Now for a sudden transition from the ancient to the modern, from mediæval shadows to undimmed sunlight, from the comparatively humdrum stillness and gravity of ordinary daily life into the midst of vivacious holiday activities, from the pent-up Rows to the glorious freedom of Yarmouth’s magnificent Marine Drive and unrivalled Beach. Who could reasonably desire the realisation, in the course of a few brief moments, of a wider contrast or a change more refreshing? Where, but in Yarmouth, could such a transition take place in so short a time, for where, but in the renowned old borough can such a series of such Rows be found? And where else can be seen a Beach of such proportions, with its far-reaching stretches of dry, clean, soft, “golden” sand, and its uninterrupted view of the German Ocean, continuous from north to south, and bounded along the east by the horizon alone? Measured by miles, both Beach and Marine Drive afford ample scope for the enjoyment of thousands of visitors of all classes. Small cause for wonder is it that a veritable army of recreationists, at least a hundred thousand strong (including day-trippers), should be attracted thither year by year, it would be surprising were they not to come. From the Rows to the Beach we go, with anticipations of pleasure of an altogether different description, and find amusement in watching for a time the varied ways in which the present detachment of the season’s welcomed battalions of visitors are disporting themselves. Let us see what delights on a favourable day in summer our splendid sands afford!
Proceeding by a convenient wooden gangway laid upon the sand from the Marine Drive to high water mark, close to the Britannia Pier, we are at once in the midst of a lively spectacle, people of all ages and sizes are here, happy in the consciousness of being able to enjoy themselves in the way their fancy leads them. Pleasure is the prevailing object on which all minds are set. Many of the fair sex are quietly seated upon the accommodating sands, perusing their favourite books, papers, and periodicals, or engaged in some light and fanciful work whilst quietly noting the ever-changing scene going on around them. Nursemaids in charge of juveniles are keeping guard over sundry cast-off shoes and stockings, whilst carefully watching the youngsters paddling joyously in the foaming surf. Paterfamilias, too, is in the surf, and provides a centre of attraction to a number of ladies whose interest, however, is not in him, but in the young olive branch—his very smallest—whose wriggling extremities he is endeavouring to bathe in the spreading waves. As his holiday inexpressibles appear likely to receive more from the sea than the unwilling child, his better half rushes forward to the rescue and hastily “reefs” them.
Watching the return of the sailing boats and the landing of the passengers is found by many to be interesting, especially when the sea is inclined to take a mean advantage of those standing awaiting their turn to land, by unceremoniously bumping the boat, and causing the whole company simultaneously to lose their equilibrium and receive a shower of spray. Of course they laugh as well as their friends on shore, indeed, everybody regards it as great fun. Turning from the sea to the beach, we often find a small “dock,” caused by the incoming flood or left by the last tide upon the beach. This is a source of supreme enjoyment to numbers of juveniles. Here, with perfect safety, paddling is being indulged in. Here miniature vessels are sailing, and, as from a reservoir, water is being conveyed in buckets for supplying the various needs of those actively engaged in raising fortifications, planning gardens, and making fish ponds.
This central position of the beach being most frequented by visitors, it is also the chief resort, the happy hunting ground of the numerous class who have a keen eye to business. Nearly all of them are vendors of only one kind of article each, and this peculiarity tends to multiply their numbers, the variety of merchandise among the whole being considerable. There are so many—and some of them are strangers to Yarmouth—that, were they not civil, and usually take the first refusal, persistency with frequency would be an annoyance little short of a nuisance. Take a seat and your troubles begin. “Here’s your chocolate creams.” “Buns, two a penny.” “Yarmouth rock, penny a box.” “Apples, penny a bag.” “Hokey Pokey, two a penny.” “Nuts or pears—fine Williams.” “Lemonade, three-a-pence a bottle.” “Pears or grapes, all ripe, buy a nice bunch of grapes, sir.” “Walnuts, eight a penny, fine walnuts.” “Milk, penny a glass.” These and many other solicitations are made to unfortunate visitors whilst reclining upon the sands or occupying seats, reading the morning papers, Conservative, Radical, and Sporting, or engaged in knitting, sewing, or fancy work of some kind, nursing, chatting, novel reading, or lazily watching the ever-changing scene on the Beach, or meditatively listening to the everlasting music of the sea. Fancy the effect of such a succession of interruptions upon a couple who had passed the spooning period of life and were intently engaged in writing, probably letters to their friends, jotting down their impressions fresh from the sands; before subscribing themselves as ‘Yours ozoneously, Jim, or Jemima,’ we can imagine they would be able to lay much to the charge of these itinerating traders.
All these things are going on within a comparatively small compass, between the Britannia Tier and the Jetty. And now without being allured into the “Skylark Tea Saloon,” where “small parties are catered for on the Sands;” whether small parties of skylarks, or skylarking parties, we were left to imagine; or, pausing to scan the Roadstead through the telescope placed in readiness, or indulging in a seat in the weighing machine, we pass on to a calmer region, where gratifications of a less exciting character may be enjoyed. For this we had not to travel far. Passing the boundary line of the Jetty we instantly find, between that greatly improved structure and the Wellington Pier, a great transformation scene has taken place. Loose sand and shingle have given place to a capacious and beautifully terraced garden artistically laid, adorned with vases and fountains, and with a bandstand in the centre. While the young, the healthy and the boisterous may find the fullest opportunities for thorough enjoyment elsewhere; here the quiet, the weakly and the meditative may get away from the madding crowd and calmly indulge in reflection. Between this garden and the sea, an Esplanade of magnificent proportions has been made, and provided with sitting accommodation along the entire length, where Visitors may, free of charge, recline, facing the sea; and, whilst taking rest, may take in the strains of sweet operatic music discoursed by the Military Band upon their instruments; or, while perusing their favourite books, inhale the fragrance of the flowers, or the ozone from the sea. When promenading upon this Esplanade, we overheard the remark made by a Visitor (which is probably often to be heard), “I don’t think Lowestoft is a patch upon this place.”