Clement Scott in Poppyland : 4

 "POPPYLAND."

"What a fool you were ever to let a human being into the secret of your beloved Cromer. Why could you not let it alone? Why on earth did you not keep it to yourself?"

These are the jeering and taunting remarks that are hurled every summer at my offending head. Instead of being a benefactor to the human race, instead of being allowed to pride myself on my own unselfishness, I am, I regret to say, looked upon as a tainted or suspected person.

"Look here, old fellow, I have a delightful little place of my own down in the country," observed a friend the other day, "and I should like to ask you down very much to stay with me as long as you like, but—well—will you promise me on your oath you will not write about it? for, honestly, I do want to keep it to myself, and to give the slip to the tripper."

Quite ten long years ago I first made the acquaintance of Cromer, and it was then the quietest and, I believe, the most romantic seaside nook in England. It had no great hotels, no piers, no bathing machines, and no bands. Sands were good enough for us then: our bathing machines were the clefts in the cliffs, our music came from wandering musicians. I walked out before dinner, and saw the sun sink Runton way a solitary pilgrim.

If ever wakeful at three o'clock in the morning, I could have seen the sun rise over by the Lighthouse Cliff, standing on the turf that I suggested—entirely to myself—would be admirable for golf.

The green landscape was not then starred with red-brick villas. The poppies had it all their own way. One morning, I wandered aimlessly over this soft, turfy cliff, and found myself in the most romantic of Norfolk villages. I leaned over a white gate, and looked enviously into a rose garden.

I broke one of the Commandments. I envied my neighbour's house, and he, the miller of Sidestrand, repaid my ingratitude by making me his friend for life. And here I dwelt, under the shadow of the old mill, and here I discovered the Garden of Sleep, and here I became acquainted with the fishermen and the villagers, and here I have lived on and off, spring, summer, autumn, and winter, up to this very hour.

For l am writing these lines in the very room, at the same table, and sitting on the same chair, as when, in that rash but generous moment, I despatched the first of the Poppyland Papers.

But there are other sinners besides myself. It is not fair to make me alone bear the burden of this crime of publicity. Scarcely was the ink dry that printed Poppyland in the largest circulation in the world, ere George R. Sims arrived to advertise the glories of the Cromer district.

Here, at the table where I write, sitting in my chair, and dipping his pen into the inkstand presented to me one Christmas by the villagers of Sidestrand, the excellent "Dagonet" exchanged sentiment for his own delightful humour. He laughed, he chaffed, and made the place notorious. He opened the stage door and lit the theatre at Poppyland.

Here he brought Wilson Barrett to write plays; here he conducted poor Robert Reece to breathe some fresh air once more when he was in extremis; here came Henry Pettitt to collaborate with George Sims in the old mill garden.

The profession, once tempted, poured into Poppyland. Beerbohm Tree dreamed of Hamlet in the Old Mill House, and actually studied the Prince of Denmark in a secluded arbour at Northrepps. George Alexander is well-known at Runton and Sheringham. Hermann Vezin loves to bathe off Overstrand beach.

Ah! me, but I forget. This old table at which I write is far more famous than any of you imagine. Here, Algernon Charles Swinburne wrote A Midsummer Holiday, whilst his friend, Theodore Watts, composed sonnets in the blue china dining-room.

Plays, poems, essays, stories, leaders, descriptive papers, have all been written in this sunny little room, dear to me by many a delightful memory.

And it is ten years ago since Louie opened the white gate to me, and said that the traveller might rest. Only two seconds ago the faithful Louie opened the door to just such another traveller, and assured him that there was not a bed to be had for love or money between Sheringham and Mundesley.

Well, what do you think! They have built a Grand Hotel, and are designing a new and splendid Pier that is to have kiosques and shops, and a theatre and dancing platform at the end. There are bands of music all over the place. There are as many donkeys and donkey-chaises at modern Cromer as at Scarborough. The primitive little Cromer of old is fringed round with scarlet houses.

Poets, like Mr. Sampson-Locker, and politicians, such as Mr. Broadhurst, Mr. Cyril Flower, and Mr. John Morley, make Poppyland their home.

The golf links that I dreamed about on the Lighthouse Cliff are an accomplished fact. The sands swarm with tents and tennis nets.

Overstrand, that was once a hamlet of humble fishermen's cottages, is a red townlet of bungalows and villas.

The silent lanes, trodden so few years ago alone by the husbandman, fishier, and postman, echo with the shouts of excursionists and holiday-makers. Omnibuses, char-à-bancs, waggonettes, donkey-chaises, go in one continual stream all day between Cromer and Trimingham.

Sidestrand Mill having lost its sails
Restored and colourised using Google Gemini

The old mill opposite my cottage has dropped its arms in horror at the change. It has tumbled down and given up the ghost. The Garden of Sleep has been so trampled upon by visitors that it has fallen half-down into the sea.

The tower and gravestones of old Sidestrand church - 'The Garden of Sleep'
Restored, adapted and colourised using Google Gemini

From morning until night the excursionists gaze into our rose garden, lean over my white gate, and babble continuously, "Poppyland! Poppyland!"

Nay, they do more—they enter laughingly, and demand relics of Dagonet, Swinburne, Pettitt, Beerbohm Tree, and Wilson Barrett. They offer bribes for Swinburne's stick and Dagonet's pipe. They have been known—enthusiastic ladies these—to ask if they might sit in the chair of the author of Poppyland Papers, and to handle his pen.

Pretty dears! So, after all, was it wholly wrong to open to the world the gates that lead to Poppyland ?Someone else must decide that question. May they all be as happy there as I have been. Deo Gratias!

First published in The Idler, vol.2, August 1892-January 1892