DOI Heft:
August 27, 1864
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16874#0090
82
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[August 27, 1864.
QUIET WATERING-PLACES.
No. I.—WINKLEBEACH.
aving been deputed
to fill the Office of
Chief Travelling: Ex-
plorer and Paid Of-
ficial Adviser to the
Committee of the
D. U. Q. W. P. E.
Company (Limited),
which initials mean,
as you are by this
time probably aware,
the Discovery-of-
Unquestionably-
Quiet - Watering -
Places - in - England
Company (Limited),
I, on then behalf in
particular, and in the
interests of Society
in general, have re-
cently commenced
my tour. The fol-
lowing is my report:
Winklebeach, Sus-
sex Coast.—-Winkle-
beach, so called from
the splendid speci-
mens of the ’Winkle
tribe found on its rocks, was recommended to me, as an out-of-the-way spot, by
my young friend Shrymper, whose father, it appeal's, is the owner of some
considerable property in the neighbourhood.
The Railway has not yet reached Winklebeach. The nearest station is four miles
distant. A message by telegraph is unknown. The Times is a luxury ; an enter-
prising general shopkeeper procures an occasional copy of Punch, which he permits
to be read in his shop at a halfpenny a head, finally presenting it, munificently, to
the Mayor and Corporation of the Town. The Mayor is the monopolising baker,
the Corporation is represented by the aforesaid enterprising general shopman.
The Civil Executive Eorce consists of one un-intelligent policeman, who is under
no sort of control, having refused to take any oaths on conscientious principles ;
he is_ on and off duty all day and night, taking turn and turn about with himself.
The inhabitants chiefly get a livelihood either by lying on their backs on the beach,
or walking out to the Downs, and then walking back again. The Elders of the
people disappear usually at the early age of One hundred. There is a church, and an
Independent chapel. The latter is remarkably Independent, and seldom opens its
doors. There are only six houses in any way worthy of the name; numerous
thatched cottages ; and an ancient hostelrie called The Old Inn. These particular's
having been obtained from Shrymper, I decided that this, of all others, must be
the shop for Quiet. Through my humble instrumentality, I foresaw the future Quiet
Greatness of Winklebeach.
Of the means of Conveyance to Winklebeach.
Monday, July. Extract from Note Book.—The only traveller alighting at the New
Station of Swashborough. Nobody cared about taking my ticket. At length,
after some trouble, a deaf old lady was summoned from her tea, by a small
boy, who was digging potatoes. “Grandmother,” cried the lad, “here’s ’un wants
to give tickutt.” His aged relative received the pasteboard, and was returning to
her placid meal, when I stopped her by asking, “ if I could get a conveyance to
Winklebeach.”
“ Sure,” said she, and straightway gave directions to her grandson, who ran off
somewhere or other, and in the course of a quarter-of-an-hour returned with
Something or other, which We will term a vehicle. Such a vehicle! it wasn’t a
hackney-coach, because it was a bathing-machine, and it wasn’t a bathing machine,
because it was a hackney-coach. In I got with my portmanteau, and an uneasy
time I had of it over the rough half-made roads; for the hackney-bathing-coach-
machine had not been fitted with patent springs, and was unprovided with a
cushion. I cheered myself with the inspiring thought, that, at all events, the nui-
sances and annoyances of cockney civilisation had not reached Winklebeach, and,
despite the fact of my being unable to remain on the seat for more than two con-
secutive minutes at a time, I was happy, idealising.
FIRST DAY AT WINKLEBEACH.
4'30 p.m.—Arrived at the Old Inn, Winklebeach, facing a beautiful green leading
on to the beach. Clear view of the sea. Everything charming. Not a soul
about. Boy wants six shillings for driving me. I appeal to landlady. It appears
that he is entitled to ask what he likes, there being a monopoly of fancy bathing
coaches in these parts, I pay him. Will I have a room ? I will. Facing the sea ?
By all means. Dinner? Certainly. When? Now, or as quickly as possible.
What will I have? What can I have? Oh, anything. Good. Then, let’s say
lamb. Oh! can’t, have lamb. No matter: a small leg of mutton. No mutton!
No, not to-day, because it’s Monday! What, not a chop? Oh yes, in twenty
minutes. Chops be it. “Prawns and’Winkles to follow,
of course ? ” Of course. Platefuls of these are brought
in after dinner. Like Prawns, doat on ’Winkles.
5'30.—I have unpacked, made myself comfortable, and
sat down to my chop. The sea-breeze fans me through the
open window, and a peppering of sand sprinkles my plate.
“The Sea! the Sea! the o-o-pen Sea!” and so. forth.
Here is quiet: real quiet. How very odd: I heard some-
thing hire a cheer. Another. I am informed by the
waiting-maid that a Cricket-match, Trade v. Gentry, is
just being finished. Ah! a gala day, probably. Oh no,
there’s Cricket every day about this time of year, and a
match once a week. Ahem! Well that’s scarcely a draw-
back. I hear no more cheers. I will light a cigar and
stroll.
7'30.—Not a soul on the beach, save a few fishermen
mending their nets. So picturesque! they smoke while
thus employed. Pax vobiscum, ye fishermen: go on mend-
ing your nets by all means. Pax vo—1 can’t help fancying
that I heard an oath. Another. Another. Then con-
versation is limited; but seems to consist chiefly of oaths,
and objectionable terms of endearment. I shall quit the
beach.
8 o' Clock.—In my room! Will have tea ? What should
I like? Oh, as usual. They bring two plates full of
enormous prawns and ’winkles. Shall commence my report
of this quiet place for my employers. “ Winklebeach is
the quietest place in-” Yery strange, there must be
a quarrel going on outside. In front of my window
are assembled I should say, all the inhabitants, mostly
fishermen, fisherboys, fisherwomen, of various ages and
sizes; some sitting on the low sea-wall, some squatting,
some standing,—but all, as far as I can gather, talking
simultaneously. I ring for the handmaid. I am informed
that “ there is nothing the mattfer, they are only talking
over the Crieket-match. They always do that.” Oh, do
they! Then I will slightly modify my report and say,
“ Winklebeach is, except in one trifling particular, the
quietest--” By the way, the Cricket-match was between
the Trade and Gentry. By this fight I cannot distinguish
the Trade from the Gentry; nor does their language ma-
terially assist me to discriminate.
8'30.—A great clattering, a shuffling of feet, and a con
fusion of voices in the room under mine. I ring my bell.
Not fire, I hope. Oh dear no, the Cricketers are sitting
down to supper. Do they sit down in this manner every
night ? Oh no, not every night. Thank you. _ “ Winkle-
beach is, except in one or two trifling particulars, the
quietest-”
915.—1The tinkling of a banjo ! It is, there is no doubt
about it, it is in the room below. Ha! the burden of a
well-known song arises! Can I believe my ears! “Is
the Pretty Polly Perkins of Paddington Green.” _ Chorus,
everybody trying to mark time with their thick-soled
clumsy feet, each man according to his own idea. “She’s
as beautiful,” &c. I ring my bell. Does this go on every
night? No, this does not; man with banjo is a visitor.
That’s lucky; dropped in by accident, eh? Oh no, he
generally comes on a Cricket-match evening. Oh! thank
you. “ Winklebeach is, except on Cricket-match evenings,
when the man with the banjo comes, the quietest-”
10.—Somebody has taken to sing sentimental songs,
with much chorus. As the night advances, the songs
seem to be all chorus. Some rustic is trying his hand on
the banjo. I shall go to bed. The wind has begun to
howl.
10'30.—Cricketing Party breaking up. Rain. Cricketing
party very noisy. Hail, I should say, judging from the
pattering at my window. Stones, as I five ! Small stones.
Crash ! I look out; and am jeered at, perhaps by the mis-
creant with banjo. Eeet scuttling away in all directions.
An Englishman’s room is his castle. What a cold I shall
have to-morrow. I fight a candle to write this, and go to
bed. How the wind has got up; that reminds me, so
have I. To bed. One fine more. “ Winklebeach is, with
the exception of cricketing, supper-parties, and banjos, the
quietest-” Puff! Candle out. Bed.
(End of First Pay at Winklebeach.)
Mb. Tbevors Motto.—Where there’s a Will there’s
a way to worry.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[August 27, 1864.
QUIET WATERING-PLACES.
No. I.—WINKLEBEACH.
aving been deputed
to fill the Office of
Chief Travelling: Ex-
plorer and Paid Of-
ficial Adviser to the
Committee of the
D. U. Q. W. P. E.
Company (Limited),
which initials mean,
as you are by this
time probably aware,
the Discovery-of-
Unquestionably-
Quiet - Watering -
Places - in - England
Company (Limited),
I, on then behalf in
particular, and in the
interests of Society
in general, have re-
cently commenced
my tour. The fol-
lowing is my report:
Winklebeach, Sus-
sex Coast.—-Winkle-
beach, so called from
the splendid speci-
mens of the ’Winkle
tribe found on its rocks, was recommended to me, as an out-of-the-way spot, by
my young friend Shrymper, whose father, it appeal's, is the owner of some
considerable property in the neighbourhood.
The Railway has not yet reached Winklebeach. The nearest station is four miles
distant. A message by telegraph is unknown. The Times is a luxury ; an enter-
prising general shopkeeper procures an occasional copy of Punch, which he permits
to be read in his shop at a halfpenny a head, finally presenting it, munificently, to
the Mayor and Corporation of the Town. The Mayor is the monopolising baker,
the Corporation is represented by the aforesaid enterprising general shopman.
The Civil Executive Eorce consists of one un-intelligent policeman, who is under
no sort of control, having refused to take any oaths on conscientious principles ;
he is_ on and off duty all day and night, taking turn and turn about with himself.
The inhabitants chiefly get a livelihood either by lying on their backs on the beach,
or walking out to the Downs, and then walking back again. The Elders of the
people disappear usually at the early age of One hundred. There is a church, and an
Independent chapel. The latter is remarkably Independent, and seldom opens its
doors. There are only six houses in any way worthy of the name; numerous
thatched cottages ; and an ancient hostelrie called The Old Inn. These particular's
having been obtained from Shrymper, I decided that this, of all others, must be
the shop for Quiet. Through my humble instrumentality, I foresaw the future Quiet
Greatness of Winklebeach.
Of the means of Conveyance to Winklebeach.
Monday, July. Extract from Note Book.—The only traveller alighting at the New
Station of Swashborough. Nobody cared about taking my ticket. At length,
after some trouble, a deaf old lady was summoned from her tea, by a small
boy, who was digging potatoes. “Grandmother,” cried the lad, “here’s ’un wants
to give tickutt.” His aged relative received the pasteboard, and was returning to
her placid meal, when I stopped her by asking, “ if I could get a conveyance to
Winklebeach.”
“ Sure,” said she, and straightway gave directions to her grandson, who ran off
somewhere or other, and in the course of a quarter-of-an-hour returned with
Something or other, which We will term a vehicle. Such a vehicle! it wasn’t a
hackney-coach, because it was a bathing-machine, and it wasn’t a bathing machine,
because it was a hackney-coach. In I got with my portmanteau, and an uneasy
time I had of it over the rough half-made roads; for the hackney-bathing-coach-
machine had not been fitted with patent springs, and was unprovided with a
cushion. I cheered myself with the inspiring thought, that, at all events, the nui-
sances and annoyances of cockney civilisation had not reached Winklebeach, and,
despite the fact of my being unable to remain on the seat for more than two con-
secutive minutes at a time, I was happy, idealising.
FIRST DAY AT WINKLEBEACH.
4'30 p.m.—Arrived at the Old Inn, Winklebeach, facing a beautiful green leading
on to the beach. Clear view of the sea. Everything charming. Not a soul
about. Boy wants six shillings for driving me. I appeal to landlady. It appears
that he is entitled to ask what he likes, there being a monopoly of fancy bathing
coaches in these parts, I pay him. Will I have a room ? I will. Facing the sea ?
By all means. Dinner? Certainly. When? Now, or as quickly as possible.
What will I have? What can I have? Oh, anything. Good. Then, let’s say
lamb. Oh! can’t, have lamb. No matter: a small leg of mutton. No mutton!
No, not to-day, because it’s Monday! What, not a chop? Oh yes, in twenty
minutes. Chops be it. “Prawns and’Winkles to follow,
of course ? ” Of course. Platefuls of these are brought
in after dinner. Like Prawns, doat on ’Winkles.
5'30.—I have unpacked, made myself comfortable, and
sat down to my chop. The sea-breeze fans me through the
open window, and a peppering of sand sprinkles my plate.
“The Sea! the Sea! the o-o-pen Sea!” and so. forth.
Here is quiet: real quiet. How very odd: I heard some-
thing hire a cheer. Another. I am informed by the
waiting-maid that a Cricket-match, Trade v. Gentry, is
just being finished. Ah! a gala day, probably. Oh no,
there’s Cricket every day about this time of year, and a
match once a week. Ahem! Well that’s scarcely a draw-
back. I hear no more cheers. I will light a cigar and
stroll.
7'30.—Not a soul on the beach, save a few fishermen
mending their nets. So picturesque! they smoke while
thus employed. Pax vobiscum, ye fishermen: go on mend-
ing your nets by all means. Pax vo—1 can’t help fancying
that I heard an oath. Another. Another. Then con-
versation is limited; but seems to consist chiefly of oaths,
and objectionable terms of endearment. I shall quit the
beach.
8 o' Clock.—In my room! Will have tea ? What should
I like? Oh, as usual. They bring two plates full of
enormous prawns and ’winkles. Shall commence my report
of this quiet place for my employers. “ Winklebeach is
the quietest place in-” Yery strange, there must be
a quarrel going on outside. In front of my window
are assembled I should say, all the inhabitants, mostly
fishermen, fisherboys, fisherwomen, of various ages and
sizes; some sitting on the low sea-wall, some squatting,
some standing,—but all, as far as I can gather, talking
simultaneously. I ring for the handmaid. I am informed
that “ there is nothing the mattfer, they are only talking
over the Crieket-match. They always do that.” Oh, do
they! Then I will slightly modify my report and say,
“ Winklebeach is, except in one trifling particular, the
quietest--” By the way, the Cricket-match was between
the Trade and Gentry. By this fight I cannot distinguish
the Trade from the Gentry; nor does their language ma-
terially assist me to discriminate.
8'30.—A great clattering, a shuffling of feet, and a con
fusion of voices in the room under mine. I ring my bell.
Not fire, I hope. Oh dear no, the Cricketers are sitting
down to supper. Do they sit down in this manner every
night ? Oh no, not every night. Thank you. _ “ Winkle-
beach is, except in one or two trifling particulars, the
quietest-”
915.—1The tinkling of a banjo ! It is, there is no doubt
about it, it is in the room below. Ha! the burden of a
well-known song arises! Can I believe my ears! “Is
the Pretty Polly Perkins of Paddington Green.” _ Chorus,
everybody trying to mark time with their thick-soled
clumsy feet, each man according to his own idea. “She’s
as beautiful,” &c. I ring my bell. Does this go on every
night? No, this does not; man with banjo is a visitor.
That’s lucky; dropped in by accident, eh? Oh no, he
generally comes on a Cricket-match evening. Oh! thank
you. “ Winklebeach is, except on Cricket-match evenings,
when the man with the banjo comes, the quietest-”
10.—Somebody has taken to sing sentimental songs,
with much chorus. As the night advances, the songs
seem to be all chorus. Some rustic is trying his hand on
the banjo. I shall go to bed. The wind has begun to
howl.
10'30.—Cricketing Party breaking up. Rain. Cricketing
party very noisy. Hail, I should say, judging from the
pattering at my window. Stones, as I five ! Small stones.
Crash ! I look out; and am jeered at, perhaps by the mis-
creant with banjo. Eeet scuttling away in all directions.
An Englishman’s room is his castle. What a cold I shall
have to-morrow. I fight a candle to write this, and go to
bed. How the wind has got up; that reminds me, so
have I. To bed. One fine more. “ Winklebeach is, with
the exception of cricketing, supper-parties, and banjos, the
quietest-” Puff! Candle out. Bed.
(End of First Pay at Winklebeach.)
Mb. Tbevors Motto.—Where there’s a Will there’s
a way to worry.