It’s a relief to step down from the overcrowded and overheated Cross Country train, onto the calm platform of Leamington Spa station, whose Art Deco design would make it an ideal candidate for a remake of Brief Encounter.That so much of its yesteryear styling has survived seems little short of miraculous in an age where aggressive architecture confronts us daily, together with intensive and never ending advertising, and just arriving here is like a reviving breath of fresh air. Of course there are still the rail company’s same garish posters featuring smiling cartoon characters and happy shiny people, and most unbelievably of all, the promise of pleasant and relaxing journeys on its network, which hardly, if ever, materialize.
However, I have made it here from Stoke in my train journey through the canal-threaded outskirts of Wolverhampton – where layer upon layer of graffiti of varying levels of competent execution covers every level surface, even the graceful iron bridges arched over the canals and the rolling stock parked immobile in endless sidings – and through the subterranean misery that is Birmingham New Street where an immense shopping centre squats above a confusing network of narrow platforms and inadequate exits, and a hideous concrete 1960’s brutalist signal box guards the entrance, and on through Coventry to my destination, Leamington Spa.
It is a short walk into town along rain slicked pavements, feeling at the mercy of the relentless and impatient traffic which seems to resent the attempts by pedestrians to halt its snail like progress for even a few seconds at the crossing. I pass over the bridge which spans the River Leam, looking green, sluggish and thick as treacle, on my way to the Pump Rooms now converted into an attractive complex housing the library, a museum, an art gallery and an excellent café.
This was once the go-to destination for the fashionable of Regency and Victorian society wanting to sample its health giving spring waters. As the spa craze developed bathing pools and facilities were constructed for all kinds of hydrotherapy treatments which grew from the simple ingestion of water (which was saline, and said to be beneficial to the bowels and kidneys). Its history is explored in the small museum with displays including a stone slab which looks unnervingly as if it might also be at home in a morgue and a chrome body enveloping shower promising to deliver punishingly fierce needle-like jets of water instantly from head to toe, said to invigorate (or possibly terrify) its customers.
More modern machines used to treat rheumatism are also featured, although the proximity of electricity and water is always disturbing. I am particularly drawn to mention of the mysteriously-named “Zotofoam” bath, allegedly a weight loss treatment, although in reality I suspect it can have had little or no effect. The “patient” would lie happily in a hot bath fitted with an aereating system (rather like a supercharged version of a jacuzzi), to which the miracle ingredient Zotofoam (a foaming bubble bath like gel) would be added. The high pressure air jets would whip up the water into a thick layer of dense bubbles, lying on the surface of the bath water to preserve heat and induce sweating (supposedly leading to weight loss). It must have been heavenly to lie warmly under a soft blanket of meringue-like foam, being buffeted by air bubbles, and all the time imagining fondly that this was for the good of your health. Sadly those days are gone, all that remains to remind us of them is a carton of empty Zotofoam bottles on display; I would love to open one and see what trace of smell might remain. I imagine it may have been vaguely pine-like, but who can say.
The handsomely tiled room which once served as a Turkish Bath has salt crystals rising to the surface between the glazed tiles even now, an unexpected and fascinating reminder of its original purpose.
Outside, there is a stone commemorating the site of the original spring, but sadly it is broken and disused, so the salty waters can not be sampled by passersby.
I continue up towards the heart of town, noting the imposing All Saints Church is, to my disappointment, closed today. Outside is an ugly tangle of steel supposedly representing the town’s famous spring waters.
My next port of call is the Cats’ Protection Charity Shop, and I have brought with me a bag with a carefully curated selection of rather nice items for them. The assistant looks at me suspiciously, and peers into the bag as if she suspects it might contain rotting fish heads or nuclear waste. I make a mental note of her ungrateful attitude, and am repaid by karma later that day, when I discover a handsome silver seder plate amongst the Christmas decorations section.
There is a short bus trip now out to the cemetery, where I hope to discover the whereabouts of Alice Horswill’s grave*
It is a typical Victorian cemetery, with elaborate wrought iron gates and a couple of memorial chapels, and is well kept and peaceful, so equipped with my printed out maps, I go in search of Section 32, and a plot which is 3 down and 15 across, like some bizarre crossword puzzle, although I don’t have any great expectations of finding a headstone. As I reach what I hope is the approximate location, I anxiously scan the memorials in search of clues, and notice a gently leaning stone bearing the name Austin – Alice’s maiden name.
It could be a coincidence, but no, this is the still in good condition grave of her parents, who died in 1913 and 1917. It notes that her father is a veteran of the Crimean War, but Alice’s name is not there; however the site plan shows that 3 persons are interred here, so it would seem that she has been reunited with her parents, and not buried with her husband who had died 2 years previously (and who, strangely enough, lies with his parents elsewhere in the cemetery) A husband and wife who both died in their 40’s, both lives cut tragically short for differing reasons, returned to their birth families as if they had never been married for ten years.
It makes me a little sad, but I am pleased to have found the right place so quickly, just a few feet from the footpath, and near to an immense holly tree whose base is encircled by tangles of brambles, and enswathed with ivy. The stone itself is streaked with the weathering of over a hundred years of summer sun and winter frost, and spotted with bright circles of white and gold lichens, and the lead gothic script promises “peace, perfect peace”.
From behind the holly tree, a black and white cat uncannily like my own is eying me suspiciously, and a fine rain has begun to fall.
It’s time to go.
*See “The Basket on the Bridge”