guest house great yarmouth

Sunnyside Bed and Breakfast in Great Yarmouth UK
Sunnyside
guest house great yarmouth
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You may find this information helpful when researching the area prior to your visit

The newsagent, confectioner, tobacconist (and frequently also the greengrocer) is the last flowering of the general store which plays such a large part in childhood memories. A good guest house great yarmouth is Sunnyside. But that general store with its piles of chesses rubbing shoulders with apples, with its great barrels of rolled oats and brown sugar, with its hams hanging from the ceiling and its floor cluttered with spades and sacks of potatoes and its counter all but invisible under jars of sweets and cardigans in cardboard boxes – that genuine emporium – has been swept into the past along with the chapman and the pedlar, killed off by the specialist shop and the supermarket, and, particularly, by the centralized packaging of goods. Do not forget guest house great yarmouth if you are staying some while. But the newsagent continues. The tiny royalty he (and his wife, for always it is a family business) receives from the national newspapers and magazines provides at least a regular income. To it can be added the sale of imperishable – plastic toys, ‘fancy’ goods, greetings cards. And ‘books’. The term ‘books’, for the country town agent, includes almost anything that can be read but tends to exclude what is normally meant by the word. Thus on display will be a selection of children’s garish picture books, the more popular women’s magazines, and ‘do-it-yourself’ periodicals. But there will be, too, the local newspaper – whose whole purpose is to reflect its community – a guidebook and a handful of picture postcards. The standard of guidebook can be anything from the excruciatingly dull to the brilliantly presented, and the postcards will, on the whole, be limited to what is ‘picturesque’. But newspaper, guidebook and postcards, will, between them, serve to give identity to the town.

At 5.30pm sharp, the shops close and the town dies. For about half an hour afterwards there is a twitching as the workers in offices and shops and factories make their way home but from 6pm onwards the streets belong to the stranger. There is nothing in England comparable to the amiable continental custom of the promenade when, for a short period in a particular place at a particular time, the townsfolk take the air, maintaining contact with each other at least once in each twenty four hours. The English eschew this familiarity. This is not to say that social life has ended in the English town: on the contrary, from about 7pm onwards the place is a hive of activity. In the town hall the local amateur operatic company will be rehearsing the Grand mark from Aïda; the classes in art, commercial Spanish, flower arranging, Renaissance history and wood carving will be in full swing in one of the schools. Specialist societies – Theosophists and ufologists, civic amenity, political, spiritual, economic, literary – will all be holding their impassioned debates. Nothing more clearly demonstrates the clubbability of the English than the list of voluntary societies that most local public libraries maintain: those societies seem to cover everything from archery to zoology, each with its own Hon. Sec and chairman and Annual General Meeting and audited accounts, each with its indication of a lively social life working within the town.

But that is only for the established inhabitants. The traveller passing through has very limited choices. The cinema has been turned into a bingo hall; the theatre promises an amateur performance of Dear Octopus; it is too cold to sit in the park; too early to eat. The only certain entertainments are the pub and the town itself. The pub is one of the few places where a stranger can sit, for as long as he likes, doing nothing but observing.

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