Holidays In Other Lands

Ladies' Mirror, Volume V, Issue 6, 1 December 1926, Page 22

Holidays In Other Lands

will soon be here, and from force of habit, certainly not because the weather suggests it. we are beginning to make plans for our yearly holiday. We arc all secretly anxious to capture “that holiday feeling” which comes over us, when we leave behind our usual selves and habits, and embark on a fortnight, three weeks or a month of a new life. “Let’s go mad,” we say quietly to ourselves, and so we do, in our various ways. This is how the many weird and wonderful ways of holiday making have come into being. In New Zealand we like to run wild, to get back to nature. “Ain't Nature grand?” we say to each other as we stand barelegged, straight-haired, powderless, freckled, in our most disreputable garments on the deck of a yacht, or lie in bathing costumes on sun-baked beaches, or wear a collection of old clothes mountaineering. We are not fastidious about our holiday wardrobes, or whether the hotels or boarding houses have the very latest in comfort and diversion. Other lands, other holidays ! A favourite holiday with London girls is “on the river !” “If only” plays a big part in the preparations for such a holiday, and refers mainly to the weather. No more miserable a holiday can be imagined than a wet fortnight spent in a small punt on the River Thames. One might just as well spend it in the London

tube because crouching under the low green awning of the boat is as stuffy with far less room. Supposing the sun should shine for a whole fortnight ! (It never does, but we're talking about holidays, which arc always full of “supposings.”) Well, supposing it does, then we are in for one of the most delightful holidays imaginable. Our river tour shall start from Maidenhead. From the moment we step into our punt with its gay chintz cushions, and settle ourselves luxuriously, we get “that holiday feeling.” A punt lends itself to picturesque attitudes, and the experienced river girl makes the most of these opportunities. She lies lazily against the cushions, carries coquettishly her gay coloured silk parasol, and trails her pale fingers in the water ! Her companion looks very workmanlike in immaculate white flannels, sleeves turned up, and uses the punt pole with skill and grace that only comes with practice. Punting looks so easy, but just try it and see. Often have I seen men who laughed it to scorn, in the most undignified positions, looking like

monkeys on a stick. The pole sticks in the mud. the punter sticks to his pole, and the boat goes sailing on ! ~,-. 1,-! , , „ , Uur holiday lias begun, adven- , , "... 111 ture beckons, and it romance should ~, ~ , , blossom forth, well; could any setting be more per led ! The river is not too wide at Maidenhead, and flows along peacefully. I don't know which side is more beautiful—the right with its steep embankment covered with the beautiful beeches of Clevedon Woods, which hang far over the river, or the softly undulating hills, patchworked with squares of ripening corn, waving green crops, and the well wooded parklands of large estates on the left. Upstream we go. paddling lazily with no settled plan or timetables. A shady backwater where .. . , , ~ , ... the branches of the trees interlace, . .. x , A . / invites us to rest and we tie up to , ~. , l a tree, have an alfresco meal, snooze . ~' , i. , J , . . quietly and listen to the music of a .' . / , . banjoletc or deccaphonc. J l „, . , , , ~ There is no need to be dull on the river. Lvery few miles a village

or a town crops up, where' riverside

hotels offer good orchestras, jazzing and attractive meals. There’s “Shindies” at Maidenhead with its beautiful grounds and balcony overlooking the river, where well-known society and theatrical people foregather. There’s “The Bell,” a quaint little Inn with old panelling and pewter, at Hurley, a village between Cookham and Henley, where well-known politicians have been known to stay for idyllic, if unofficial. week-ends. The Phyllis Court Club at Henley Society’s riverside rendezvous, lives up to River traditions and offers members facilities for moonlight excursions and champagne suppers for the trifling entrance fee of 20 guineas and annual subscription of 10 guineas. Further up the stream is Oxford, where the night ashore can be spent at the fine old “Mitre Hotel.” To get charming scenery, let’s make for Cockham, Marlowe, Hurley and Sonning, where the sweet peace of the river casts its spell over everything. During the sunny day we will lie dreaming under the trees, while the blue dragon flies dart about the flowers on the river’s brink, and the swans sail majestically towards our boat. Then as evening falls let us drift silently down stream, watching the moon rise and make its silver path on the calm water. Romance claims the river for its own on warm summer moonlight nights and who would have it otherwise ?

Now for a different holiday, when we shall live in sophisticated, worldly fashion ! We have bought our tickets for Nice and planned to see all we can of the Riviera. Clothes are our first thought, and if it’s going to be a happy holiday, done in the approved style, they are an expensive and important item. Sports suits of that simple but costly cut, and costumes and dresses for every occasion must be taken. From Christmas to April is the season for Nice, Monte Carlo, Monaco. Mentone, St. Remo and Cannes. Venice, with its popular beach “The Lido,” gets its turn in June, July, and August. No train trip is pleasant, so we’ll pass over the long wintry journey from London to Paris, and that co 1 d uncomfortable sleep in the train as it tears through France, until we wake up with a cricked neck next morning. The train is passing along the Rhone, the sun is shining and drawing perfumes from the damp earth. Olive trees are scattered over the hills, and wherever there arc houses there are gardens, and the gardens arc filled with flowers. After passing through Toulon we arc in a veritable garden, a paradise of roses, and groves of oranges and lemons covered with fruits and flowers at the same time. Roses of every kind grow luxuriantly and fill the air with perfume. The Mediterranean bordered with brown rocks is shining blue in the sun. The villas peep out from the trees, the wattles, the gums, the olives ! Are they not the most fascinating houses in the world ? So white, so decorative with yellow and blue tiles, so gay in architecture. Nice is a good centre for Riviera joys. The hotels run in French style are comfortable enough, when you and your stomach get used to them. The day is all too short. For keen tennis players there are courts at Cannes, and Monaco, where the topnotchcrs hold their championships. For the few walking enthusiasts left in the world there are walks over the hills behind Nice, through the vineyards and pictureesqttc but inconceivably dirty villages. The Upper and Lower Cornichc roads, made by Napoleon, offer a paradise for motorists. Up and down hills, curving in and out with the sea, these fine roads hug the coast from Cannes to San Remo, and provide a succession of views of unsurpassed beauty. The country, behind the fashionable sea resorts, is full of quaint charm and rich in history. Several towers built by St. Augustine stand like sentinels on these hills, and buildings in the villages date from mediaeval times. Peasants still live in cave-like dwellings built in the hills. Then, of course, we must pay our respects to Monte Carlo. As we are not inveterate gamblers we. will go in the evening. Daylight and the artificiality of the Casino don’t go well together. But at night it is fascinatingevery inch of it! The famous grounds of the Casino with

their lawns and flower beds look like an elaborate stage scene, with subdued lighting effects. Then the Casino itself ! Passports must be shown as credentials before passing into the great hall. Couches line the walls and thirteen long tables surrounded with people fill the floors of the various sumptuous salons. It is the people that are so fascinating. The excitements of the tables fade in comparison. There are all types there, quite shabby looking people, as well as the gorgeously dressed. How quickly one can distinguish the real gamblers ! Silently and intently they watch the table they are backing, and the spinning ball. The betting chances are many and full of

possibilities. There are thirty-six numbers and one can bet either on the reds or blacks, the odds or evens, in groups of twelve or on single 'numbers. The game goes on mechanically all day. The head croupier sits on a high seat in the middle of the table, and calls out in a monotonous voice, “Fait vos jeux!” (“Make your Bets!”) A few minutes later, he throws the ball and it goes spinning round the circular bowl. Then in the same tone of voice, he shouts “Rien va plus!” (“No more betting!”) All eyes are fixed on the white ball which gradually slackens in speed until it rolls into one of the 36 holes. The croupiers at the end of the table then pay out, and everyone takes

their money quickly. It has a habit of disappearing otherwise ! It is easy to realise that this is the Mecca of gamblers. That strange trait the gambling instinct, is apparent in the most diverse types. However, they need not be as we are not gamblers, but on holiday; we stroll from table to table, have a little flutter, lose a bit and win a trifle. The gay crowd always walking about the Casino is full of interest and very spectacular. Drinks and light refreshments are served in the adjoining lounge about midnight. When the opera is over, a fresh crowd enters, women in magnificent clothes and distinguished looking men. And here are we

in the midst of perhaps the most brilliant, and the most cosmopolitan assembly of people in the world ! Excited and thrilled we pass out into the cool night, and the soft air gradually soothes and wakes us from what seems an amazing dream —the Casino of Monte Carlo. Off to the mountains for our next holiday, where we shall soon become energetic and want to walk miles. “Free life and fresh air,” we say to ourselves as we pack sensible clothes, woollen stockings, costumes and raincoats. We include evening frocks and dainty summer frocks also and label our trunk “Lucerne, Switzerland.” Here we are at the frontier town, Basel, where

we have a substantial and appetising meal in one of the best railway restaurants in Europe. We change trains and almost immediately come into mountain scenery. Pine forests lie dark against the mountain sides. and everywhere charming little chalets built of brown wood are perched quaintly on the slopes. We look ambitiously at the snowy peaks towering above us, and immediately plan to make a mountaineering record. Lucerne is a fine city on the shores of Lake Lucerne, and has quaint bridges with wooden roofs. Luxurious hotels, glacier gardens, wide avenues of magnificent walnut trees, chestnuts and fig trees make it one of the chief Swiss pleasure resorts. However, it’s too fashionable and sophisticated for us. We want Switzerland in its raw state. A small steamer takes us to Stans, a little place on the other * ide of the lake, a lovely trip which chows the softest beauty and sternest aspects of alpine wildness. Stans is a village on the lower slopes of the Stanserhorn mountain, which commands a magnificent view of the Bernese Alps, the Monte Rosa group, noted for its bcautv and fine glaciers. The little hotel is run on simple Swiss lines. Breakfast consists of rolls and butter, honey and coffee. Lunch is a light meal, and dinner quite an elaborate affair with six or seven courses. In all Swiss hotels, the entree is invariably veal, cut in slices and placed in a neat row down a long silver dish. Vegetables are grouped on each side. It is such a work of art in arrangement that it always calls for admiring comment. The bedrooms have verandahs, and the beds look fantastic with great billowy feather cushions on them. English people give them such nicknames as “bumptious eiderdowns” and toss them on the floor. June is an ideal month for Switzerland. The fields are gay with wild flowers, and on the mountain slopes the beautiful blue gentian grows. This flower seems as typical of Switzerland as the edelweiss, the white flannel flower. Brogues and alpinstocks are useful now, for tramping along the mountain roads, climbing the lower passes, and exploring the William Tell district which is quite near. For higher climbing we move on to Grindelwald, a town 4,000 feet high, where snow-capped mountains rise one after the other as far as the eye can see. We will stay at “The Bear,” a good hotel and “reasonable vvithall.” It has a little verandah set with nainted tables where we car drink coffee and watch the passersby. This is a centre for serious mountaineering, demonstrated bv the weird costumes of some female alpinists. Look at them--women in puttees and breeches, nailed boots, alpine sticks in hand, knapsacks or back, and a whole pot of vaseline on their faces. Certainly, the sur is fierce in the daytime, and everybody looks sunbaked. It seems in credible that one could be so ’ hot, while walking over an avalanche oi snow.