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The Overcliff Hotel 1959
Built
to meet the needs of the Victorian well-heeled,
when gentlemen raised their hats to ladies in
parasols,
spent lazy Somerset Maugham afternoons,
children kneeled making sandcastles among the dunes,
or took leisurely strolls along the quay
before the winter break in Le Touquet
Now,
a rambling edifice, a rickety balcony,
flower
borders overcome with weed
evoking
the last remnants of gentility
where
residents, in a whiff of lavender or tweed,
lend
or borrow the latest Agatha Christie.
After
a
grumpy night porter, glasses mended with glue,
his
uniform askew, ready to stall
the
search for a long-lost garage key.
Beyond
the rich panelled walls, worn boards,
staff
rooms, dusty pelmets, creaking beds,
faded
pictures of Norwegian fjords,
warped
sashes, a flakey freize,
bannisters like loose teeth along the treads,
a
death rattle, heralding their demise.
The
Overcliff seen better days
an
hotel meant for another age.
©
Heather
Grange 2004