(_BY OUR IMPARTIAL AND NOT-TO-BE-BIASSED CRITIC._)
I had often been told that St. Margaret's Bay, between Deal and Dover,
was lovely beyond compare. Seen from the Channel, I had heard it
described as "magnificent," and evidence of its charms nearer at hand,
was adduced in the fact that Mr. ALMA TADEMA, R.A., had made it his
headquarters during a portion of the recent summer.
[Illustration]
So I determined to visit it. I had to take a ticket to Martin's Mill,
a desolate spot, containing a railway station, a railway hotel, and
(strange to say) a mill. I was told by an obliging official on my
arrival, that St. Margaret's Bay was a mile and a half distant--"to
the village." And a mile and a half--a very good mile and a half--it
was! Up hill, down dale, along the dustiest of dusty roads, bordered
by telegraph poles that suggested an endless lane without a turning.
On climbing to the summit of each hill another long stretch of road
presented itself. At length the village was reached, and I looked
about me for the sea. A cheerful young person who was flirting with a
middle-aged cyclist seemed surprised when I asked after it. "Oh, the
sea!" she exclaimed, in a tone insinuating that the ocean was at a
decided discount in her part of the world--"oh, you will find _that_
a mile further on." I sighed wearily, and recommenced my plodding
stumbles.
I passed two unhappy-looking stone eagles protecting a boarding-house,
and a shed given over to the sale of lollipops and the hiring
of a pony-chaise. The cottages seemed to me to be of the
boat-turned-bottom-upwards order of architecture, and were adorned
with placards, announcing "Apartments to Let." Everything seemed to
let, except, perhaps, the church, which, however (on second thoughts),
appeared to be let alone. But if the houses were not, in themselves,
particularly inviting, their names were pleasing enough, although,
truth to tell, a trifle misleading. For instance, there was a "Marine
Lodge," which seemed a very considerable distance from the ocean,
and a "Swiss _chalet_," that but faintly suggested the land renowned
equally for mountains and merry juveniles. I did not notice any shops,
although I fancy, from the appearance of a small barber's pole that I
found in front of a cottage, that the hair-dressing interest must have
had a local representative. For the rest, an air of hopefulness, if
not precisely cheerfulness, was given to the place by the presence
of a Convalescent Hospital. Leaving the village behind me, I
came, footsore and staggering, at length to the Bay. I was cruelly
disappointed. Below me was what appeared to be a small portion of
Rosherville, augmented with two bathing-machines, and a residence
for the Coast-guard. There was a hotel, (with a lawn-tennis ground),
and several placards, telling of land to let. The descent to the sea
was very steep, and, on the high road above it, painfully modern
villas were putting in a disfiguring appearance. On the beach was a
melancholy pic-nic party, engaged in a mild carouse. In the gloaming
was a light-ship, marking the end of the Goodwin Sands.
On a beautiful day no doubt St. Margaret's Bay would look quite
as lovely as Gravesend, but when it rained I question whether it
would compare favourably with Southend under similar atmospheric
circumstances. There was some shrubbery creeping up the white
hill-side that may have been considered artistic, and possibly the
great expanse of ocean (when completely free from mist) had to a
certain extent a sort of charm. As I looked towards the coast of
France I had an excellent view of a steamer, crammed with (presumably)
noisy excursionists, coming from Margate. But when I have said this I
have nothing more to add, save that you can get from Martin's Mill
to St. Margaret's Bay by an omnibus. By catching this conveyance you
avoid a tedious walk, which puts you out of temper for the rest of the
day.
P.S.--I missed the omnibus!
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