Hastings is the gateway into an enchanted garden. Between the hills and the sea it lies--the most romantic province in this England of ours. Scarcely a place in it seems to belong to this present: from end to end it is built up almost entirely of memories. The very repetition of the names--Rye, Winchelsea, Pevensey, Battle, Bodiam, Hurstmonceux--conjures up the past in all its magnificence and all its sadness.