I was recently talking to a Lewes resident whose eyesight is deteriorating. He was telling me how, increasingly, he has to play tennis by instinct. Lewes is a town famous for being pretty and for having glorious views, but this encounter led to me to wonder how it can be mapped through senses other than sight. I thought of brewing days at Harveys. The bitter waft of boiling hops along the river that catches the back of your throat. The sweetness of roses as you brush past them along Ferrers Road alley. Farmers’ Market in the precinct where the mouth-watering frying of sausages competes with the deep-fried spice of vegetable bhajis, and pungent cheese-straws baking at Forfars. Walking along Fisher Street early evening, the smell of fish and chips mingling with Indian and Chinese food. On sunny days, feeling the heat emanating from the sun-baked brick walls of the New School or the flint wall outside St Michael's on the High Street. The changing sensations under your feet as you move from brick pavement to uneven cobbles down Keere Street. The squeak of train brakes before they rumble into the tunnel. Feeling some blues hit your stride as you catch Bessie Smith or Big Bill Broonzy from the windows of the tofu factory next to the Lewes Arms. Soaring harmonies from the Bach Choir practising in St John's church hall. Trumpet music floating down Lansdown Place. Raucous squabbling of crows chucking twigs from their nests high in the trees above Southover Road. The one thing I’ve not heard recently though, a once regular auditory landmark of the Pells, is the screeching of the infamous escaped parrot. Deceased, perhaps?