agricultural people do not take holidays. Their vocation is a healthy one; but if you build factories and develop coal mines, the answer is — Blackpool.
I have never lived in a Garden City — in fact I feel about “Garden Cities” rather what the young
lady felt about apples — ʼʼI am so glad I don’t like Garden Cities, for if I liked Garden Cities I should have to live in a Garden City, and I do so hate Garden Cities! ” Nevertheless, I am quite prepared to admit that life in a Garden City is, or should be, a much more healthy affair than life in a slum, even a Mayfair slum, and presumably, if one leads the proper kind of life in the proper kind of Garden City, one would, like our ancestors of the plough, be happy and healthy without any holidays.
A little mild exercise in the garden or the communal allotments, some of those ‘‘throw out your chest and breathe deeply” exercises morning and evening, and a proper and well regulated dietary, vegetarian or tabloid, according to taste, and who would want holidays? Instead of hiring expensive apartments by the sad sea waves you would stop where you were, and, as a relaxation and change, you might eat Grape Nuts for breakfast, instead of Shredded Wheat, or vice versa, according to your health and inclinations. But this is probably a counsel of perfection: if you are a child of your age instead of the next age but one, you will probably retort “Right-oh, old bean! ” and slip into your “Baby
Austin” or your ʼʼPhantom Rolls” according to your visible means of transport, and, complete with wife and infant, and perhaps dog — though if you are wise you will give yourself a holiday in respect of dog — you will push off for the “Bright Bungalow by the Briny” which is yours for so brief a period.
Of course, if you are a ʼʼhigh-brow” instead of the nice, sensible ʼʼmiddle-brow” I take you for, you will have an exquisite old thatched cottage modernised and brought thoroughly up to date, if you can afford it, or with the many discomforts of the truly primitive, if you can’t; but, assuming you are, as I say, a ʼʼmiddle-brow, ” you will then prob
ably discover, as I did, the modern motor holidaytown by the sea.
It came upon me with all the force of an unprecedented surprise, and it was, in its glaring modernity, so completely of a piece that I had at first thought it too incredibly new to be true; for by the kind offices of a friend who had taken it for me I never saw my particular fate until we arrived (by road of course); and even then, though very modern, there was nothing in the identical bungalow it was my good fortune to inhabit for the two or three weeks for which, by payment of an incredible number of guineas, it was mine, to indicate that it was a unit in a town so surprising and unbelievable that outside film-land one would scarce believe it could exist, certainly not in this country. It had, on a first survey, an appearance that was both Colonial and American — it was a real motor town — as distinct in its variety as either of the preceding types of stage coach or railway towns .
For the most part, though grouped around earlier beginnings, it was of post-war growth. These earlier beginnings, mostly in the shape of incredibly badlydesigned shops, were dotted round the railway station and formed the nucleus of the town proper, which was a mile and a half from the sea front and joined thereto by a long, straight, wide road of the kind known as arterial. At the other, the sea end, of this long road there was another small group of shops, and by the side of these a sloping way down to the beach. Running parallel with the sea was another road running east and west — the coast road that is found in all seaside places, and forming, with its eastern and western areas, a T-square with the
main approach road from the station.
At the extreme end of the left or eastern arm, which stopped abruptly some quarter of a mile away from its. junction with the approach road, were the golf links. Immediately opposite the way down to the beach was the hotel, an imposing edifice having the appearance of three badly-designed villas which had collided with one another and become inextricably mixed up. On either side of the main arterial road was the town itself, composed of a series of, for the most part, small, detached houses, each in its own wide-fronted garden with garage at the side.
This wide spacing made the roads very long — it was, in fact, the most scattered form of town development I have ever seen; in this respect it had the ordinary garden city beaten to a frazzle. It was a real motor city, for without wheels it would become a dead thing — no one would walk those dreary distances to shops, to the sea, to golf, and, above all, to visit friends. But with six-cylinder run-abouts what is a weary mile for a mere pedestrian is nothing to the man with the car.
There were a few pedestrians, though the intimidating distances were admirably calculated to keep away the casual tripper, unless, indeed, he arrived by motor char-a-banc. Such pedestrians as there were came for the most part from the surrounding villages, and had as their objective the sale of eggs, mushrooms, blackberries and other provender. True, I noticed one couple, certainly not local and rustic, who might have strayed from the pages of a novel by Mr. Beresford.
But these were the rare exceptions that served as the foil to all that mad, merry, wheeling mob. At any time of the morning the nodal points, that is the town itself, the approach to the beach, and the road just outside the links, would be blocked for long distances with cars. Cars of all kinds and all descriptions, small cars, big cars, grey cars, gay cars, young cars, elderly cars, and cars of middle age, were parked all along the approach roads to the town, around the Hotel of the Three Villas, and again at the entrance to the links, whilst up and down the long approach road flashed young men and maidens in all stages of deshabille, but all on wheels.
As an experience a motor town is very delightful, very energising, but not, unless you are very young, particularly restful. I enjoyed the experience, but— but the next holiday I take will probably be in Venice, and I shall go by train.
The Scottish-American War Memorial, in the West Princes Street Gardens, Edinburgh, was unveiled by Mr. Houghton, the American Ambassador, recently. It consists of a seated figure of a Highland soldier, rifle across the knees, on a low pedestal, standing in front of a screen wall on which is a long low-relief panel representing troops on the march. Mr. Reginald Fairlie is the sculptor.
Under the supervision of H. M. Office of Works, repairs to the roof of Chequers, Bucks, the Prime Minister’s official country residence, are being carried out.
The Stoke Newington Borough Council has decided to buy a site at the corner of Clissold Road and Church Street for the erection of a new swimmingbath, to cost about £24, 000. This resolution revokes a previous decision in July to erect the bath on a site in Albion Road.
The memorial to Indian troops at Neuve Chapelle, which has been designed by Sir Herbert Baker, A. R. A., is being unveiled to-day, Friday, by Lord Birkenhead, the Secretary of State for India.
I have never lived in a Garden City — in fact I feel about “Garden Cities” rather what the young
lady felt about apples — ʼʼI am so glad I don’t like Garden Cities, for if I liked Garden Cities I should have to live in a Garden City, and I do so hate Garden Cities! ” Nevertheless, I am quite prepared to admit that life in a Garden City is, or should be, a much more healthy affair than life in a slum, even a Mayfair slum, and presumably, if one leads the proper kind of life in the proper kind of Garden City, one would, like our ancestors of the plough, be happy and healthy without any holidays.
A little mild exercise in the garden or the communal allotments, some of those ‘‘throw out your chest and breathe deeply” exercises morning and evening, and a proper and well regulated dietary, vegetarian or tabloid, according to taste, and who would want holidays? Instead of hiring expensive apartments by the sad sea waves you would stop where you were, and, as a relaxation and change, you might eat Grape Nuts for breakfast, instead of Shredded Wheat, or vice versa, according to your health and inclinations. But this is probably a counsel of perfection: if you are a child of your age instead of the next age but one, you will probably retort “Right-oh, old bean! ” and slip into your “Baby
Austin” or your ʼʼPhantom Rolls” according to your visible means of transport, and, complete with wife and infant, and perhaps dog — though if you are wise you will give yourself a holiday in respect of dog — you will push off for the “Bright Bungalow by the Briny” which is yours for so brief a period.
Of course, if you are a ʼʼhigh-brow” instead of the nice, sensible ʼʼmiddle-brow” I take you for, you will have an exquisite old thatched cottage modernised and brought thoroughly up to date, if you can afford it, or with the many discomforts of the truly primitive, if you can’t; but, assuming you are, as I say, a ʼʼmiddle-brow, ” you will then prob
ably discover, as I did, the modern motor holidaytown by the sea.
It came upon me with all the force of an unprecedented surprise, and it was, in its glaring modernity, so completely of a piece that I had at first thought it too incredibly new to be true; for by the kind offices of a friend who had taken it for me I never saw my particular fate until we arrived (by road of course); and even then, though very modern, there was nothing in the identical bungalow it was my good fortune to inhabit for the two or three weeks for which, by payment of an incredible number of guineas, it was mine, to indicate that it was a unit in a town so surprising and unbelievable that outside film-land one would scarce believe it could exist, certainly not in this country. It had, on a first survey, an appearance that was both Colonial and American — it was a real motor town — as distinct in its variety as either of the preceding types of stage coach or railway towns .
For the most part, though grouped around earlier beginnings, it was of post-war growth. These earlier beginnings, mostly in the shape of incredibly badlydesigned shops, were dotted round the railway station and formed the nucleus of the town proper, which was a mile and a half from the sea front and joined thereto by a long, straight, wide road of the kind known as arterial. At the other, the sea end, of this long road there was another small group of shops, and by the side of these a sloping way down to the beach. Running parallel with the sea was another road running east and west — the coast road that is found in all seaside places, and forming, with its eastern and western areas, a T-square with the
main approach road from the station.
At the extreme end of the left or eastern arm, which stopped abruptly some quarter of a mile away from its. junction with the approach road, were the golf links. Immediately opposite the way down to the beach was the hotel, an imposing edifice having the appearance of three badly-designed villas which had collided with one another and become inextricably mixed up. On either side of the main arterial road was the town itself, composed of a series of, for the most part, small, detached houses, each in its own wide-fronted garden with garage at the side.
This wide spacing made the roads very long — it was, in fact, the most scattered form of town development I have ever seen; in this respect it had the ordinary garden city beaten to a frazzle. It was a real motor city, for without wheels it would become a dead thing — no one would walk those dreary distances to shops, to the sea, to golf, and, above all, to visit friends. But with six-cylinder run-abouts what is a weary mile for a mere pedestrian is nothing to the man with the car.
There were a few pedestrians, though the intimidating distances were admirably calculated to keep away the casual tripper, unless, indeed, he arrived by motor char-a-banc. Such pedestrians as there were came for the most part from the surrounding villages, and had as their objective the sale of eggs, mushrooms, blackberries and other provender. True, I noticed one couple, certainly not local and rustic, who might have strayed from the pages of a novel by Mr. Beresford.
But these were the rare exceptions that served as the foil to all that mad, merry, wheeling mob. At any time of the morning the nodal points, that is the town itself, the approach to the beach, and the road just outside the links, would be blocked for long distances with cars. Cars of all kinds and all descriptions, small cars, big cars, grey cars, gay cars, young cars, elderly cars, and cars of middle age, were parked all along the approach roads to the town, around the Hotel of the Three Villas, and again at the entrance to the links, whilst up and down the long approach road flashed young men and maidens in all stages of deshabille, but all on wheels.
As an experience a motor town is very delightful, very energising, but not, unless you are very young, particularly restful. I enjoyed the experience, but— but the next holiday I take will probably be in Venice, and I shall go by train.
The Scottish-American War Memorial, in the West Princes Street Gardens, Edinburgh, was unveiled by Mr. Houghton, the American Ambassador, recently. It consists of a seated figure of a Highland soldier, rifle across the knees, on a low pedestal, standing in front of a screen wall on which is a long low-relief panel representing troops on the march. Mr. Reginald Fairlie is the sculptor.
Under the supervision of H. M. Office of Works, repairs to the roof of Chequers, Bucks, the Prime Minister’s official country residence, are being carried out.
The Stoke Newington Borough Council has decided to buy a site at the corner of Clissold Road and Church Street for the erection of a new swimmingbath, to cost about £24, 000. This resolution revokes a previous decision in July to erect the bath on a site in Albion Road.
The memorial to Indian troops at Neuve Chapelle, which has been designed by Sir Herbert Baker, A. R. A., is being unveiled to-day, Friday, by Lord Birkenhead, the Secretary of State for India.