THE IDEAL WAY

Evening Post, Volume CX, Issue 38, 13 August 1930, Page 11

THE IDEAL WAY

HOLIDAYS DE LUXE

DISTRACTION OF CHOICE

HOW LONDON DECIDES

Written for "The Post" by Valeric 0. Corliss J

LONDON, 26th June.

At this time of tho year, when London gardens are gay with roses and larkspur, and trees, green and cool, lino the sunny streets, one's imagination clears tho hot city at a bound to seek fresh fields. Bees, humming in secluded gardens, afternoon tea under bright umbrellas on tho lawn, a hammock and a poetry book under tho elm tree, the scent of honeysuckle from over tho wall —these are delicious things wo admit. But .. . our inward eye conjures up pastel seas, sails of fishing boats, coves, cliffs where one can lie amongst long grass, Devonshire cream at quaint old farms, Mediterranean cruises on white ships, cool Italian villas with marble halls and fountains, gondolas in a moonlit canal. Yet we are- fully awaro that tho reality may fail to equal tho pleasures of a. home garden and that cool Italian villas are quite likely to fall short of expectations.' "/. In fact we murmur, "Why bother1?" and drop the poetry book over the side of tho hammock. But it will call us in tho end, nevertheless —that is, when we have once decided where to go. Ay, there's the rub. Where to go? Wo have practically decided upon Corn- j wall, and then someone suggests Norwegian Fjords. We are about to settlo on Norwegian. Fjords. We aro about to settle on Norwegian Fjords, and we meet a friend who has spent tho spring in Majorca. We take up our pen to write for accommodation in Majorca and aro interrupted by an artist acquaintance who has just returned from painting colourful boats in Concarneau. We feel that there is no spot more suited to our present mood than Conearneau, and meet another artist who tells us that they throw stones at us there. Wo decide that "to stay at home is best," and, really rather relieved, go for a bus rido only to get hoia up in Piccadilly Circus with the temperature at 80. This year the choice of holidays has been rendered j oven more tantalising. We are asked to "decide on tho spot" at the Ideal Holidays Exhibition —the first exhibition of its kind since tho war. HOT AND NOISY. The programme cover presents with simple brevity an interrogation mark, an exclamation mark, and a globe of the world. Bather curious—as the London Press had talked of many things, of sands and ships and liner's docks and gipsy bands and flings—l made a pilgrimage to the Boyal Agricultural Hall m Islington yesterday. Islington was hot, Islington was noisy, and the exterior of tho Boyal Agricultural Hall, although vast, appoared to my dusty eye somewhat unromantic and depressing. But I was mistaken in my conception of tho Boyal Agricultural HalL Even its turnstiles held a touch of magic. Onco through them I became a different person, like Alice in Wonderland, and shed the memories of Islington at a wave of the ticket-collector's hand.

Never has there been such an array of joyous literature. Colourful b.ooks, pictures, pamphlets, postcards, and posters invited me to countries strange and enticing. I was bidden to visit /Gibraltar, Spain, and Morocco for novelty and interest; Jamaica and tlie West Indies for sunshine and beauty. Delightful all-tho-year-round touis to Brazil and Argentina could bo mine at special rates, inclusive of hotel accommodation. Luxury cruises to Sunny Lands (fares from 100 guineas upwards and downwards) trailed dazzling routes before my eyes. "Through azure seas of beauty and glory" de luxe liners offered to carry me to Corsica, Italy, Malta, the Holy Jjand, Egypt, Algeria; to Portugal, Tunis, Turkey, Greece; to Sicily, Dalmatia, Tripoli, Venice; to Tangier, Canary Islands, Madeira; to Norwegian Fjords; to the Land of the Midnight Sun (weather permitting, the midnight sun will be visible at midnight). Foreign representatives urged me to follow the sun1 to Trieste, Naples, Spalato, Corfu,, Bermuda, Havana. And why not a camping holiday? Tho Camping Club of Great Britain and Ireland can easily supply me with tents, sleeping bags, fly sheets and ground sheets, stoves, rucksacks, and alpine kit. At the Wookey Hole Caves, two miles from Wells, I can see the earliest known home of prehistoric man, the Home of the Witch, the Hyaena Don, tho underground Bivei1 Axe, have tea in ideal surroundings, Bnd park my car free. "THE VIOLET GROWN." I trandered past the exhibits of Greece, with its pottery, currants, cigarettes, and carpets. Here was literature of a luscious order. "Athens," I read, "City of the Violet Crown." "Greece is still the enchanting land that inspired the Greek imagination. . . When in Greece . . . visit the southern shores of the Gulf of Corinth, where under tho glorious Greek- sun arid caressed by gentle sea breezes." . • . "In Greece your thoughts should be serene and your I mood that of ..." , Here my ear caught the strains of an orchestra. There was something about that orchestra. . . Of course, the Gipsy Band on the sunshine beach 1 It was just around the comer —a wealth of golden sand, an esplanade, gay beach umbrellas, deck chairs, multicoloured balls, and a beach tent. A realistic drop scene supplied blue sea and sky, white capped wavelets, ships, cliffs, rocks, birds, and a garden of optimistic hollihocks. The beach was flooded with artificial sunshine and the invigorating tang of ozono (manufactured by the "8.Q." ozoniser) sterilised, deodorised, and revitalised the f -walked across tho boaeh and sat in » pink deck chair under the gayest umbrella. At tha rocky end of tho beach Vorzanger'a Tzigane Band played Liszt's "Dream of Love" and some captivating Hungarian dances that set my feet tapping out an impromptu danco on tho sand, which, realistically, got into my shoes. The players looked picturesque m bright blue uniforms trimmed with white braid, red cuffs, and silver buttons. I •was somewhere far away near Budapest bathing in sunlight, gazing out to iea, listening to a Hungarian band, sniffing up the ozone, and beginning to feel a little hungry. THE ONE DESIRE. If I could only find some eating place, fitting to the occasion! I must. Through Panama, Peru, Czecho-blova-3ria Pola, and Aneona, Chili, and Latvia' I wandered on foot in search of food in a picturesque setting. And at fast I found it—a real cafe with a continental flavour suggesting Paris boulevards, life, gaiety, colour. Tables in make-believe out-of-doors, but real tea. It was during my third cup that I began to be aware of far away but j familiar sounds—the thumping of rope quoits, the clatter of wooden discs, the banging of cues, and the pounding of lubber shoes. From my continental haunt I was suddenly spirited to mid-1 Atlantic and the boisterous activities | ibf a, liner's duck. Here wag a freel

"voyage" specially arranged by a great steamship company for Ideal Holidays Exhibition passengers who J wished to learn to play deck games bot'or'o taking a holiday at sea. I lay back in a deck chair and surveyed the long broad deck, the ship's railing, the lifebelts, the illimitable sea deepening into dark blue towards the horizon, the j ship's bell inscribed with her namo, the upper deck realistically portrayed on the drop-scene, and the quartermasters superintending games. Besides me two men played Angell golf on a specially woven putting green 15ft long. At the for'aH end of the deck a foursome played an energetic game of tennis. Aft, a dear old lady was timidly endeavouring to persuade rubber discs to focus upon a bull-board. ALMOST REAL. I lay back and indulged in happy reminiscences. Those "passengers" silhouetted against tho sea and tho ship s railing, the effect of sunshine, tho quartermasters' uniforms (these wero real sailonncn from the company's vessels), the laughter, the calling out of scores, the familiar sounds of quoits and shuffle-board and peg-board, brought back memories of afternoons on long voyages. I felt very much at home. Tho ship's motion was all that the scene lacked. I embarked at Poland. After browsing amongst colourful representations of Eastern fairs, mazurkas, dancing girls in bluo and red bodices, and skirts, beating bluo and red drums, chatting for a few moments with a very real and charming member of tho Polish Personnel, and deciding there and then to go to Poland for my holiday, I mentally journeyed Indiawards to orange-coloured skies, elephants, and bazaars; through Egypt, "land of the stork and scarlet Ibis' — to golden coasts, tangerine seas, mosques, pyramids, and Arabs in blue. Norway and mountains of enchantment; Le Touquet, golden sands, and girls in bathing kit playing with a crimson ball; La Tunisie, a green robe, an indigo sky, a drum and a flute; the Baltic and picturesque giants striking attitudes in yellow coats, blue trousers, and red leggings; Switzerland and colourful , loads of snow, fun, and the youth of the. world; Pokin, a marblo boat and a summer palace; the Balearic Isles, pink temples, and balustrades, black donkeys, palms—it was a pageant calculated to sinito the most conservative John Eull with a consuming wanderlust. MEETING THE CARAVANS. And then I-suddenly encountered tho caravans. What is it about caravana'J They instantly suggest gipsies; then oarly morning tea on the caravan steps; then hedgerows, fields of poppies, and dips into secluded rivers; meetings with quaint personages of the road; adventure; discovery. Hero were horsedrawn earavaus,. telescopic caravans, folding caravans, nil enticingly displayed amidst synthetic grass and firtrees in tubs. Their interiors presented gay cretonne covers, cushions, and curtains, latticed windows, bookshelves, and cooking stoves. A group surrounded the old pioneer "Wanderer," built fifty years ago by the late Dr. GordonStables. This is the famous caravan in which the author wrote so many of his books for boys. There were several boys about it now gazing at this old picture-book caravan which had rested in so many romantic spots. In a caravan nearby ,a man and a girl were having aftemo'6n tea. I caught a glimpse of a gay table cloth and cottage china. A kettle sang on tho stove and tho steam puffed right out of the open doorway. The riddlo of my holiday destination was solved. I would take a caravan, wander over the hills and far away, and have a kettle that would puff steam out of tho open door. ■ And lo! Here was New Zealand — '' The Sportsman's Paradise'' —colourfully flourishing Maoris, tourists, pahs, hot springs, fishermen, and a bluo swordfish leaping at an astonishing height out of the choppy blue waters of the Bay of Islands. Mount Cook lifted its realistic peaks roofwards and tho Hermitage stood out in fine relief in the foreground. Hefty specimens o± brown trout, swordfish, and other species of whieb I was ignorant, intrigued the attracted, if somewhat incredulous, cockney. A brave little tree of rata grew in a golden basket on New Zealand's shores. And suddenly I could smell the ,earthy, ferny, tang or. bush, the stinging sweetness of a picnic fire, and taste the never-to-be-for-gotten fragrance of billy tea. . . THE QUEEN CITY. From New Zealand I was blown along (so much was my imagination and memory stirred) to the canals of Venice. Here, to my delight, I found a real Venetian gondola. I sat in it, and gazed entranced across pastel-blue waters to towers, domes, and turrets luminously shining in a pearly light. My gondola was a thrill It was as black as ebony, with old red leather seats, little black chairs, two horses' heads worked in old brass, and a pair of long oars with black blades.

And as I sat and romanced over moonlight and gondolas, carnivals, masks, and impassioned ballads, reflections in the water and fabulous tales, the Tzigane Band miraculously floated into the dreamy music of the "Tales of Hoffman."

Realising that if I sat there mueli longer I would become quite a popular exhibit, I extricated myself from tho gondola and strolled seawards once again, to watch the beach games and note their health value as demonstrated by a representative of the New Health Society. But they were just over, so I waited for the mannequin parade instead, and was rewarded by the sight of dazzling creatures parading up and down in extra strong aunshine and scanty bathing dresses of vivid hues. The male audience on tho esplanade watched in absorbed and respectful silence. A pianist among the rocks played Chopin Preludes. In my programme I read: "The urge of tho sea which asserts itself at this time of the year is probably a faint survival from bygone ages when our ancestors were lowly marine beings just emerging from an aquatic existence." Quito probably.

After a nautical wander, during which I inspected tho glorious models of giant liners, the miniature cabin of tho s.s. Minnetonka, a full-sized model of a suito de luxe on. one of Cook's Nile steamers, an Amazonian fishing-boat with saxc bluo sails, and an anti-travel-sickness-belt—equally efficacious for sea, train, motor, and air sickness, guaranteed harmless—l wan moved to fill in a competition form for tho prize of a £25 cruise.

"Someone must win this Idea] Holiday. Why not you? Why not, indeed? Then I stepped out into Islington. It seemed queer to be back in London onco again. I felt that somehow I ought to be surrounded with luggage stuck all over with labels. I had been a long and enchanting way all in one afternoon.