It was a massive building covered in white clapboard. The edges of the roof were decorated in gingerbreading, intricately carved and immacuately maintained.
The windows on the side that overlooked the sea were massive, letting as much sea air in for the guests as was possible.
The lower level was surrounded by a wrap around porch on a massive scale. Dozens of chairs were scattered around dozens of tables, all waiting for vacationing travellers to lean back, enjoy the weather, and partake in tea, crumpets, and excellent conversation.
Wooden steps led down from the porch to the beach below. They passed a small stretch of perfectly manicured lawn, a few hedges, and a small but colourful flower garden that gave some respite from the monotony of the area's pallete. The sand was fine, white, almost the same colour as the hotel. Huge white clouds drifted through the briliant blue sky, lazily taking in the scene as they passed.
The ocean somehow resolutely stayed grey, no matter the weather. The water was always cold here, there was never enough sun and heat for it to be anything but. No one swam here. On good days they sat out in the sand on the wooden loungers that lined the beach. Most people stayed up at the hotel, where the cold air was tempered a little by its trip up the hill towards teh veranda.
Ships passed by every day, slowly plying the waters at a distance. There were some rocks in the nearer part of the shore, but further out the waters ran deep. This was a popular route for cargo ships and sailing boats alike. The waters could be rough, so it was generally the more seasoned boaters who came out, but there were races here that were very popular with the hotel clientele.
If a person walked thorugh the hotel, they'd see some of the finest furniture and artwork in this area. The upholstered Chersterfields in the waiting room were the pride of workmanship for three counties. A nearby poorhouse supplied fresh cushions on a regular basis. Small lamps sat on the tables next to the couches, giving light into the evening for those who wanted to sit inside and chat, or read, or just be seen.
The tea room was elegantly laid out, small tables with intricate linens, and wicker chairs that could accomodate even the most tired patron. Bright Oriental rugs covered the floor. Delicate white china would be set out every morning, with very flowery silverware to compliment. Crystal flutes finished off the table, the sun that poured intot he windows setting the room aglow with rainbows.
There was a small library on the other side of the tea room. It held leather bound volumes of every topic. Murders stood next to botanists, and religion leaned against science. Anyone looking for a few hours distraction could find it handily here. Some travellers left books behind, and some took a tome or two with them when they left. The count in the library always remained about the same, and there was always something new and interesting to read. Some poeple came with the express intention of reading some new and exciting literature of a type they might not find easily at home.
A grand wooden staircase rose over the library, taking the hotel patrons up to their rooms. The bannister alone reputedly contained wood from an entire grove of oaks that had once stood on the property. It had been elegantly carved, all whorls and leaves and intricate curls all the way to the top. Thousands of coat sleeves had polished it with a deep brown glow that could only be created with use and abuse. The balusters were similarly carved, echoing elements in a repeating pattern, alternating rung to rung. The treads were large slabs of oak, each one worn down by generations of footfalls of holiday goers who had walked this staircase every day for weeks or months on end.
Each of the rooms upstairs was decorated in a different colour. Everyone knew their favourite room by the paint that decorated the room. The Yellow Room was the colour of daffodils in the spring, and the early morning sun through the window caused the entire room to glow as if the sun was rising within its own walls. The Pink Room was a delicate hue, like a pale rose petal. The Green Room was a solid, manly shade of forest green, and tended to be reserved for bachelors.
Each room held a massive four poster bed, carved by the same men who had worked on the grand staircase. These had themes as well. One had posts carved to lok like palm trees. Another would have passed for ropes with knots tied together to hold the draperies from the ceiling with no other means of support.
One had very plain posts, a bed that had been compelted right before the hotel was opened, and without enough time to carve them at all. The room was a deep blue, and everythign in it was as plain as the bed. It was a room for mourning, for widows and others who had lost someone important before their vacation, who wished to come and enjoy themselves without interupting the solemnity of the timing.
On the way in or out of the hotel, the guests would need to stop at the main desk. It was a huge affair, carved from oak as all other wooden items in the hotel were. Legend had it that the desk wuld allow fifty clerks to check out fifty patrons at the same time with no one rubbing elbows. It was certainly massive in legth, and chest high for the comfort of the people who needed to lean forward to sign the ledgers.
Behind the desk was a massive wall to wall mirror, an absolute materpiece of glassmaking and architecture. The wall of glass weighed a massive amount, and there was no visible means of support. It was all done behind the glass, and no one knew exactly how it had been done. The mirror was flawless, the silvering perfect. Women checked their hair before heading out into the night. Men stood a little straigher and sucked in ponderous stomachs as they asked to see the ladies they were courting.
Between the desk and the mirror worked an army of clerks, keeping reservations straight and special requests fulfilled. These weren't any ordinary workers. They were highly trained, well dressed, and held to a standard most aristocrats couldn't comprehend. These workers also helped coordinate a hidden town in the walls, those who cleaned and mended and cooked and swept and set out chairs and linens. It all happened seamlessly and quietly, and never interupted the relaxation of the paying guests, no matter what schedules those guests might keep.
The hotel stood and ran untouched and unchanged for what seemed like forever. It was several lifetimes, at least. Managers came and went, but they kept the place running and maintained, and grandparents came with grandchildren and enjoyed the same sea air and the same neat cushions that their parents had enjoyed in their youth.
Time took its toll eventually. Slowly the colours changed, the quality floundered, and the staff weren't quite so well mannered. Families drifted off to new venues, and a few people who normally wouldn't have had a chance to stay in the grand hotel found reservations easier to come by. The novelty would wear off fast for some, and eventually the rooms were empty more often than not.
The west wing was the first to close, it's shuttered windows a curiosity for a couple generations of children. Parents would moan about the safety hazard, and then eventually the roof started to collapse inwards and requred the entire section to be razed to the ground.
The staircase was patched and bolstered with vrious woods, the original oak long gone. The carvings wore out and were replaced by straight boards. Stairs creaked and moaned and three broke all the way through before they were replaced. Garish yellow carpeting covered the patches, and the overall elegance and majesty faded into distant memory.
The tea room lost so much business over the years that it became instead a small cafeteria. Self serve buffets replaced the rows of neat tables, and these eventually were glassed over. Soon the hum of fridges and machines replaced the gentle murmur of ladies and teapots. After a while even these stopped generating any income, and the room was closed up and used for storage instead.
It was the sea that really ended things, however. The waves had time to erode the banks, launching the steps and boardwalks into the sea like so many small life rafts. The lawn couldn't survive the salt water, and it withered and died in an inelegant few seasons before returning completely to the sand that had originally covered this area. Slowly, as decades passed at an ever increasing rate, the water began lapping at the edge of the porch.
At this time also the final owner, a man in the late years of his life, came out and stood on the porch. He remembered coming here as a child, and spending so many wonderful summers here with his family. Everyone was gone now, even the few families who had stuck through in the lean times, and who felt a need to at least spend a weekend or two here every year for nostalgia.
It was a time when people were more likely to fly to the Caribbean or France, and no one was coming back to the old hotels. It was just him and his wife now, and the sea. He walked back into the hotel. locking the front door for the last time. He grabbed his last suitcase, and headed out the back door, locking up reflexively before getting into the car with his wife, and driving off to the Cotswalkds, where they would spend their retirement.
The hotel lasted one more season, empty and abandoned at the side of the ocean.
A fall storm washed the last of the sand out from under the hotel. No one was there to see it fall into the sea, piece by piece, wave by wave.
When the sun rose again, there was nothing to see except for sand dunes and sky, as far as the eye could see.
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