Cover - Viva Lewes

Photographs: Alex Leith
Southease
Alex Leith visits a well-connected hamlet
The first time I went to Southease, a few years ago, I
asked a villager if he could point out where the village
pub was. “The Black Lamb?” he replied, pointing to a
sloping grey roof the other side of the church. “It’s over
there.” I headed thirstily towards it, only to realise he
hadn’t finished. “But you won’t get a drink there,” he
shouted behind me. “It’s been closed for 400 years.”
“It would be nice to have a pub,” says Adrian Orchard,
a nurseryman who has been living and working in the
village since 1991, when I tell him this story. “But the
central focus of the village’s social life is actually the
church.” Adrian is giving me a tour of Southease, and
we are standing in front of the aforementioned building,
which dates back at least to 966, and is one of three
churches in East Sussex to boast a round tower, its spire
quaintly shingled with oak tiles. It is surrounded by lichen-covered
gravestones, and rises splendidly into the
freezing sky, set off by the moody leafless trees that
shiver behind it. One of the gravestones, I’m told, is
the subject of quite a mystery.
Adrian has been serving me cups of coffee in the beautiful
cottage round the corner he shares with his wife
Jane, and telling me about life in Southease, and the
history of the village. I learn a lot. The name means
‘south thicket’, apparently, and the Domesday Book
reveals that in 1086 ‘Sueise’ hosted quite a thriving
community, making its living from farming and fishing.
The villagers were annually assessed for 38,500 herrings
and £4-worth of porpoises. “The river used to be
a lot wider, and it is thought that there was quite a sizeable
harbour here,” says Adrian, who admits he doesn’t
know how many porpoises £4 would buy you in Norman
times. In the same period Brighton was assessed
for only 4,000 herrings, which is quite an indicator of
how important Southease once was. It now has only
30 or so full-time residents, living in 15 houses, spread
around the church and the bumpy, shapeless village
green in front. One of them is splendidly thatched.
We walk into the church, which I have been warned by
Jane ‘is as cold as an arctic tomb.’ On the wall you can
make out the remains of some 13th century wall paintings,
sadly almost faded out of existence, but immortalised
by a 1930s framed depiction hung below. I learn,
from a textbook handily left open at the right page, that
the church used to be much bigger in its heyday. ‘The
Norman church has mislaid its chancel and aisles,’ it
informs me. Adrian humours me through my lame
‘how careless’ joke and talks of the importance of the
building to the community. The several popular events
the villagers organise through the year – the plant fair
in May, the open gardens in June, and the chilli day
in August – all give a cut of their profits towards the
£60,000 that needs to be raised to mend the roof and
return to its spire its gale-damaged weathervane, as
well as for new lighting and heating.
It certainly needs the heating – it’s significantly
warmer outside as we wander into the graveyard
to check out the mystery grave. It belongs to ‘Sergeant
AJ Vaughan’, a WW2 fighter pilot who was
shot down in Kent in 1941, and buried in Southease
despite having no known connection with the village.
We are joined by Ian, something of an expert
on Southease’s most curious resident, who has discovered
that the more research he does on Sergeant
Vaughan, the more mysterious the Sergeant becomes.
Adrian gives me a lift over Southease Bridge to the
railway station, and tells me of some of the other
activities in the village. The Southeasites annually
collect together all the apples from their gardens,
it seems, and the men of the village show off their
strength of arm on a large apple press. On Saturday
nights the ‘Southease Church Cleaners Union’ meet
up together in the church to tidy the place up, sink
a few glasses of red wine, and discuss village affairs.
Simple stuff for simple folk, stranded in time in a picturesque
but nearly forgotten loop, just off the C7?
Not a bit of it. The station platform I’m left on serves
the villagers with direct trains to Lewes, Brighton and,
in the mornings, to London. This makes it one of the
most desirable commuter-belt dwelling-places around;
the best connected hamlet in the South. Not that anywhere
ever comes up on the market more than once in
a blue moon. “Once people get a property here, they
hold onto it for dear life,” says Adrian, and I can understand
why. It’s just a damn pity the Black Lamb had
to close down. V
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