John Taylor's Birchington Bungalows

A bit of context for this won't come amiss. I've been researching the actress Barbara Hicks and part of that involved looking at her second husband's family. Her second husband was Peter Mandeville Aldersey Taylor, son of Sidney George Taylor. Sidney's father was born Frederick Walsh Barlow. Although registered with the surname of his mother's husband, he was actually the son of Felix Frederick Taylor, and later used the name Frederick Aldersey Taylor. Which took me to architect John Taylor, first cousin, three times removed, of Barbara's husband Peter.

'Fair Outlook' - John Taylor's last remaining bungalow
Courtesy, ITV Meridian

Building News - Friday 16 September 1870

SUNDRY WORKS IN THE ISLE OF THANET. 

We were more struck with another rather large groups of buildings just erected near them by Mr. John Taylor, architect, who is well-known as the clever and scientific inventor of special materials for almost every portion of a dwelling, and whose roofing tiles render this group of houses conspicuous from a distance.

The first John Taylor bungalow at Birchington
Building News, 15 August 1873

It is a pleasure to see such an effort as this to rescue this class of building from the commonplace character invariably given to them by speculating builders, who seem to have no higher thought than how to make the most out of every foot of frontage, and carry up their flimsy houses to the same regulation heights and to the same dreadful regulation patterns in town and country.

Mr. Taylor's attention has rather been given to the development of the value of his land by the acre, and has given bungalows, as it were, in which real comfort has been combined with pleasing rusticity. The site has nothing between it and the sea, and nothing but sea between it and the North Pole, and must be as bracing a spot as our island could supply.

By the use of his patent building blocks and tiles the first bungalow Mr. Taylor built was begun on the 14th August last year, was completely furnished and dry within two months, and inhabited on the 14th October.

Since this he built another, which was purchased by Mr. Erasmus Wilson, and four others afterwards, which have been sold as soon as built.  

A description of the accommodation of one of them will, we think, be useful as well as interesting, thus.

There are eight rooms all on one floor. The two side rooms of the front elevations have doors into the garden, and are for dressing after bathing.

The "serving flap" in 'Fair Outlook'
Courtesy ITV Meridian

There is a serving flap or buttery hatch from the kitchen in the dining-room, to economise labour of service, a matter of importance in such an establishment, and indeed the whole arrangement is such as to require the least amount of household work. 

There is a double-bedded room in the attic.

A verandah at front and back gives coolness in summer. The roof has deep rafters, ceiled beneath and covered above with felt and patent tiles, producing a perfectly cool roof.

The basement is sunk into the chalk, and contains a larder, wine, beer, coal, and general cellars.

Not only the building itself, but the whole of the furniture and fittings have been designed and arranged by the architect in a thoroughly simple and practical, while pleasing and appropriate manner.

The entire selling price of this furnished freehold marine residence, with its garden complete, was, we were told, only £1,000, and all we can say is that we could not help envying  the lucky purchaser.

 

Building News - Friday 20 September 1872

THOSE WHO INTEND BUILDING are invited to inspect some novel BUNGALOWS, at Birchington-on-Sea, near Margate, Isle of Thanet. They contain 12 rooms and more on one floor under one roof, and are supposed to be complete in their sanitary and general arrangements.

Direct to John Taylor, architect, 6 Whitehall, and Westcliff, Birchington-on-Sea, Isle of Thanet. 

 

Building News - Friday 15 August 1873

MR. TAYLOR'S BUNGALOWS AT WEST CLIFF AND BIRCHINGTON-ON-SEA.  

It is very difficult in these days to hit upon a new and successful idea. Mr. John Taylor, of Whitehall, has, however, unquestionably done so in his "Bungalow" residences that he has for some time been engaged in erecting in the neighbourhood of Margate, and illustrated in the present number of this journal.

In an article upon recent buildings in the Isle of Thanet, given in the BUILDING NEWS some time since, attention was called to these buildings, and it was remarked that it was a pleasure to see such rescued from the hands of speculating builders and made tasteful as well as useful, and that positively without the addition of anything that could he considered in the nature of ornament.  

Professor Erasmus Wilson, who was one of the earliest purchasers of some of Mr. Taylor's Bungalows, thus speaks of them from experience, now of some duration:—

I find everybody is charmed with my Bungalows, and I believe if there were many Bungalows there would be many buyers. The house is a novelty, very convenient, fitted for a single family, and easy as to price. The idea of Bungalows seems to take people's minds immensely: they are novel, quaint, and pretty, and perfect as to sanitary qualities. The best sanitary house for a family is a Bungalow. 

Such praise, which we believe to be thoroughly merited, particularly the portion in italics coming from such an authority upon sanitary matters as Professor Erasmus Wilson, will, we doubt not, induce our readers to consider well the various points which are elucidated in our illustration.

We learn from Mr. Taylor that, as far as he is concerned, the principal advantage that has accrued to him from the undertaking—an advantage which his neighbours have acknowledged they have shared with him—has been by the increased value given to the sites and adjoining land.

We shall therefore repeat what we said in the article referred to—that the spots chosen for those operations at West Cliff and Birchington-on-Sea, both near Margate, have nothing between them and the sea, and nothing but sea between them and the North Pole, and must be as bracing as any our island can supply.  

Mr. Taylor says he has applied the term "Bungalow" to the residences he has built thereon as being one and two-storied buildings, under one span of roof of the most primitive and simple construction upon the lean-to principle, which practically admits of any span in the manner in which he has applied it.

Building News, 15 August 1873

The struts (see sketch showing the construction of roof and ceiling) form one side of the tent-shaped form of all the rooms. The chimney-shafts are carried up in the highest part of the roof, namely, from the ridge.

This is a matter of considerable importance, for in such a situation the wind strikes with such force that in any other position of the chimneys down-draughts of smoke would be more than probable, whereas, impinging on the sloped sides, the wind rushes upwards, aiding, by its force so directed, the exit of the smoke in the most stormy weather.

It is to be noticed that no framing nor roof trusses are required in the construction, but simply common rafters.

The roof is kept cool by reason of the common rafters being as deep as the floor-joists, namely 7in., but only thick, and strutted between. They are coiled beneath, and covered with asphalted felt, limewhited, and then covered with Mr. Taylor's well-known patent tiles, which lock one into another, and are easily removed and replaced when repairs are needed.

In the manufacture of these tiles, Mr. Taylor has recently effected some considerable improvements over those which are made and sold under his patent by the Broomhall Company, who, somewhat inexcusably, have lately ignored the name of the patentee altogether.

Those improvements were found to be rendered necessary by the effect of the boisterous winds that prevail in the neighbourhood of which we are speaking during the winter season.

We are told also that the character of the material of those tiles is also much improved.

The same simplicity of construction has been carried out in all the different parts of the building, down to the details of its various fittings, and even its furniture. Thus cornices, a modern weakness, are omitted throughout, as also all other ornaments and decorative features, usual  even in speculating builders' erections, and for which no one but the plasterers are ever one whit the better.

Nothing, however, really necessary, either for stability, or to insure comfort to the inmates, has been omitted, the object of Mr. Taylor having been to create novelty by attention to extreme simplicity and adaptability, so generally lost sight of in the over-refinement and finish of the present day.

The climate of the locality may truly be said to be Mediterranean in summer, and Arctic in winter; and to render the walls cool during the former, and warm in the latter, without increasing their thickness, and to keep out the driving rains, which are literally horizontal, and the salt sea sprays, has been an object which Mr. Taylor has only just been enabled completely to attain by his "damp-proof walls," which will prove, we think, as valuable an invention as his well-known one, now generally adopted, of the  damp-proof course," the object of which is to prevent wet rising into the walls from beneath.

We call, therefore, special attention to the construction, as shown in our illustration, of these "damp-proof walls." They are so built that the outer and inner faces are separated by slates, which overlap each other horizontally and vertically, supported upon ties of iron hooping, which at the same time, Mr. Taylor considers, bind and connect the two faces of the wall.

The outer face is of burrs or clinkers from the brick-yards, knapped, and the broken or sectional parts placed outwards.

The quoins, reveals, and strings are of gault bricks. The most penetrating rains and  salt sprays are found unable to get through these walls, and the temperature within is maintained equable.

As a wise provision for ventilation may be noticed (see interior view of corridor) hinged glazed flaps, easily opening inwards into the several rooms, and at the end of the corridor a light sash hung upon pivots, allowing it to remain open even during rain.

Thus all the apartments are so well ventilated, and the air so quickly changed, that they have the advantage over larger rooms not so well ventilated, and never have any of that too-well known odour of rooms in which persons have passed the night.

These Bungalows have gardens and croquet lawns reaching down to the sea, and communications thence to the bathing-sands and private dressing-places.

There is also a coach-house and stable to each tenement.

They are freehold, furnished and provided with plate, linen, and usual sundries, down even to a corkscrew, and are sold, all such included, at 11d. per foot cube.

If such Bungalows were built nearer London, we believe they would be very greatly prized.

 

Building News - Friday 13 February 1874

BUNGALOW, WEST-CLIFF, BIRCHINGTON-ON-SEA.

Some time ago we gave an illustration and  description of a one-story dwelling, built at Birchington-on-Sea, in the Isle of Thanet, by Mr. John Taylor, architect; and last week we gave a view of another variety of that gentleman's somewhat unique houses in the same locality.

The accommodation is much the same as in the former example, but arranged upon two floors instead of one. The construction is also as detailed in the former case with external walls, 9in. in thickness, with a coat of slating in the centre.

The inner half of the wall is 4in. brickwork, and the outer half is formed of brick-burrs, which have a picturesque effect.

The slating is placed between these two and is carried by pieces of hoop-iron band, which tie the two parts of the wall together to a certain extent.

This construction, which Mr. Taylor has patented, is economical, pleasant in appearance, and absolutely secured against the most driving rains, which, at Birchington-on-Sea, during storms, are driven horizontally with the utmost violence against the walls.

Notwithstanding this, the interior of this two-storied house does not show a spot of damp in any part. and in the coldest weather the atmosphere within is maintained as equally as in buildings whose walls are far greater is thickness.

The quoins and dressings are of white Gault bricks. The roofs are covered with tiles. The eaves overhang the walls, and from the simple construction of the roof, this part of the building is also very economical.

Situated on the cliff and commanding extensive seaview, with a plot of freehold-ground of about ¾ acre, arranged in front as a croquet-lawn and flower-garden, and behind as vegetable-ground, with a private tunnel down to the beach, and a bathing-room, &c., built in the cliff; well for water supply, and every convenience, and furnished throughout.

Mr. Taylor has been in the habit of selling these bungalows for the last few years, and they seem much appreciated by their purchasers.

The drawing and dining-rooms have square bay additions, from the main structure the lean-to roof of which is continued beyond them the full width of the facade, thus giving a verandah at each end, the shade of which in summer is agreeable, and it shelters the garden entrance to each of those rooms.

A serving-sideboard at the end of the dining-room, near, but not directly in connection with the kitchen, saves labour, a point of consideration in sea-side houses, to which families only take a portion of their servants.

All the fireplaces are arranged in the centre of the building so that the chimney-stack is at the ridge of the roof, and not a single smoke-preventer defaces any of those bungalows, even those of a single story in height.

Weber's "Oberon" - a first-night review

A performance of Oberon, or the Elf-King's Oath, as part of 2026 BBC Proms got me wondering. Why, when every effort to present the music in as historically-informed form as possible, had a new text been written by children's author Timothy Knapman? Surely the aim of historical-informed performance does not just extend to the music, but to the text as well?

Weber's original libretto was by James Robinson Planché (27 February 1796 – 30 May 1880). As his Wikipedia article explains:

Over a period of approximately 60 years he wrote, adapted, or collaborated on 176 plays in a wide range of genres including extravaganza, farce, comedy, burletta, melodrama and opera. Planché was responsible for introducing historically accurate costume into nineteenth century British theatre, and subsequently became an acknowledged expert on historical costume, publishing a number of works on the topic.

So how did this very experienced writer produce a libretto that needs to be "modernised" for contemporary audiences. A first-night review in The News of Monday 17 April 1826 dismissed Planché's contribution in one line which hints at the difficulty:

As to the story of Oberon, dramatized by Mr. Planché, we need not fatigue our readers with any particular details. 

The rest of the review follows:

THEATRE.

COVENT-GARDEN.

On Wednesday (after a full dress and fashionably attended rehearsal on the preceding evening)  the long-expected "Fairy Opera" of Oberon; or, the Elf-King's Oath, was represented. Wieland's poem on the subject is tolerably well-known, through the medium of translation especially; but Weber's music, and the splendid manner in which the Opera was known to have been "got up," failed not to arouse the most lively interest. 

We never recollect  to have witnessed a more brilliant house to behold even a first performance, certainly not a more crowded and increased performance, was given to the introductory scene, by the enthusiastic manner in which Weber was received on taking his station to preside in the orchestra. Indeed the laudatory disposition of the audience was with no ordinary difficulty hushed so as to prepare the way for the overture.

It had hardly commenced, when the magic power of the Composer was manifest; there was soon the agreeable stillness, and charmed breathing, of fabled fairy land. The music of the overture naturally prepared the way for the character of the performance that was to follow—more especially the earlier portions of it; it was light, fanciful, and airy, and had some exquisite touches of simple and romantic melody. 

Like the overture to Der Freischütz, it was an accurate prologue, or "chorus," to the coming scene; and equally appropriate; but from the very nature of the two Operas,—the one appalling by its incantations and "devilries," and the other charming by the magic of fairy feats,—neither the overture, nor the great body of the music will, on the first hearing, strike and take command of the senses like Der Freischütz.

As to the story of Oberon, dramatized by Mr. Planché, we need not fatigue our readers with any  particular details. 

Oberon (Mr. Bland) the monarch of Fairyland, has had a domestic dispute (such as will sometimes unavoidably occur in the best regulated families,) with  his Queen, on the subject of female constancy; the lady stickling stoutly for the existence of that quality in the sex, and the gentleman protesting it is moonshine.

Finally, the parties separate, the Elf-king swearing he will never take back his disputatious wife to his royal bosom, till not merely a faithful woman, but, still more difficult, "a constant couple" are discovered.

Sir Huon (Braham) and Reiza (Miss Paton) are the parties selected by Fate and the Fairies for the experimentum crucis. The knight has been banished from France by the Emperor Charlemagne, and ordered never to return to his country without bringing back with him the daughter of the Caliph of Bagdat. Huon,,nothing daunted, proceeds on his dangerous errand, accompanied by his faithful friend and attendant Sherasmin (Mr. Fawcett) 

On his journey Oberon appears, and prepares matters by introducing to him Reiza, the Caliph's daughter, in a vision. "Dream to dream replies;" Reiza gets a view of Sir Huon in the same magical manner; and  of course the parties become mutually enamoured.

To assist the projects of the Knight the Elf-king furnishes him with a magic bowl and ivory horn, both of infinite importance to the success of his undertakings. By the aid of these Sir Huon is eventually enabled to overcome all the difficulties and temptations which present themselves, and to return with his bride in triumph to the Court of Charlemagne.  

In the dramatizing of his story, Mr. P. appears to have forgotten by whom his characters were to be personated, and that singers are seldom very remarkable for their powers of acting. Had he borne this duly in mind, he would not have run the risk of exciting merriment in some of the more serious scenes; as, for instance, where he conducts Sir Huon to the stake.

A first-rate performer only could have given due effect to this scene; and we have no occasion to add, that Mr. Braham (however polished, effective and energetic as a singer,) is not remarkably forcible as an actor. His vocal efforts were, however, amazingly successful. He was in excellent voice, and evidently in good spirits: and appeared to be unusually warmed by the kindred genius of the composer.

Two compositions, mingling the martial and the bravura, giving preference to fame instead of love, Oh 'tis a glorious sight to see &c. &c., were eloquent and appropriate; and they were executed with becoming skill and force. 

Miss Paton, as the Caliph's daughter, Reiza, evinced considerable powers of  voice and execution. She has some excellent music allotted to her; but we have heard her more to our liking than in Oberon, and seen her more decidedly and successfully identify herself with the character and songs consigned to her care. Oh, why art thou sleeping, Sir Huon, was one of the best of Miss Paton's performances. 

Madame Vestris, as Fatima, rendered powerful aid by the ease, naïveté, and melody of her song, and the gaiety of her manner. The lonely Arab maid, and the lively ditty of O, Araby, dear Araby are pretty compositions, and were delightfully executed. 

Madame Vestris and Mr. Fawcett as Sherasmin, also execute a very playful duett On the banks of sweet  Garonne in a charming manner. 

There are several other of the Composer's productions that merit particular mention, and a repetition of that applause with which the audience justly greeted them. 

We would specially note the chorus of Fairies in Oberon's Hall,

Light as fairy foot can fall,
Pace, ye elves, your Master's Hall.

Also Puck's (Miss H. Cawse) incantation, and exorcisin  the spirits of the four elements: Whether ye be in the deep. It is a simple and pretty air. The poetry of the songs of this opera has more merit than usually belongs to such productions, 

The music of this piece, speaking of it generally, will sustain, but perhaps without advancing the fame of Weber in the way that some may have expected; and this is to be attributed to the different characters of the two Operas, to which we have already adverted. There are none of the deep mysteries of the Wolf's Glen, to seize and retain with wizard power the imagination as well as the senses. The chorus of spirits in the rock is, however, equal to any thing in Der Freischütz. 

This theatre has ever been famous for the splendour of its scenery, and the lavish expense bestowed on the dresses and decorations of its fairy pieces—but Oberon outshines all its predecessors. 

It is said that near £6,000 has been expended in its production, and we can readily believe it. As, however, it fills the house nightly, and is expected to last the season, we trust that the managers will reap a profitable harvest as a due reward for their liberality.

George Hellyer Mitchell - his brushes with the law

Clacton Graphic and East Coast Illustrated News - Saturday 5 May 1928

SPECIAL COURT. 

At a special sitting of the Clacton Police Court, before Mr. W. C. L. Gregory, on Thursday, George Hellyer Mitchell, Rectory Road, Wivenhoe, fitter, aged 34, was charged with being drunk and refusing to quit licensed premises, and assaulting P.-s. Mynott and P.-c. Godfrey in the execution of their duty at Clacton-on-Sea. 

Evidence was given by the officers, and prisoner was remanded in custody to the Mistley Petty Sessions on Monday.

Suffolk Chronicle - Friday 11 May 1928

George Hellyer Mitchell, of Wyvenhoe, was charged with being drunk and refusing to quit the Imperial Hotel, Clacton, on May 3rd, and with assaulting P.-s. Mynott and P.-c. Godfrey. 

Upon the application of Mr. E. Page, who appeared for the defendant, the case was adjourned for a week, upon defendant paying 35s. costs. Bail was allowed in two sureties of £5 each.

Clacton Graphic and East Coast Illustrated News - Saturday 19 May 1928

ASSAULT ON POLICE.

SEQUEL TO REFUSING TO QUIT HOTEL. 

At the Clacton Police Court on Monday, before Mr. J. H. Sizer and other Justices, George Hellyer Mitchell (34), fitter, Wivenhoe, was charged with being disorderly, and refusing to quit the Imperial Hotel, Clacton, on May 3rd; also with assaulting P.-s. Mynott and P.-c. Godfrey, on the same date. Mr. D. Field prosecuted in the first case. 

William H. Lee, licensee of the lmperial Hotel, said defendant entered the hotel, and was served with cider and some bitter. He commenced singing and whistling loudly, but ceased when asked. When he recommenced the third time he was told he would have to go out. 

Witness called his son, whereupon defendant rushed behind the counter and made a threat to murder him. A driver, who said: "Come out, Wivenhoe, or there will be trouble," was pushed out by defendant. 

A police-sergeant and a policeman arrived, and the sergeant was told to ask the defendant to leave. Defendant struck out at both police-officers, and they fell on the floor. 

Three other people helped the police to handcuff defendant. His legs were tied, and he was taken outside to a taxi. 

In reply to Mr. E, Page, who defended, witness said that defendant was not drunk. Up to the time he was asked to go he had not been abusive. His appearance was such as to suggest that defendant was of weak intellect.

Charles Lee, son of the licensee, said that defendant used bad language.

Violet Fisher, barmaid at the hotel, said that defendant was quiet when he entered, but when asked by Mr. Lee to go out he replied: "You can't put me out.” 

In reply to Mr. Page, witness said defendant had been in the bar before. Mr. Lee did not permit singing in the bar. 

Sergt. Mynott said that when he arrived defendant was coming towards the door, and Mr. Lee said defendant had refused to leave, though he wanted him to. 

Defendant tried to push witness out as he was entering the bar, and on getting inside, witness removed a glass from near defendant, who flew at witness and struck him in the eye, causing blood to flow.

Defendant used vile language, and made a remark about Kennedy, the man sentenced for murder. 

Defendant was eventually removed after witness and P.-c. Godfrey and others had closed with him. 

Witness also found his leg injured, and was still under medical treatment. 

P.-c. Godfrey also gave evidence, and said whilst on the floor defendant bit his thumb and scratched his face and ear.

Mr. Page called defendant, who said that he cycled to Clacton after a job at a café. He was "pretty merry"’ at the thought of getting the position. Entering the central bar of the Imperial he had a cider and commenced to whistle. He had some beer later, and was attempting to sing in Scotch. Someone said "let’s chuck him out,” and he asked where the man was who was to  throw him out. 

He returned to the bar and stood his ground, as he thought there was to be trouble. Seeing some charabancs outside he heard a rush of people at the door, and went to it, shutting it. 

Three "shadows" came to the door, and when it opened he struck the constable by mistake. He thought he was being rushed, and he did not know the police were outside.

Someone snatched his beer from his hand, and the sergeant said, "You are drunk; you are mad."

The next thing he knew was being on the floor. He was kicked in the ribs and on the knee. As a result of the proceedings he had now lost the job. 

He was not excitable unless he was made so. During the war he was blown down by a big gun. 

In further reply to his solicitor, defendant said he remarked that he would go out of the house quietly if they would let him drink his beer.

In reply to Mr. Field, defendant said he did not bite the policeman. 

Answering Inspector Rolfe, defendant said the police officers were in uniform.

Mrs. Alberts said that defendant had been working on her premises and  was a good workman and a clever man. 

Ernest E. Chamberlain, Wivenhoe, said that defendant was not addicted to drink. He had been with witness at the cinema,was a consistent worker and probably "highly strung."

The Bench fined defendant £1, and costs 18s. for being disorderly and refusing to quit, and six weeks’ hard labour in each case for the assaults on the police—which the Bench considered serious—these sentences to run concurrently.

Inspector Rolfe thanked the witnesses for assisting the police, and the Chairman endorsed this, saying if the public did not sometimes assist the police it would be a bad thing for the police.

Chelmsford Chronicle - Friday 28 April 1933

NOT "MOGGY-HUNTING"

At Lexden and Winstree Petty Session on Saturday, George Hellyer Mitchell, Rectory Road, Wivenhoe, was summoned for causing unnecessary suffering to cat by unreasonably causing it to worried by dog at Wivenhoe on March 27; and further, for causing it unnecessary suffering by unreasonably killing it in an improper manner.—He pleaded not guilty.

Mr. G. E. Page, for the defence, submitted that a fight between the cat and the dog took place without defendant's connivance or control. Mitchell did everything possible to stop the fight. The dog, whose life defendant had saved, was very much attached to him.

Defendant, in evidence, said that when he saw the dog had confronted a cat he called the dog off, but it took no notice. He got between them and was about to grab the dog's collar when the cat flew at his leg and clung there. A mix-up followed, and when it finished the cat lay in the road with two legs apparently broken. He saw the cat was not quite dead, so he banged its head once against the church railings.

Inspector Stamp: suggest that when you take this dog out you do so, as is done in other villages, to go "moggy-hunting"?

Defendant: No, I don't.

Commander E. Aylmer Digby. K.C., J.P. : What is "moggy-hunting"?

Defendant: Deliberately setting a dog at a cat. I believe that's what they call it in Scotland.

The Chairman (Major J. Oxley Parker) said the Bench felt that it was doubtful if it was possible for defendant to control the dog: on this occasion. Defendant would therefore be given the benefit of the doubt, and the case would be dismissed.

 

G. R. Sims visits Poppyland in 1889

Cromer is complaining of the excursion system. Every Sunday some two thousand excursionists are brought in at a shilling a head, and they make things lively, as the place is small.

l am an earnest advocate for the working class getting as much fresh air and change of scene as they can on the day of rest from toil, but I can quite understand that such an essentially quiet place as Cromer finds its limited supply of space severely tested by such a tremendous incursion of trippers.

One man's poison is another man's meat, and the overcrowding of Cromer on Sunday is benefiting a number of quiet villages in the neighbourhood. Sidestrand is full, and Overstrand is bursting out into new villas. Mr. Cyril Flower has built himself a pretty seaside house here, and his arrival is being eagerly looked forward to.

Overstrand is a charming combination of green fields, blue seas, and rugged cliffs, and has a great future before it. I strongly recommend anyone who wants perfect rest and glorious air amid beautiful scenery to try Overstrand. But they must secure their lodgings before they arrive, as the accommodation is limited.

We have bidden farewell to Poppy Land, and I am not at all sure that Poppy Land is sorry. l am afraid that our conduct latterly has hardly been in accordance with the peaceful conditions of this sweet Sleepy Hollow. The miller's good wife¹ will probably sleep more peacefully now she knows that she will not come down in the morning and find her front door wide open, and hear from the neighbours that wild authors have been careering about the lanes till the small hours, plotting murders, and yelling at each other, driving the chained watchdogs mad with impotent rage, and bringing startled faces to lonely farmhouse windows in the yellow moonlight.

"the white gate of the mill-house"
Restored and colourised using Google Gemini

No more will the good lady start from her sleep and tremble as in the dead of night she hears two furious men battling below as to whether a woman's throat is to be cut or her brains to be beaten out, and no more will the innocent children of Sidestrand pause in terror before the white gate of the mill-house and watch the middle-aged lunatics from London executing wild can-cans of delight in "the fair green close that lies below the mill."²

"the fair green close that lies below the mill"
Restored and colourised using Google Gemini

Our best thanks are due to the good Norfolk folk of Sidestrand and Overstrand, who have let us run wild right through their farmyards and make ourselves at home in their sweet cottage gardens, who have spared no effort to make us happy and comfortable, and have loaded us with favours.

The postmaster of Overstrand has kept the wire open for us at all manner of unreasonable hours, and his kind little wife has flashed our messages to the four corners of the earth with marvellous skill and accuracy.

Our return messages from the four corners of the earth have been brought to us in hot haste by rosy-cheeked special messengers as though the fate of empires depended upon them, and even distant Cromer has laid itself out to supply our modest wants with celerity and dispatch, sending such supplies as we requisitioned in the town back to us by mounted messengers or behind the fastest trotting ponies to be had for love or money.

Gratefully do we acknowledge the kindnesses that have been showered on us along this glorious stretch of Norfolk coast—a kindness that was continued to the last, when all Sidestrand turned out to bid us farewell, and to wave hats and handkerchiefs and cheer until our two flys and our big farm-cart full of luggage became almost a royal procession, and completed when the cheery station-master at Cromer reserved a special carriage for us, and showed us the diamond pin presented to him by the Empress of Austria.

Poppy Land will miss us, and we shall miss Poppy Land. Our idyllic life is over; the simple pleasures of shuttlecock and a shilling set of cricket in the green fields will be ours no more.

We are back again in cruel London, and the blacks are settling once more on the shirts and collars that were so spotless at Sidestrand.

Farewell, Poppy Land, where all was rest and peace and gentle beauty, and where our nerves grew strong and our hearts beat again with the exuberance of childhood.

But not farewell for ever. We are going to buy two little bits of land there, we are going to build two nice little cottages, and we are going to grow our own cabbages, dig our own potatoes, and milk our own cows, and to end our days as the oldest inhabitants of the quiet Norfolk village; and some day, say in fifty or sixty years, the traveller wending his way through the little churchyard by the sea will come upon the graves of two Sidestrand centenarians laid side by side, and he will pause and shed a tear of sympathy when he reads the inscription and learns that the two aged Poppylanders who have gone to collaborate in the undiscovered bourne are the A.O.A.H.M.³ and DAGONET.

¹ Alfred Jermy's third and last wife, Mary Ann (née Woodhouse) had died on 5 November 1887. 

² A quotation from Swinburne's The Mill Garden, the fourth poem of A Midsummer Holiday (1884):

"Fair befall the fair green close that lies below the mill!" is the refrain to each verse.

³ A.O.A.H.M. = Author of A Hundred Melodramas, possibly Sims's friend and fellow writer Henry Alfred Pettitt (7 April 1848 – 24 December 1893)

Source: The Referee - Sunday 28 July 1889

G. R. Sims visits Poppyland in 1887

'Dagonet' in Poppyland

Of course it was inevitable. Clement Scott was paid by the Great Eastern Railway to popularise the area around Cromer. He invented Poppyland, and the tourists followed.

George Robert Sims, 'Dagonet' of The Referee magazine, followed in the footsteps of Scott and Swinburne and took himself off to Poppyland in July 1887.

'The Garden of Sleep', Sidestrand
Created from an original image, by Google Gemini

The Referee - Sunday 24 July 1887

Some remarkably sensational reports of the mobbing of the Empress of Austria at Cromer have been "communicated" to the Press. I hope they are not true, as I am just off to Cromer myself in search of perfect rest and quietness.

If I am mobbed and followed I shall be exceedingly annoyed. I have shaved off my beard and my moustache in order to disguise myself; but one is never safe.

The postman who delivers your letters tells the policeman, and the policeman tells the boatman, and the boatman tells the visitors, and so it gets abroad, and you are pointed out and stared at.

I have already written a letter to the local papers requesting that my incognito may be respected, and that there may be no public reception or anything of that sort, and I hope I shall be allowed to go about in my blazer and my bath-chair in peace and quietness.

How I fare in "Poppyland" I will let you know next week. 

 

The Referee - Sunday 7 August 1887

l am still a hermit. I am still utterly without news of the great world, from which I have solemnly separated myself. I have not seen a newspaper or read a single item of news since the 28th of July.

The sensation is delightful—one breathes a purer moral atmosphere at once. I believe that if I could keep my mind innocent of the news of the world for a whole twelvemonth, I should never want to return to it at all. The simple pleasures of the rural recluse would then suffice me.

When one finds oneself in a peaceful and secluded vale, far from the madding crowd, it seems to me sacrilege to drag into it the London police, reports and the Westminster debates. Why sully the purity and peace of the lovely spot with the crime and depravity of the great city, and the envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness of the Westminster war of words?

There is a sweet, poppy-crowned eminence, on which I sit amid the waving corn, my sole companions the butterflies and bees. Above me sings a gentle lark, hovering between earth and heaven.

One day I brought to this sweet solitude my humble luncheon, which the fair daughter of the mill had wrapped up in a sheet of the Daily Telegraph—a sheet which had probably come to the mill from Cromer enveloping some article purchased in the little town upon the cliffs.

When I had finished my luncheon I laid the paper down by my side and went to sleep. When I awoke the scene was changed. The ground near me was seared and blasted, the corn was burnt, the poppies had drooped their heads and died, the bees and the butterflies had flown far away, and the lark, its song hushed and its little eyes filled with tears, sat on a hill afar off, and contemplated its ruined home.

The ruin did not extend far. It was only a square patch of ground that had gone wrong, but that square patch was the one I had covered with a page of a London newspaper.

My fancy tells me that this sheet contained the reports of London crime and vice as told in the police-courts, or the record of bad blood and bad language told at Westminster, and that the grass withered and the ground became desolate, and the butterflies were frightened away, and the lark's nest was ruined by its baleful influence.

People who go ferreting about and finding a reason for everything might have discovered that I had let my lighted pipe fall out of my mouth as I dozed off, and that a spark from the pipe had ignited a box of vesuvians on the ground by my side, and that was the cause of the disaster.

But I insist on believing that the occurrence was a gentle hint to me to respect the virginal innocence of the place, and to abstain from introducing the echoes of the metropolitan inferno into this silent and unsullied paradise.

You can drop off to sleep in Poppyland, I assure you. Poppyland it is called not only because of the red flowers that grow so luxuriantly around. But because the air is an opiate that sends everybody off to sleep, man, woman, and child.

If there were enough inhabitants in the district to make a chorus, the chorus that they would sing would be, "We're all nodding." The animals get drowsy here directly they are born. The inhabitants are never really wide awake, and efforts made by visitors to keep their eyes open are ludicrous in the extreme.

I dare say I shall be doubted if I try to convey to the reader the things that I have seen with my own eyes in this great garden of sleep. The strong air affects all who come within its influence. Nature is perpetually waving a chloroformed handkerchief in the faces of the Poppylanders, and there are few who fight off the drowsiness which steals over them.

At a little church on the coast a few Sundays ago a London clergyman came down to officiate for the regular pastor, who was taking a holiday in town. During the evening service many of the visitors succumbed to the atmospheric influence and slumbered placidly in their pews.

The clergyman himself was observed to be making violent efforts to keep himself awake. Every now and then his eyelids would droop and his head would nod and his utterances became confused and spasmodic. At last he fell off sound asleep, and when it was time for him to go on with the service again, the clerk had to walk across and give him a gentle nudge. 

At any time that you walk along the cliff or shore you will find ladies and gentlemen fast asleep. At the hotels in Cromer, when the places at table d'hôte are vacant, the waiters generally guess what the matter, and the boots is sent off to walk along the beach and wake the visitors up and tell them that it is time for dinner.

The principal draper told me that ladies frequently drop asleep in his shop while the assistants are looking for some articles to show them.

I myself can personally testify to the soporific influence of the air. I drop off to sleep a dozen times a day, and after nightfall it is impossible for me to keep my eyes open.

The other evening, walking from Cromer to Side Strand, I sat down on a bank to tie the string of my shoe, which had come undone. I fell asleep before I could get up again, and when I awoke it was broad daylight.

When I reached the mill I found the miller and his daughter in a state of great anxiety about me. The miller had been out all night with a lantern looking for me, and when I got home he was just going to drag the pond at the bottom of the garden with a shrimping net.

In my playful way I had, previous to starting for a walk, told the miller's daughter that I thought it was just the evening to commit suicide in a nice romantic pond. When I didn't return my words were remembered, and the worst fears were entertained.

Since that evening I have been careful not to go too far from home of an evening, and directly I find myself dropping off out of doors I stick a pin in my arm as far as it will go. That keeps me awake long enough to enable me to get home and tumble into bed.

Sweet as my hermitage is, I have now and again been tempted to make excursions beyond it. I have been as far as Wroxham, the great starting point for excursions to the famous Norfolk Broads, and on board a little steam launch I have for the first time in my life made the acquaintance of the picturesque lakes and rivers, which have only of late years begun to receive the attention they deserve.

There are plenty of yachts and boats for hire at various points of the route, and I can conceive no pleasanter way of spending a fortnight than on the Broads.

You can lie on your boat and have all the pleasure of yachting without the perils of the ocean or the pains of sea sickness. It is better to hire a yacht that you can live on, for the hotel accommodation along the banks leaves much to be desired.

The rough element has not as yet introduced Its "broad" fun on these pleasant waterways, and "riparian outrages" are as yet almost unknown.

But owners of property along the banks are beginning to get a little anxious. Year by year the number of yachts and boats, and house-boats and steam launches increases, and parties have taken to landing on private grounds, and lighting fires, and picnicking, and camping for the night in other people's gardens.

The practice of shooting from the decks of the yachts is also coming into vogue, and this is causing serious uneasiness. It is bad enough for a riverside landowner to have his fowls shot at as "wild game," but when the shots whistle through the trees and lodge in the owner's leg or in his wife's back, the annoyance is considerably increased.

Gentlemen who come from London with the intention of taking a sporting tour on the Norfolk and Suffolk rivers and broads are earnestly entreated not to "pot" the inoffensive people who are quietly strolling about the gardens of their own villa residences.

It does not follow because a man lives upon the banks of a river that he is "game." There are plenty of drives in the vicinity of Cromer, but the Norfolk roads are very heavy going just at present, and there is a woful [sic] lack of sign-posts for the benefit of the strange traveller.

My bump of locality is not largely developed, and if it were the strong similarity of the winding lanes which cross and intersect each other would easily nonplus me.

Driving home from Wroxham to Side Strand—some seventeen miles—the other evening, I lost myself five times, and it was long after midnight that I eventually reached my hermitage. And then I only got there after being lost in a wood and taken in hand by a gamekeeper, who kindly got up beside me and told me when to tarn to the right and when to the left.

It was after leaving North Walsham that I got wrong, and it was entirely owing to the sibilance of sign-posts. The road for the last five miles was utterly deserted, and after nightfall we did not meet a living soul, so that to ask our way was impossible.

My little mare would have taken me all right if she had done the journey before, but she had come straight from London, and knew nothing of Norfolk lanes. So we turned and twisted about, vainly endeavouring to see some indication of the mill or the lighthouse on Cromer cliff to guide us.

The few sign-posts that there were were straight poles set well back in the hedge, with the indications painted straight downwards from top to bottom of the post. The writing was in many instances almost obliterated, and we had to spend a quarter of an hour at a sign-post, and use up a whole box of vestas before we could make out anything at all.

We got at last in such a hopeless muddle that we had to pull up at lonely cottages and shout. Then nightcapped heads would be thrust from the windows, and we would be told in a strong Norfolk dialect that we were five miles, or seven miles, or ten miles—as the case might be—out of the road.

When midnight boomed out from a far off church clock, and the moon had retired behind a cloud, I pulled up in hopeless despair at four cross roads. Suddenly far away in the distanoe we saw a glimmering light. "It's a house," I exclaimed. "We'll drive to it, and ask the inhabitants the way."

That house proved to be a mile off, but at last we got to it. It was a cottage, and the light was in the upper window. " Hi! hi hi!" I shouted." Within there! House! What ho!"

At last the inhabitants must have come to the conclusion that my remarks were intended for them, for the window slowly opened, and a male head came out.  What is it?" said the male head. "I beg your pardon for disturbing you," I replied, "but we are travellers, and we have lost our way. Can you tell me which road to take for Side Strand?" "Very sorry, sir," said the male head, " but I can't; we're strangers to these parts, and only came from London this week." Picture!

And I had driven a whole mile to ask that man the way. The situation was agonising, but it was ludicrous, and I laughed aloud and drove on: drove right into a thick plantation where I might have stopped all night but for the friendly gamekeeper formerly alluded to.

I have not taken any country drives late at night since. But I have taken long country walks late at night, and have even managed to get myself lost on foot. As I frequently lose myself in trying to get from the Strand to Tottenham Court-road, this is not to be wondered at.

But it is not to advertise my want of "locality" that I am writing this paragraph. It is to relate another curious adventure which befell me in the Norfolk lanes. I was lost—lost near a lonely churchyard, late at night.

I sang snatches of song to make myself feel brave, but an uncanny feeling would creep over me. I hate to be lost in a deserted and lonely part late at night. And this time I had no one with me.

While I was getting creepier and creepier, I heard in the distance the steady scrunch of a human footstep coming nearer and nearer. "Saved! Saved!" I cried aloud, in my joy, and I puffed at my pipe with newborn confidence and hope.

At last the man came in sight. I strode forward to greet him. Before I could address him, he addressed me. "Please, sir," he said, "could you tell me if I be a-goin' right for Side Strand?"

The blow was sudden, but supreme. I reeled two paces back. Then, recovering myself, I replied, "I don't know, but if you come with me I'll ask the first person we meet."

We wandered along, looking for somebody, and at last we came to a white gate with a figure leaning over it. "Can you tell me it I am going right for the mill house at Side Strand?" I asked the figure. "Why, this is the mill at Side Strand," was the reply.

"A white gate with a figure leaning over it"
Restored and colourised using ChatGPT

And then the moon came out, and I saw that the figure leaning over the gate was the miller's, and that I was home.

These, indulgent and long-suffering reader, are some of the adventures which have befallen me during my temporary absence from the world on a "midsummer holiday."

I quote the words "A Midsummer Holiday" became it was in my hermitage that Mr. Algernon Charles Swinburne wrote the poems with that title. It was also in my hermitage that the Poppy Land Papers were written by Mr. Clement Scott, and it is in my hermitage that I am writing—

Wait! you shall know in due time. At present a disclosure would be premature; but the thought that a great poet once wrote, sitting in this very room, writing on this very table, fills me with emulation. I must write some poetry, too, but I have to pump up my poetry now. The old inspiration comes not. There is too much prose in my daily life for poetry to have much chance.

Still, it is very quiet here, and perhaps if I sit and stare out of window at the poppies and the corn an idea will come. Let me at least make the attempt.

THE GARDEN OF SLEEP

In the garden of sleep, on the crown of the cliff, 

Where the breezes blow in with an opiate whiff,

I lazily lie on my side in the inn

From the dawn of the day till the daylight is done.

A somnolent silence my soul stealeth o'er

As the wanton waves whispering woo the shy shore.

And the slumber of sleep of the stillness is born,

Where the pretty pink poppies camp out in the corn.

The buzz of the bee as he hums in the hush,

The glow of the gold and the purple and plush,

The rose in its riot of rapturous rest,

All sing me to sleep as a babe at the breast.

Then, wafted and winged on the ambient air,

Through the ivory gate float the phantasies fair,

The dreams of delight of the drowsiness born

Where the pod of the poppy is crashed in the corn.

From the dawn and the day to the dusk and the dark,

To the hoot of the owl from the lay of the lark.

I have slumbered supine on this Lethe-laved land

Where the succulent seaweed sings songs to the sand.

And now, as the midnight moans out on the mere,

It seems in my dreams that a murmur I hear;

'Tis a bibulous boatman, who says with a sniff,

"O Crimes, and O crikey! a corpse on the cliff!"

He labours to lift me—a stagger, a screech—

And two bodies lie battered and bruised on the beach

The rude rocks re-echo the thunderous thud,

And the boulders and billows are blotted with blood.

I chide not the churl lying flaccid and fat,

But I dreamingly, dozily say, "Who was that?"

Then I pule, in a pang of papaverous pain,"

You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again."

That is my Poppy Land—my garden of sleep. I have treated it perhaps with a little poetic licence, but it is better to be too poetical than too prosy.

I have made much of the solitude and silence while I could get it, for I fear the future hermit will find both solitude and silence gone. It has got about that I have been staying in the quiet spot, and already a daily performance of The Birthplace of Podgers¹ is taking place.

Carriages draw up in front of my little white gate, and the occupants put up their opera. glasses and watch my gambols on the lawn with a tame crocodile which a friend of mine in Egypt has just sent me as a present.

Special omnibuses now run from Cromer past the mill, and draw up in the lane to let the passengers have a good look at me as I sit at the window, in a beautiful blazer and a priceless Panama hat, and smoke the short clay dear to my heart for the sake of the old Bohemian days that will come again no more. O, beautiful city of Prague! What would I give—

Really these interruptions are too bad. Here is an excursion party arrived in a waggonette at the mill, and they are wrangling with the conductor because I am not outside, and the fare was two shillings and sixpence, including a full view of DAGONET.

The conductor has come to say that if I would be so kind as to step outside and lean against the door in an easy attitude it would save him much unpleasantness with his fares. I oblige the conductor, bow to the ladies and gentlemen, and then come in and slam the door to.

But I have no sooner begun to write again than a lady in blue spectacles and a green veil comes right into the garden in a donkey-chaise, and taps at my window with her parasol. I start up indignantly. "Really, madam!" I say. Then she smiles, and hands me an Album of Confessions through the window. "Will I fill in my confession, and she'll call for it to-morrow."

Farewell peace and quietness—I am "Podgers." Last week's Referee has revealed my whereabouts, and I have become a natural curiosity of the district. They tell me that next Sunday three excursions will be run from Norwich to Cromer, and four horse vans will bring the excursionists up to the mill to see me.

I shall leave. If there is one thing I hate it is extreme publicity. The Empress of Austria has fled, and I shall fly too. Next week I shall seek another hermitage. I shall go to a lonely spot from which adventurous travellers now and again return to tell strange tales. I shall—

The miller's fair daughter is knocking at my door. "What is it, Louie?" "Please, sir, the grocer's young man's called, and he says his master's compliments, and what would be your price to write him some poetry to put on his paper bags?" "What—!"

All that was left of that grocer's young man was taken back to Cromer late at night in the miller's pony-cart. And now the Cromer police are scouring the cliffs in all directions, and asking the fishermen and the Coastguard, if they have seen anything of a person answering the description of

DAGONET

¹ Hollingshead, John: The birthplace of Podgers: an original domestic sketch in one act (London : T.H. Lacy, [1858?])

Railway, Rail or Train Station?

Whenever the UK media use the expression "train station" these days, it is greeted with a torrent of comments that "railway station" is the correct UK usage. So where has this change come from?

This graph uses a count, per decade, from 1830 to 2000, of usage from the English newspapers of the British Newspaper Archive.

The raw data shows the adoption of "train station" from 1980 onwards, and particularly from 1990. It seems likely that people born between 1930 and 1980 are going to be the most resistant to "train station".

The Oxford English Dictionary has an intriguing quotation from The New York Times Magazine of 21 June 1981:

When was the last time you heard a young, rich-affluent-wealthy type use the phrase railroad station? Upper-class use is now train station.

Is this the reason that "train station" began to be used in England as well?

What happened in the 1980s?

The steep increase in references to "railway station" in 1986 is curious. Deeper research seems to indicate it's because of duplication within the British Newspaper Archive. The sudden drop in 2000 is either due to the removal of duplication or, more likely, the fact that many newspapers are not included after 1999.

Clement Scott in Poppyland : 5

CROMER & MUNDESLEY RAILWAY. 

Through Poppyland by train! Why, the very idea is enough to make Clement Scott start in his grave. It was he who found out Poppyland and gave it its name. Cromer has been known long time, and Mundesley had some repute bathing-place. Some few people were aware that whelks and lobsters were caught Sheringham, and smaller number still, and those given to tho study old-time lore, had idea that if another Bonaparte were attempt the invasion England he would make straightway for Weybourne Hoop, wherever that might be. 

POPPYLAND DISCOVERED. 

Clement Scott was a man of courage. turned his back on Cromer, and would have nothing of its giddy delights. He set his face at the great barrier of the Lighthouse Hills, and, threading their passes in safety, discovered Beck Hithe, and the ruined church where lie the Buxtons, the Mill House on the height beyond, and the Garden of Sleep on the windy cliff next the sea.

"The Garden of Sleep on the windy cliff next the sea"
Restored, adapted and colourised using Google Gemini

He went, saw, and he was conquered. He spent such a holiday as a weary man of letters had never enjoyed before, he put it all into a book, some of it in poetic prose, and some in mysterious verse, and set everyone who read what had written a longing to and do likewise, not witting that what had charmed one weary man would appear somewhat differently to a crowd. 

But they went, nevertheless, found out the "dews by the deep," they stood by the "green graves of dear women asleep," in land where "regal red poppies are born," and if they were not equal to revelling in "music of distance with eyes that are wet," "the hush of the corn," they admitted the discoverer told true, and forthwith the charms of were sounded to the four winds and from north, south, east, and west, from every corner of these blessed islands, and from many land beyond the sea, came the pilgrims, to see the poppies and to revel in the purest air that ever gentlest gales over green fields and blue ocean. 

THE NEW LINE.

The luxury Norfolk Coast Express took advantage of the new line

From that very day this latest railway was a foregone certainty. First, the Great Eastern ran to Cromer; then the predecessors of the Midland and Great Northern Joint Committee got thither by another route, which linked tho once-dreaded "shires" well as "Lunnon Town." Then the two joined forces and ran out a branch to Mundesley a kind of flank attack on the lovely district of which all the world and his wife were singing the praises. 

When this feat was accomplished and people to went the quaint old-world village, even then developing aspirations for the dignity of a township, one of the first things they noticed was that, although to all intents and purposes Mundesley was a terminus, the station was of the pattern, and the track ran on past it and disappeared round a corner. Some made it their business to see whither it went, and came back as if they had been "sold," as the vulgar people put it. If they look again when they come this summer they will find out that there is no sell about it. That way runs the new railway through Poppyland! Through Poppyland, sir!

The new line is to be opened, according to present anticipations, on July 23rd, and the effect of the event will be that the Great Eastern Railway Company will obtain access to Sheringham, and all the North Norfolk beauty spots, from Mundesley and the Beacon Hill to the Skelding Hills and Weybourne Heath, will be looped up on to one string.

 Railway Clearing House map showing the North Walsham to West Runton section of the
Norfolk and Suffolk Joint Railway, 1907

From Mundesley the new line runs more less parallel the coast, and in N.W. by W. direction. Then it bears still further to the west, and passes under the existing G.E.R. on the Norwich side of Cromer Station, and from that point curves away towards the north until it reaches the M. and G.N. line at Runton, where one curve takes it to that line and so to Sheringham, and another directly opposite leads on to the same line and so into Cromer Beach Station. Looked at on the map, would appear that Cromer Beach Station been made a kind of backwater, but there is small need for any apprehensions of that kind. Cromer, the metropolis of the district, and from whichever way the crowd comes the main host will make that pleasant town their headquarters. 

CROMER BEACH TO CROMER G.E.R. 

The new line will known as the Cromer and Mundesley, and will be controlled by the Norfolk and Suffolk Joint Railways Committee, the body already responsible for the North Walsham and Mundesley line and the new coast line from Yarmouth to Lowestoft via Gorleston. The Cromer and Mundesley line leaves that of the M. and G.N.R., as we have already stated, at Runton, by what will be known the Runton West Curve—the Runton East Curve runs into the Beach Station. 

Halfway of the curve, the line is carried on a fine five-arch viaduct, 38 feet in height. Then it comes to higher ground, and passes under the Holt road in a cutting 38 feet below. At its deepest this cutting is 42 feet below the surface, and is believed be the deepest in Norfolk. Very soon, however, it is out on a high embankment, which, according to agreement with owners of the Cromer-hall estate, over which the line has been so far carried, is to be planted with trees. 

The Roughton road crossed by bridge of 36 feet span, a structure which was the subject of much negotiation between town authorities and the promoting companies. The railway people would have made it 26 feet, and of brick. The townspeople desired it wider, and this necessitated a girder bridge, which, again, the urban council insisted should have ornamentation sufficient disguise the very prosaic outlines of that class of structure. 

A tunnel carries the line under that running into Cromer G.E.R. Station; a quarter-mile on the Sheringham side a loop comes down from the G.E.R., over which trains coming over that system and bound for Sheringham will run. The tunnel is 184 feet long, and its construction was one of the chief difficulties attending the work, owing to the small space between the rails above and the arch top of the new work. That everything was done and cleared away without delay of any kind in the G.E.R. train service, owing to the building of the tunnel underneath, was a feat which the may well proud.

OVERSTRAND STATION. 

Now we are out of Cromer, and heading for the coast road, leaving Northrepps on the right. In three and a-half miles from the starting-point, and a little more than four from Cromer Beach, we reach Overstrand Station, which has an island platform 500 feet long by 40 feet broad, approached from the village new road, the head of which a subway leads under the embankment, and by a rising ramp to the platform level. station buildings are smart and well-appointed, of red Leicestershire brick, with buff and blue facing, and the woodwork varnished pitchpine. Overstrand will be the principal station on the line. 

Overstrand Station soon after opening
Restored and colourised using Google Gemini

What was once a mere fishing village is now an aristocratic retreat, and no one remembers, when gazing at the half-Moorish tower and cloisters of the Pleasaunce, Lord Battersea's beautiful place, the picturesque villages, around and beyond it, that here, or close by, was old Beck Hithe, famous for little else but smuggling and daring tricks on angry revenue men. Even Old Shuck, the great hairy hound of the night with his noiseless tread and his blazing eyes, has gone clean away, and no fiend in these days haunts the trim churchyard, where, amid roofless walls, lies the Buxton who did so much towards the freedom of the slave and the Anna Gurney who first translated the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle into decent English. 

Sidestrand is passed in a cutting, but the town church by the roadside and the grey tower on the cliff are not far away. The idea, as originally designed, was to have gone nearer the sea. but Sir Samuel Hoare had restored and almost rebuilt Sidestrand-hall, and, deference to his wishes, the line was taken further inland, and out of sight of his house. A bridge of three arches takes us over the Southrepps road, and by an embankment we are carried into Trimingham Station, six miles from the starting point. 

TRIMINGHAM. 

Trimingham Station in Edwardian days
Restored and colourised using ChatGPT

The station buildings follow the design of those at Overstrand, the main difference being that the level of the line is reached by a staircase leading down from the road, instead of by incline from the lower road level as at Overstrand. There was some trouble here with the roads, one of which was stopped, another diverted, and four crossings were provided with a bridge. Trimingham will have many visitors for the sake of the Beacon Hill, eastward of the village, from the summit which smart-sighted people have descried as many as sixty churches on a clear day, and for the charm of the cliffs next the sea, hereabouts at the highest of the whole Norfolk coast. 

There are stories about pilgrims going to Trimingham see the head of St. John the Baptist but there is  little enough foundation for them when they come to examined. For certain, Trimingham never had so many pilgrims in all its history as have been thither since Clement Scott wrote Poppyland. A glimpse of the Beacon Hill is obtainable on the Cromer side of the village, but from that point onward, and for three-fourths of the remaining distance to Mundesley, the line runs in cutting. At Mundesley station we are eight and a-half miles from Cromer. 

MUNDESLEY.

It would out of place here to describe such an old-established and fashionable resort as Mundesley, which is rapidly growing into a pretty town. We might say much about the old half-ruined church, which has been so prettily restored, of the tiny river which crosses the lovely beach, of the wooded halls and verdant meadows around, of the beauty of the old mill stream, and the picturesque design of the station, and of the hotels and chapels. 

We might even enlarge the district round about, and tell of the Paston tombs at the church in the village of that name, of Bacton and its abbey, of Knapton church and its gorgeous roof, of—all the rest. But we are dealing with the new line, which, we must add, was built to the designs Mr. W. Marriott, M.Inst.C.E., engineer to the Midland and Great Northern Joint Railways, and constructed by Mr. Robert Finnigan, Northampton. Mr. C. A Sadler, Sheringham, erected the stations, Mr. A. Ross, M.Inst.C.E., was chief engineer, and Mr. Grote Stirling, M.Inst.C.E., is resident engineer. 

Those desiring a more technical account of the undertaking will find what they require in an interesting in article the Railway Gazette (May 11th), by Mr. Charles S. Lake, illustrated from a number of photographs taken by Mr. Grote Stirling, and to which we are indebted for some of the information given above. 

Source: Norfolk Chronicle - Saturday 19 May 1906