It’s 1822. You have travelled all the way from London to Bath for “the season.” There is a smell of hedonism among the upper class guests who are arriving. It will be simple to throw away one’s virtue as well as their wealth, and simple to contract the pox.
You have arrived in Georgian England.
Despite the fact that it is a period of revolution, the old order of aristocracy and land still controls the country. The creation of wealth through industry is giving rise to a new middle class as well as a moral attitude that is less accepting. However, since this is one of the most popular fallacies about the English language, let’s stick with it for a while.
The smells of contemporary city life are pervasive in the atmosphere. When it rains in Bath, the streets become a mucky quagmire, and the smell of manure fills the air. Because of this, tourists with sensitive respiratory systems are being advised to go to Weston-super-Mare instead of Bath because it is a less trendy but exceptionally healthy little spa village. Bath is surrounded by a valley that is enveloped in smoke.
How to get here?
The first railway to puff into Weston won’t arrive for another 19 years, so you might as well hop on a bone-shaking stagecoach that leaves from Bath’s Angel Inn in the meantime. Arriving ‘approximately’ five hours later at Fry’s Hotel on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays at noon (today Royal, opened 1810).
Don’t complain about the bumps on the road if money is tight; instead, take an overnight trip in a cart or caravan.
Why 1822?
It is the year when Weston’s very first guide book appeared on store shelves.
A little more than 700 people were counted during the census the year before, but there are now more than 70,000. The emphasis is placed on health rather than amusement in the marketing materials, which include phrases like “the exceptional salubrity of its refreshing breezes.” The air is described as being “soft but invigorating,” and it is “particularly beneficial to those constitutions with which the Devonshire coast disagrees,” which is a subtle jab at our neighbours.
The weather in Weston, despite being pleasant, is said to give “strength to the invalid even while blowing a storm.”
No stag or hen parties, no riffraff, no kiss-me-quick vulgarities, no naff beer-bellied forty-something shaven-headed oikes clinging to long-since departed youth; no seekers of a Saturday night punch-up, no clandestine alleyway exchange of narcotics, no karaoke belching from speech-inhibiting amplifiers; just well-heeled genteel
Our guide emphasises this notion by stating, “Fitness, not dissipation, is the attraction, therefore public amusements are few.” On the other hand, there is a billiard table close to the hotel, as well as a reading area at the Knightstone baths where guests can bring their daily newspapers. Great!
