Brighton A Famous English Seaside Resort by Rosemary Morris

For more information on Rosemary's latest novel please click on the cover.

Photo Credit Brighton-royal-pavilion-Qmin Creeative Commons

I am enjoying the research for my next novel, Saturday’s Child, Heroines Born on Different Days of the Week, Book Six, set in Regency Brighton, so much that I have shared some of the facts in this brief blog, which I hope you will enjoy.
The assumption that until the Regency era, Brighthelmstone, later called Brighton, was a small fishing village is false. The town became a popular health resort in the 1750’s due to the belief that bathing in the sea and drinking brine cured every ailment. (A subject I blogged about last month.)
When the twenty-one-year old heir to the throne first visited Brighton to enjoy merry-making, it was already a centre of fashionable, somewhat louche society. Nevertheless, in 1811 when the population numbered 14,000 residents, crime was negligible, and doors were not locked at night.
Fashionable Regency Brighton boasted elegant houses on the north side of Marine Parade, which was parallel to the ocean, facilities for bathing, assembly rooms, a theatre, shops, libraries, and the future Prince Regent’s ground where the nobility played cricket.
Parliament rose in June, after which the heat in London became intolerable and the capital city was considered unhealthy. Families retreated to their estates in the country or to a seaside resort along improved roads that shortened their journeys.
Those who did not own a house in Brighton could lease one, stay in clean, comfortable hotels, boarding houses or lodgings, which replaced accommodation in previously dirty, overcrowded inns.
An illustrious visitor was the future King George IV. The twenty-one-year-old Prince, later the Prince Regent, first came to Brighton to escape from his father’s rigid control and the court’s formality. In 1785 he rented a farmhouse situated by the River Steine, on a site only six hundred yards from the sea. Subsequently he bought the property. During the next thirty years the modest building was transformed into The Royal Pavilion which has been restored and is open to the public.
The Prince Regent knew more about architecture and fine arts than any other European Prince. He put his knowledge to good use when he commissioned the building. Yet, because of its domes and pagodas Sidney Smith commented that it looked ‘as if St Paul’s had gone to sea and pupped’. The Royal Pavilion became a Chinese fantasy with paintings of emperors and empresses, mandarins and high-born ladies on the walls, tasselled canopies with bells overhead and a profusion of imperial five-clawed dragons. As well the magnificent décor, the prince installed bathrooms, gas lighting, an early type of central heating, and the most up to date kitchen gadgets. He was so proud of these that he often took his friends to the kitchen to admire them.
Brighton is still a popular seaside town and a visit to The Royal Pavilion is a worthwhile experience.

Novels by Rosemary Morris

Early 18th Century novels: Tangled Love, Far Beyond Rubies, The Captain and The Countess

Regency Novels False Pretences.

Heroines Born on Different Days of the Week Books one to Six, Sunday’s Child, Monday’s Child, Tuesday’s Child, Wednesday’s Child, Thursday’s Child and Friday’s Child.

(The novels in the series are not dependent on each other, although events in previous novels are referred to and characters reappear.)

Mediaeval Novel Yvonne Lady of Cassio. The Lovages of Cassio Book One

www.rosemarymorris.co.uk

http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary

The Perils of an Outhouse by Katherine Pym

Buy Here 

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Canvas Tent in the Woods

Based on true events, you are about to read a grumbly tale:

One weekend my dad announced we were going camping. He professed it was cheaper than motel rooms with 7 people crammed on beds and rented cots (2 adults and 5 kids), and all the meals eaten in restaurants. My parents were new to this and had borrowed the gear.

Brown Bear ready to Eat me.

Camping never appealed to me. Far too rustic and dangerous, crevasse-like gouges marred trees where bears had scraped their claws down the length of the trunks. Deep lakes and river rapids spoiled the fun. Never heard wolves howl in the distance, but we were warned of skunks and wolverines. Rabid squirrels had been found in the area. Biting insects swarmed about our ears. Horrible.

I disliked going on vacation only to work my fingers to the bone: Cooking over a campfire and lugging buckets of cold water to wash tin dishes took away from swimming and exploring. The soap always thinned in the hard water or seemed to go away altogether, which meant stuck-on food took forever to scrape off. Then, I had to find a way to dump grease from the cast iron skillets so that beasties wouldn’t find their way into camp.

I was given the task to air out sleeping bags in the morning and return them to their places in the afternoon. They always dwarfed me as I dragged them across the ground, and the sun beating down on the old canvas gave the tent a strange smell.

Headaches plagued me after sleeping on the ground. One trip we were without a tent, and arriving late to the campground, the only place left was on a hill. The next morning I had slipped to the edge of a precipice and nearly died in the night.

Memory: when between chores, mom and I walked along a path by the river, where we found a dam made of branches and sticks. “Now, Kathy don’t let your brothers disturb the dam,” Mom said. “It might be a beaver’s house with baby beavers inside.” It was interesting to think a small animal could make such a large footprint, and disturb an entire flow of a river.

Outhouse in the wilderness

Going to the toilet in the bushes or wait my turn at the outhouse was always the worst. Flies were a terrible bother, and one never knew if a bee’s or wasps’ nest had taken residence somewhere in there.

We used flashlights to guide our way through the groaning, spooky forest in the night, sit over holes where many others had squatted, and smell the leavings from those bodies. Really gaggingly horrible.

One night my brother dropped the flashlight in the hole. He returned the next day with my other brothers, one of whom was around the age of 5 or 6. They realized the flashlight hadn’t taken a dive into the sludge, but fallen onto a large pile of poop topped with toilet paper. Horrifying with stinky residue, but retrievable.

“Hey Jimmy,” Tom said. “We’ll lower you down so you can grab the flashlight.”

John nodded. “Sure. Let’s do it. We won’t drop you.”

With heartfelt innocence, Jimmy smiled at them.

“We promise,” John said as he raised the platform with the holes.

A Two-Seater

They grabbed Jimmy around his ankles and slowly lowered him into the cesspit. 

Birdsong paused. Insects stopped flying, their buzzes strangled. A raven cried terror from a tree.  Even the breezes had died in morbid expectation.

Lower and lower Jimmy went until his ankles were just above the walls of the pit. 

“Can you reach it?” Tom yelled.

Jimmy coughed. “Almost.”

Tom and John lowered Jimmy so that his entire body was beneath the pit’s rim. “Can you reach it, now?” John demanded.

“Got it,” Jimmy yelled. “Get me out of here.”

They hauled him up, clutching the fouled flashlight. “Here.” He handed it to Tom.

They ran out of the outhouse with their prize, placed it in its proper spot for the next person, never telling anyone where it had been.

Until much much later.

Truly horrible. 

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Many thanks to wikicommons, public domain & my memory.

The Who, What, Where, Why and WHEN of Writing - Part 5 by Diane Bator

 

By Diane Bator

Today we’re at the end of my original list of the five Ws of writing. We’ve already gone through:

Who – as in Who are YOU as a writer?

What – for What do you want to write?

Where – location, location, location.

Why – what drives you?

This blog post is brought to you by When. When can mean a couple of things, the best time of day to write or the best time of your life to start writing. Let’s start with the time of day, shall we?

Some writers swear they are the most creative early in the morning. In order to be at their best, they start the day by doing Morning Pages as per Julia Cameron in her book The Artist’s Way. Julia describes Morning Pages as “three pages of longhand writing, strictly stream-of-consciousness.” (The Artists Way, page 10.) A lot of writers I know use this time to clear the noisy thoughts from their minds so they can focus on the task ahead. Their creative writing. Some writers even find ideas come from this flow of consciousness, sometimes while they sip their morning coffee or tea.

For me personally, I used to get up before I awoke my kids for school when they were younger and was happy even when I only had time to write a page or two out on my back porch. Now, I’m able to carve out time in the morning before my full-time job since my kids are much older. At least a couple days per week, I will use my half hour lunch break to write as well and like to keep a couple evenings open to create as well.

Recently someone on social media asked how old you have to be to become a writer. That created a whole new conversation and received a lot of answers. Some not so nice as people are bound to be online. It did prompt me to do a little digging.

I’ve been a storyteller and writer since I was young and still have handwritten stories and poems from when I was a teenager when my first two poems were published. I was about 15 years old.

There are no real age limits to writing or even being published. The youngest person I discovered online was Dorothy Straight who wrote her books at age 4 and was published her book “How the World Began” at age 6 in 1964. The oldest was Jim Downing who published “The Other Side of Infamy” in 2016 at the age of 102!

A few of the more famous authors published at various ages are:

·       Age 21 – Victor Hugo and Mary Shelley (Frankenstein)

·       Age 22 – Margaret Atwood and Ray Bradbury

·       Age 24 – Ernest Hemingway and Jack London

·       Age 28 – Jack Kerouac

·       Age 30 – Agatha Christie and Mark Twain. It is also interesting to note Stephen King had published Carrie, Salem’s Lot, and The Shining all before the age of 30.

·       Age 41 – Maya Angelou

·       Age 50 – Bram Stoker (Dracula)

·       Age 57 – Anna Sewell (Black Beauty)

·       Age 66 – Frank McCourt (Angela’s Ashes)

I belong to a writing group and love that our ages range from 25 to mid-eighties. Some are published, some have been working on the same books for many years, and some just attend to write and learn. We all have that one common love though: Writing. It has no age limit, education, or socio-economic limits.

All you need is a pen and paper to get started…

DianeBator

Author of Wild Blue Mysteries, Gilda Wright Mysteries and Glitter Bay Mysteries

Mom of 3 boys and 2 cats and a mouse who is too smart for mousetraps...