A UNIQUE EXPERIENCE AT THE SEASIDE
By John Oxenham.
Illustrated by H. M. Brock.
Could it, after all, be called unique? Hardly, perhaps, in the strict sense of the word, since others shared in it. But to us it was, and I trust ever will be, a unique experience.
We have generally spent our August holiday at the seaside in apartments, and suffered many things in consequence—an uninterrupted succession of mixed odours of cooking from early morning till late at night; fleas and other insect pests, which seemed to thrive mightily on the powders put down for their extermination; landladies afflicted with spasms and inordinate thirst, and landladies' cats with unappeasable appetites; cramped quarters, of course, which did not afflict one on fine days, but on rainy ones became pandemonium; terrible attempts at amateurish cooking and service—in which the dining-room's vegetables and tarts got mixed up with the drawing-room's vegetables and pies—and slatternly maids of all work, who killed on the spot even one's seaside appetite, the moment they appeared to set the table.
And so, after mature consideration of ways and means, we decided this time to attain to the dignity of a small furnished house—or a cottage, at all events—if by any chance such could be found within the limits of a moderate purse.
Further consideration fixed on Eastnor as the place where our holiday was to be spent.
"'WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU, SIR?'"
We had, in the course of twelve years' wanderings, tried most of the South and East Coast watering-places, and found most of them a-wanting. If the atmosphere was bracing, the beach was shingle. If the beach was sandy, the atmosphere was enervating.