The smell of fish assaulted my nose as I strolled up the road toward Rye. Cod, haddock, bass, salmon: all caught on the breeze wafting up from the river. Gulls cried out as they circled around the sails of fishing vessels waiting by the bank. As I crossed the bridge and looked down the river, I could see dozens of boats sailing in and out, as the sun rose ever higher – each boat as lively as the last. The sailors, their skin tanned and hardened by the salty air, carried vast nets full of shimmering fish, as they ambled into town. The scales cut deep in the fishermen’s hands; their fingers shimmered with silver. The shouts of the fishermen filled the air, each clamouring to be heard. An order; a story; a bargain; an oath. There was no time to be wasted for these men, dependent as they were on the tide. Back on the boats, there was no time to lose, every hand reeling, casting, trawling, turning, tacking as the wind willed them. Their barrel arms and bronzed faces exuded strength as they chattered. In the town, the chatter got louder as I walked past run- down houses and street stalls. The crowded roads were filled with people trampling mud below their boots, and you could hear the cries of fishmongers, bakers, butchers: anyone who knew how to make a shilling off someone from out of town. Pedlars pulled carts of hay through the crowded roads; beggars croaked out pleading words from doorways, and in alleyways, men struggling not to be seen passed packages to empty shadows that seemed to sprout hands. The men were swarthy, the women head- strong. This was a loud place, a full place, a place that assaulted the senses. And everywhere people made their way through the winding, rickety, crowded thoroughfare that was life. A different town lay at the top of the hill. Along Rye High Street my nose identified the subtle scent of perfume. Men in fine suits strutted up and down the avenues of leisure, rays of sun illuminating shop windows selling jewellery, fine suits, and extraordinary fancies from the Orient. Carriages clattered across the cobbles with ladies sitting primly inside, their heads held high. Houses tow- ered in stately elegance, their doors a rich ultramarine, a garish red, a shining white. The castle loomed above all in regal power. All here was subdued beauty. As you ambled along the boulevards, you could feel the wealth. The richly painted signs; the smooth-talking salesmen at shop counters; the gloss of the horses’ coats pulling the carriages. The duality of the town was clear to see, and who was I to pass judgement? ◉
A TOWN OF TWO HALVES Jeremy Ullman (Year 9)
55
CREATIVE WRITING
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