subside back below them—as if they hadrnnever been, like some latter-day “land ofrnlost content.”rnAs vou get closer, and slip into thernwinds’, grass’ immensity, you relinquishrnreal life with relief. You fall into numinousrnabstraction, as ou look over thernbare desolation, and cannot but think ofrnunworkaday things—how the moonrnrides high and white over the damp le-rnels, of flocks of lapwings (Vanellus anellus)rnbreaking the sky, long da’S of heathazernabove the shccp-dottcd flatness,rnchillv worship in damp churches, andrnshades of the humble, faceless medievalrnworkers who vet achieved immortality byrnsvrenching a piece of England from thernreluctant sea and tilling it into submissivernfertility, fighting a generations-longrnAgincourt of the soil. You can nearlyrnhear church bells tolling, guiding travelersrnhome through the drenching fog,rnalong narrow paths through bogs andrno’er precarious plank bridges abovernwccd-choked dikes full of frogs.rnThe Marshes have an archetypal,rndreamlike quality that encourages suchrnreveries. Although the area is small, andrnman’ tourists cross it every year, it managesrnto preserve an air of ghostly remoteness.rn”Romney Marsh,” wrote RichardrnChurch in his Kent (1948), “shrinks awayrnfrom the mob, turning unto itself andrnthe ceaseless music, aeolian harp music,rnthat seems to hover above it in the air.”rnEven more practical people fall under anrnenchantment when they visit. “Therernare northerners who call it too beautiful;rnwe have visitors who cannot keep awakernin the strong, soft air coming up fromrnRomney Marsh . , . and who, on waking,rneat vastly,” reported H.E. Bates in ThernEnglish Countryside (1939). Someonernwho escaped being enchanted was Lambardc,rnwho described the marshes asrn”e’il in winter, grievous in summer, andrnne’er good.”rnAfter spending a little time in thernmuch-photographed, tourist-full town ofrnRye, we headed along the coastal roadrntoward Lydd. The road between Rvernand L’dd is sparsely populated, althoughrnthere are many caravans near CamberrnSands. The only sounds to be heardrnusually arc the songs of larks and thernhyperboreal screeching of seagulls. Thernbeaches near Lydd are used for artilleryrnpractice (the explosive Lyddite was firstrnused here) and the long fences alongrnthe seafront add to the feeling ofrnstrangeness. The most interesting buildingrnin Lvdd is the Church of All Saints,rnknown as “The Cathedral of the Marshes”rn(mostly 13th century, but with Saxonrnremnants). Although Lydd was once anrnisland, and became a full member of thernCinque Ports Confederation in 1155, itrnlost its harbor after storms in 1287rnshoved the shoreline southward.rnEven stranger, more remote and morernpostapocalyptic than the road to Lydd, isrnthe shingle promontory of Dungeness,rnyvhich is growing seawards at about 20rnfeet a year. There is an important birdrnreserve here, two lighthouses, plenty ofrnbungalows, and even a nuclear powerrnstation, and it is a favorite place for angling,rnbut it still preserves an aura ofrnfrontier territory. Beached boats standrnamongst the sea-thistles and the blackpaintedrnbungalows, on a sloping, bankedrnbeach littered with feathers, driftwood,rnfish skeletons, crab carapaces, and piecesrnof lobster pot. A touch of surrealism isrnadded by the tiny railway lines that carryrnthe miniature steam railway across thernstony wastes between Hythe and the tiprnof the promontory. The men digging forrnlugworms on the tidal flats were suspendedrnin vagueness, as if they were inrnmidair, their very reflections broken byrnthe rippled wet sand.rnWe went back into the Marshes proper,rnnorthwards as the evening started tornclose in, to St. Mary in the Marsh, withrnits little Norman church of St. Mary thernVirgin. This church is best known as thernburial place of E. Nesbit, author of thernchildren’s story The Secret Garden.rnThere are two lovely floor brasses here,rnone from 1499, the other from 1502. Insidernit is tastefully Spartan (the Churchrnof England’s gospel was always: “By tasternare ye saved,” according to Emerson), althoughrnthe ascetic effect was relieved byrnthe Harvest offerings that were rangedrnaround.rnWe got back into the car and traveledrnnorth past yet more fields of RomneyrnMarsh sheep (a distinct breed, probablyrnintroduced by Flemish settlers). On thernvery edge of the Marsh, where the landrnrises into the Weald, and the remnants ofrnprimeval forest still wave ragged defiancernof the modern world, and whisper ofrndrowned Dimsdale, stands the hamlet ofrnBilsington, where the church of Peter andrnPaul gives you a last taste of Marsh numinousness.rnThe mostlv Norman church isrnup a narrow lane, and is almost invisiblernfrom the road. It is surrounded by trees,rnsome of them yews, supposedly plantedrnby pilgrims to Canterbury, who wouldrnoften stop here for the night.rnOne of the churchyard epitaphs reads:rn”Stop stranger, stop and east an eye, / Asrnyou are now, so once was I / As I am nowrnsoon ‘ou will be, / Prepare for death andrnfollow me.” There is a 15th-century bellrnfrom the tower on a frame in the churchyard,rnwith the inscription “For many arnyear John’s bell shall sound.” There is arnsign in the porch asking one to be carefulrnto shut the door, so as to exclude sheeprnfrom the building. The gleam of encaustics,rnthe faint smell of polish, and thernbright colors of the hassocks, even in therndeclining light, speak volumes for therndevotion of the women of the parish.rnWc left the silent, darkening church andrnstood quieth’ for a while, watching a tractorrnripping up the rich tilth, and beyond,rnat the whole elegiac expanse of England.rnThe tractor stopped, and now the onlyrnsound was the rush of the wind in thernblack trees, and among the dark grasses.rnDerrick Turner is the editor of RightrnNow!, pubhshed in London.rnREADERS!rnChronicles,rnplease send us theirrnnames andrnaddresses.rnWe would bernpleased to sendrnthem arncomplimentaryrnissuernFEBRUARY 1996/45rnrnrn