The nineteenth century became comparatively peaceful and tolerant towards its end, but an intense spy mania nevertheless surrounded a country’s defence installations. Guidebooks frequently contained the following warning, as in Baedeker’s Northern France, 1909: ‘Sketching, photographing, or making notes near fortified places sometimes exposes innocent travellers to disagreeable suspicions or worse, and should therefore be avoided.’
In the same author’s Russia, 1914, we are told that ‘even in less important places the guardians of the law are apt to be over-vigilant. In order to escape molestation the photographers should join the Russian Photographic Society.’ In no guidebook to Britain was the traveller given similar warnings regarding arsenals and naval bases.
Such rules have of course remained in force during much of the present century. In 1967 my Finnish publisher, to whom I showed the detailed military maps I intended using to motor my way around the USSR, warned me not to take them or I would be sure to get into trouble. While driving in the Ukraine my Russian friend was plainly worried when I stopped to photograph the landscape, though neither bridges nor fortresses were visible, and he was even more harassed when I levelled my camera at the streets of Czernowitz.
Travellers have always been fair game for the secret police. In 1954 I was arrested in Barcelona and detained for a day, though not in a cell. I never knew for what reason, and after lengthy questioning and a close examination of my passport I was released.
One hopes that our Victorian traveller did not suffer too much from seasickness, having taken his luck on the weather. The boats were much smaller than they are today, and wrecks were not uncommon in the Channel. During a violent storm in January 1857 the steamer Violet foundered off the Goodwins. She had left Ostend the previous night, and hit the sands at two in the morning, going down with all passengers and crew.
The most agreeable crossings to the Continent must have been those enjoyed by J. P. Pearson, recounted in his three-volume magnum opus Railways and Scenery. In 1901 he took the ship from Grimsby to Hamburg, having bought a year’s season ticket for the amazingly low price, even then, of sixty shillings. ‘The state rooms were spacious, and almost invariably each passenger (so few used this route) could have one of them all to himself. The open fire in the dining saloon was most cheery, and the writer recalls some pleasant evenings sitting around it on his trips across the North Sea.’
CHAPTER THREE
GETTING THERE
The next barrier met with by the British traveller, after the two-hour crossing, were foreigners, who made sure that having got him into their country they were not going to make it easy for him to get out, for he would discover that his passport in France was (Murray) ‘not valid for travelling through the country, nor for quitting it, until it has received the signature of the Minister of the Interior. It is therefore taken away from the traveller at the seaport where he lands, and is forwarded by the police to Paris, while a temporary passport is given him to carry him on to Paris, and 2 francs must be paid for it. Until the traveller reaches Paris this will carry him through all parts of France, but not out of the country. He cannot depart until he has exchanged it for his original passport.’
Supposing then that the traveller has more or less recovered from the crossing, he or she now has something more to worry about, for when the steamboat reaches port (Murray again) ‘the shore is usually beset by a crowd of clamorous agents for the different hotels, each vociferating the name and praises of that for which he is employed, stunning the distracted stranger with their cries, and nearly scratching his face with their proffered cards. The only mode of rescuing himself from these tormentors, who often beset him a dozen at a time, is to make up his mind beforehand to what hotel he will go, and to name it at once. The agent or Commissionaire of the house then steps forward, and the rest fall back, while he takes the new arrival under his protection, extricates him from the throng, and conducts him to his quarters.’
Even this procedure was far from simple, because passengers were not allowed to take their baggage into town with them, it being conveyed at once ‘from the vessel to the Custom-house by the Custom-house porters, who are answerable for the safety of everything. The owner, instead of appearing himself to claim it, had better send his servant, or the Commissionaire of the inn, instructing him with the keys, in order that he may open and clear each package. This is his usual duty, and the landlord of the inn, who employs him, is answerable for his honesty. Personal attendance at a Custom-house is by no means calculated to put the traveller in a good humour. Indeed, it is a severe trial to his patience, first to wait till his turn comes, amidst the elbowing of porters, and next to look on while his well-packed trunk is tossed over with a cruel, hard-hearted sort of civility which leaves nothing to complain of, and everything to lament.’ (Murray.)
Baedeker’s Paris 1874, says: ‘In order to prevent the risk of unpleasant detention at the custom-house travellers are strongly recommended to avoid carrying with them any articles that are not absolutely necessary. Cigars and tobacco are chiefly sought for by the custom-house officers. Six cigars and about an ounce of tobacco only are free of duty. Books and newspapers occasionally give rise to suspicion and may in certain cases be confiscated.’
‘Indeed,’ Murray suggests, ‘the search into baggage is often more severe in the presence of the traveller, which seems sometimes to give rise to a suggestion of smuggling. He that would keep his temper, and does not grudge a fee of two francs to the Commissionaire, will intrust to him his keys, and, dismissing the care of his baggage from his thoughts, amuse himself for an hour or so, when he will probably find his effects conveyed to his chamber, very often not opened at all, generally only slightly examined.’
Getting into Abroad threatened at times to become an obstacle race, though Murray endeavours to prevent the British traveller from turning it into an assault course. ‘Those who would travel with comfort should be particularly on their guard against rendering themselves liable to detection or penalty at the foreign Customhouses. They should avoid taking anything which is contraband, either for themselves or for their friends; for it too often happens that travellers on the continent are meanly solicited to take those things for their friends who are abroad which they dare not send by the public conveyance, thus rendering their travelling friends liable to penalty and punishment.’
If after such Kafka-like turmoil our gentleman-traveller wishes to recuperate for a few days in the Calais area, before proceeding to Paris, there are several hotels to choose from. First on the list is the Hotel Dessin, said to be very good, one of whose rooms was slept in by the author of A Sentimental Journey, still marked as ‘Sterne’s Room’. Also singled out is that which was occupied by Sir Walter Scott.
Murray describes the sights of the town and gives something of its history, then goes on to tell us, should the traveller wish to make a romantic pilgrimage, that ‘Lady Hamilton (Nelson’s Emma) died here in great misery. Her remains, refused a resting place in consecrated ground, were interred in a timber-yard, about 20 yards beyond the Port de Calais.’