Herne Bay is a place of entirely modern creation, and does not stand upon a bay. The coastline, in fact, runs remarkably straight between Whitstable and Margate, and anything in the nature of a bay is not to be seen. But, as old writers speak of a point here, it seems likely that a bay of some sort existed and has disappeared in the great wastage of the land that has certainly taken place all along this coast and around Sheppey. The “Street Stones” at Whitstable, pointing to a Roman road into a vanished country, the shallowness of the sea, and the many sands out there, and the vague legends that “Herne the Hunter” once chased the deer where the sea now rolls, all support the idea of great encroachments upon the land.
The town of Herne Bay is built upon a foreshore rising gradually from the water. Where the houses end this line of coast is known as “The Downs”; a rough upland stretch of common or commonable land which forms a peculiar feature of the place, and is an unconventional playground for the children, Herne Bay being117 above all else a seaside resort of unsophisticated ways, and favoured by parents with large families.
Herne Bay was one of the earlier created seaside resorts, and rose from out the azure main—or rather, the somewhat mud-streaked sea that does duty for such—at the command of speculators, about 1830. It was actually created, for until that time there were but a few cottages by the shore, or anywhere in the neighbourhood, with a tiny green as the only cultivated ground. The first pier at Herne Bay was the Royal Pier, opened in 1831, the enterprise of a company which spent £50,000 on the building of it. This was a wooden structure, 3,000 feet long, and had a set of rails along its entire length. Carriages fitted with sails were made to run along the tramway when the wind served. At those times when it did not, I suppose one got out and shoved! Such were the simple pleasures of Herne Bay when William the Fourth was King. Passengers from the steamers landed at the pier-head. At the entrance were a number of stone balusters, part of the parapet of old London Bridge, demolished in 1832. They may still be noticed at the entrance to the present pier.
But Herne Bay did not prosper. In vain was a parade installed in 1837, and with it a Clock Tower. The Clock Tower is still with us at Herne Bay; it forms indeed the one architectural, or decorative, feature of the place. True, it is not greatly decorative, unless we adopt the poet’s maxim in its favour, “the useful and the beautiful118 are one.” Of the utility of a Clock Tower, with a prominent clock in good working order, there can be, I take it, no doubt whatever; if only in that it prevents children numerously and continually asking testy old gentlemen what time it is.
Railways ruined the original pier financially, and neglect and the teredo worm wrecked it materially. A second pier was built in 1873, and a third, the present, in 1878, considerably longer than the original and totalling a length of 3,920 feet. Electric cars run along it.
The fortunes of Herne Bay have of late years recovered, and bid fair to continue so long as the site of it exists. There, however, is the problem. The sea is in a destructively encroaching humour, and thus the most elaborate defensive works have been necessary, to arrest the scour of the shingle. No fewer than ninety-one stout timber groynes project from the beach fronting the town, and do succeed in keeping the foreshore intact.
Herne, the parent village of Herne Bay, is a quiet place, a good mile and a half from the shore. It was originally subject to Reculver, the mother-church of this district, to which the lesser churches paid dues. In the end, Herne grew important enough, and bold enough, to refuse tribute, and was threatened by Reculver in 1335 with excommunication; to no purpose. But the parish still pays five shillings a year for the repair of Reculver church, although that building119 is now nothing but a ruin, and its twin towers existent only as land and sea marks.
A kind of poetic justice, a manner of retribution, befell Herne in 1833, when the newly planned town of Herne Bay, less than two miles distant, obtained an Act of Parliament making it independent of Herne.
In the fine church are some interesting brasses, notably the remarkable example to Christian, wife of Matthew Phelip. He was that hard warlike Mayor of London who led the citizens to the battle of Barnet. She “departed from this vale of misery” in 1471. The brass to Peter Halle and his wife Elizabeth, 1420, show them lovingly, hand in hand.
“Here lies a piece of Christ, a star in dust, A vein of gold, a china dish that must Be used in Heaven, when God shall feed the just.”
Nicholas Ridley, who, as Bishop of London, suffered martyrdom in 1555 at Oxford, was appointed vicar here in 1538. Leaving, he exclaimed, “Farewell, Herne, thou worshipful and wealthy parish, the first cure whereunto I was called to minister God’s word. Thou hast heard of my mouth ofttime the word of God preached, not after the Popish trade, but after God’s gospel. Oh that the fruit had answered to the seed! But I bless God for all that godly virtue and zeal of God’s word which the Lord by preaching of His word did kindle manifestly both in the heart and the life of that godly woman, my Lady120 Fiennes.” A brass to that excellent lady, dated 1539, is among those to be seen here.
The town of Herne Bay is built upon a foreshore rising gradually from the water. Where the houses end this line of coast is known as “The Downs”; a rough upland stretch of common or commonable land which forms a peculiar feature of the place, and is an unconventional playground for the children, Herne Bay being117 above all else a seaside resort of unsophisticated ways, and favoured by parents with large families.
Herne Bay was one of the earlier created seaside resorts, and rose from out the azure main—or rather, the somewhat mud-streaked sea that does duty for such—at the command of speculators, about 1830. It was actually created, for until that time there were but a few cottages by the shore, or anywhere in the neighbourhood, with a tiny green as the only cultivated ground. The first pier at Herne Bay was the Royal Pier, opened in 1831, the enterprise of a company which spent £50,000 on the building of it. This was a wooden structure, 3,000 feet long, and had a set of rails along its entire length. Carriages fitted with sails were made to run along the tramway when the wind served. At those times when it did not, I suppose one got out and shoved! Such were the simple pleasures of Herne Bay when William the Fourth was King. Passengers from the steamers landed at the pier-head. At the entrance were a number of stone balusters, part of the parapet of old London Bridge, demolished in 1832. They may still be noticed at the entrance to the present pier.
But Herne Bay did not prosper. In vain was a parade installed in 1837, and with it a Clock Tower. The Clock Tower is still with us at Herne Bay; it forms indeed the one architectural, or decorative, feature of the place. True, it is not greatly decorative, unless we adopt the poet’s maxim in its favour, “the useful and the beautiful118 are one.” Of the utility of a Clock Tower, with a prominent clock in good working order, there can be, I take it, no doubt whatever; if only in that it prevents children numerously and continually asking testy old gentlemen what time it is.
Railways ruined the original pier financially, and neglect and the teredo worm wrecked it materially. A second pier was built in 1873, and a third, the present, in 1878, considerably longer than the original and totalling a length of 3,920 feet. Electric cars run along it.
The fortunes of Herne Bay have of late years recovered, and bid fair to continue so long as the site of it exists. There, however, is the problem. The sea is in a destructively encroaching humour, and thus the most elaborate defensive works have been necessary, to arrest the scour of the shingle. No fewer than ninety-one stout timber groynes project from the beach fronting the town, and do succeed in keeping the foreshore intact.
Herne, the parent village of Herne Bay, is a quiet place, a good mile and a half from the shore. It was originally subject to Reculver, the mother-church of this district, to which the lesser churches paid dues. In the end, Herne grew important enough, and bold enough, to refuse tribute, and was threatened by Reculver in 1335 with excommunication; to no purpose. But the parish still pays five shillings a year for the repair of Reculver church, although that building119 is now nothing but a ruin, and its twin towers existent only as land and sea marks.
A kind of poetic justice, a manner of retribution, befell Herne in 1833, when the newly planned town of Herne Bay, less than two miles distant, obtained an Act of Parliament making it independent of Herne.
In the fine church are some interesting brasses, notably the remarkable example to Christian, wife of Matthew Phelip. He was that hard warlike Mayor of London who led the citizens to the battle of Barnet. She “departed from this vale of misery” in 1471. The brass to Peter Halle and his wife Elizabeth, 1420, show them lovingly, hand in hand.
“Here lies a piece of Christ, a star in dust, A vein of gold, a china dish that must Be used in Heaven, when God shall feed the just.”
Nicholas Ridley, who, as Bishop of London, suffered martyrdom in 1555 at Oxford, was appointed vicar here in 1538. Leaving, he exclaimed, “Farewell, Herne, thou worshipful and wealthy parish, the first cure whereunto I was called to minister God’s word. Thou hast heard of my mouth ofttime the word of God preached, not after the Popish trade, but after God’s gospel. Oh that the fruit had answered to the seed! But I bless God for all that godly virtue and zeal of God’s word which the Lord by preaching of His word did kindle manifestly both in the heart and the life of that godly woman, my Lady120 Fiennes.” A brass to that excellent lady, dated 1539, is among those to be seen here.
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