration had quietly turned the ruins from meh into blimey! The protective fences had been taken down so you could walk right up to the walls; there were benches and steps and paths; and all around were excellent information boards explaining how it might have looked, back when it was a big player in the world of priories. Thing Two loved the boards so much he made me trudge round in the snow reading them aloud. Our favourite was the one about the monks’ toilet facilities. Big high-five to Andy Gammon who drew the monk about to sit down, his robe slightly raised.

Standing at the top of the slope, looking across to the Downs, sun glinting through the magnificent arches, it was one of those glad to be living in Lewes moments. And I didn’t even have to be dog poo monitor because it was all safely buried under snow.

Later, I wondered how the changes could possibly have improved the site so much, and decided it must just have been the snow. Snow is very flattering, which is why ladies of a certain age always wear it. Or am I thinking of diamond earrings? Anyway, when the snow melted we returned to the Priory to check. Weirdly, it was even more magical. Wandering amongst the creamy yellow stones, the long shadows slanting across the grass, hopping over dog poo, we went all dreamy and poetical. I honestly don’t know how they’ve done it, but hats very much off to the Lewes Priory Trust.

It’s happened with such little fanfare, too. I see from the website there is to be a Grand Opening in the Spring, but until then, it’s getting great word of mouth. Everyone you talk to says, ‘Have you seen the Priory ruins since they became good?’ and while a few people might reply, ‘Why, is there a Starbucks there now?’ the rest of us know to take a flask, and a dreamy frame of mind.


Beth Miller, 19th January 2011. Published in VivaLewes.com and in Viva Lewes magazine, February 2011. Photograph by John McGowan