Tunbridge Wells may be laughed atbut with envy and affection

Press, 9 May 1978, Page 22

Tunbridge Wells may be laughed at—but with envy and affection

For some reason, Tunbridge Wells has, over the years, become something of a joke, referred to as an elephants’ dying ground of retired Armyofficers, about 20deg right of Enoch Powell and associated with wrought iron, frosted glass and certain species of prunus. This concept hardly does justice to the likeable town surrounded by Kentish hopfields, fertile farms scattered with Romannosed sheep, and magnificent old barns curtained silver birches, oaks and elms all under a wide sky marbled with Constablelike clouds.

Tunbridge Wells grew around medicinal springs that first came to prominence in 1606 when Lord North found their waters, like diluted chalk, beneficial for a variety of ailments. His praises brought

fashion flocking. In 1629, Henrietta Maria, Charles I’s consort, came to Tunbridge Wells as did Catherine of Braganza, Charles H’s queen, 10 years later. The town itself had been laid out with baths, promenades, fountains, terraces, and villas. “The Pantiles, the principal promenade, has survived to become the town’s main attraction. In 1638, it was covered so that the quality, clad in their bathrobes, could go direct from taking the waters to taking refreshment in the coffee houses.

The popularity of Tunbridge Wells continued growing and the town with it, reaching the height of its luxury, selfindulgence and ostentation in the early eighteenth century during George H’s reign.

Dr Johnson, David Garrick, William Pitt, heroes, bishops and kings’ cousins made their way there. Having concluded his reign as arbiter of society and conduct at Bath, Beau Nash spent the last 20 years of his life doing the same for Tunbridge Wells.

During the Napoleonic Wars, Richard Cumberland went on a secret mission to Spain but, refused his commission for exceeding expenses, he settled at

Tunbridge Wells to write farces, tragedies, poems and novels, now forgotten although they earned their author a grave in Westminster Abbey.

By then, though, fashion had taken up Brighton the craze for sea air and bathing steadily drawing patronage away from Tunbridge Wells. Today you step out of the station into a prosperous town, full of quality shops, department stores built in the Italian 1930 s railway station school of architecture, flourishes of brick gabling, and bingo halls in recycled movie palaces.

You can take a turning and find.yourself in a Regency enclave — a curving lane, perhaps, overhung by wrought-iron balconies; a little square where a small glasshouse sells flowers and plants.

By

MOLLY G. ELLIOTT

To reach the Pantiles cut straight downhill. On the way you pass a huge Elizabethan barn — all bricks half-timbering and tiled roof — which has become a restaurant.

The pavement is of limestone flags. White pillars support the sheltering verandas. Seats separate lime trees, creating a fragile, flickering shade in the sunlight. Many business premises occupy ancient buildings, some 300 years old, and of all shapes and sizes like potatoes grown among stones. Off-centre windows punctuate weatherboard upper storeys typical of Kent and Sussex and looking as if held together by nothing more than paint and prayer. Because Tunbridge Wells has become a desirable address, just over an hour from London by train, it has a high incidence of estate agents* their offices cheek by jowl with shops selling antiques, brocades, perfumes, rugs, cushions, terracottas, damask, cameos, enamels, coins, intagios, reliefs, jades, paintings, prints, pottery, porcelain and couches worthy of the Serpent of the Nile. Off the Pantiles lead narrow lanes, some lined

with more quaint shops, several selling old books. One shop specialises in wooden bird houses; these are set out on the pavement.

Other lanes lead to cottages, all tile-hanging, leaded lights and creepers; or to pretty Queen Anne and Georgian houses that look as if transplanted from a Jane Austen novel.

Antique grandfather clocks and rocking chairs enhance the atmosphere in numerous coffee' shops which serve simple delights like freshly baked scones and home-made jam.

People seem relaxed; they have time to stop and chat. Assistants serve you with smiling courtesy.

You don’t feel con-, science-stricken if you sit on one of the seats to watch this gracious little world go by before bend- ,

ing your steps to the ’ nearby Church of St > Chariea the Martyr — a * place with a delicate plas- J ter roof and the pew which Queen Victoria once-» occtqiied. • It was a fashionable • church in its day; yet, the first child christened in its font, haughty with white • marble, belonged to a gipsy woman passing through: an event typical of the contradictions and contrasts in this interesting old town.