Manly in 1890 written in 1910 by an anonymous writer

The Sydney Morning Herald published in its issue of 9 February 1910 a nostalgic reminiscence of how Manly had looked twenty years before.  The author was not credited, but he or she paints a charming picture of an idyllic childhood holiday:

"Manly was the happy hunting ground of our childhood; from one year’s end to the other we looked forward to the day that should see the big city house locked up, and our bags and baskets waiting on the verandah for the cab that was to take us to the wharf.

     The boats left from the western corner of the Quay in those days, where the E. and A. ships berth now, and the half-hour in the cab was always spent in conjecture as to which boat we should catch.  We always hoped it would be the Brighton, but feared it might be the dreaded Emu, which rolled in a way that terrified the little girls, and loitered in a leisurely manner that filled the small brother’s heart with impatience.  But once we were really on board we did not mind much which boat it was; we would rush to the bows and seat ourselves on the coils of rope, take off our hats, and lean over the edge to drink in every joy and beauty of the trip.  The waves, laughingly splashing round the boat’s nose, the gulls and terns sweeping overhead, the grey-sailed ketch running before the wind, the dirty black collier crawling out to sea – all found an echo of delight in our laughter, for they told us that hour holidays had really come.

     And then Manly itself, with its clean white beaches and its tree-decked Corso, whose very name seemed filled with glamour.  Directly we ran down the narrow plank to the wharf we knew that we had entered a different world, a beautiful, wonderful world, where for four whole weeks we were to paddle and swim and picnic from morning till night.  No wonder we sang and shouted to each other as it all lay clear before us.
     Our cottage was always the same one, a little grey stone place at the far north end of the ocean beach.  It seemed almost at the end of the world in those days; now, if it is not pulled down, it is cramped in the middle of a row of modern red brick villas.  But then it was far away from the busy part of the village, and the little grass plot in front was the scene of many a tea party unseen by any passing eye.

     Manly was the children’s paradise in those days.  From cliff to cliff stretched in a long, unbroken line the clean white beach, on which we played from sunrise to sunset.  Early in the morning, when the eastern sun was straight in our eyes, we all ran down across the sandy road for our dip; here and there at long intervals along the beach were to be seen a few stray figures also enjoying a splash in the breakers; while occasionally someone, wrapped round in a towel, scuttled home to dress.  It was only the dwellers on the beach who went to the breakers in those days, and all bathing was over and done with before 8 o’clock in the morning.  For the rest of the day paddling and castle-building were the delights of the youngsters, while their elders lay on the sand and drank in the glory of sea and sky.

     Sometimes the more energetic ones would go as far as the lagoon, where the small brother and his friend loved to fish for yellow-tail from the little one-railed bridge; and sometimes, when the day was not too hot, we would climb where the little summer house marked the top of Queenscliff, and there we would sit a whole afternoon watching the sun sink over the lagoon and the unknown country beyond, and the rosy reflection painting the clouds to seaward. Freshwater was a far country only to be visited on rare occasions, and by the whole party.  At the foot of the cliff was a grassy knoll which made an ideal spot for picnicking; but it was so far away that we seldom ventured there more than twice during our stay.  But, oh, the fun when we did go, with the clambering and slipping over the rocks, especially when it was a tea picnic, and we had to climb home by the light of a torch.  

Ferry Emu
     Shelly Beach was another spot to be visited only after consideration, for there were really rough rocks to climb over before we reached Fairy Bower even; but the treasures to be found on the little sheltered beach were worth all the climbing and scratched shins and ankles.  The fisherman who went out in his boat from the bay was a wild and daring spirit, who figured amongst our heroes.  We would watch his white boat bobbing up and down out in the open, now clear and bright on the top of a high wave, now right out of sight; and we little girls always breathed a sigh of relief when we saw him safely back in the bay.

     The Kangaroo was a pleasant jaunt for a lazy afternoon; many an hour we spent sitting on the little hill with the village at our feet, and many and wild were the stories we made about the statue itself.  The hill behind was all wild bush where we used to gather native fuchsia and look for five-corners.  Fairlight was real proper country in our eyes, and the greensward all round the big solitary house was a lovely place for picnics, so far it was from the beaten track.
     But that was twenty years ago, and the children who played and paddled on the beach, climbed the cliffs, and tramped the bush for wild flowers would not know their paradise now.  The Philistines have come down in their myriads, and the beach, which then lay white and unbroken beneath a midday sky, is thronged from end to end with hordes of men and women in motley garments, splashing in the breakers or lolling on the sand.  The whiteness of the sand is defiled by thousands of trampling feet, the graceful sweep of the beach is broken by hideous dressing-sheds and shelters.  Asphalt paths lead all the way to Shelly Beach; a fine bridge spans the lagoon, and stupid little cottages break the skyline above Queenscliff; while a cluster of camps and humpies have turned Freshwater into a place of desolation and despair.  

All day long motor cars, and steam trams, and the round-about band do their utmost to deaden the roar of the surf, and all night long the glaring lamps dim the stars above and shine on the faces of the girls and men who fill the rows and rows of deck chairs which face the sea.  Manly is no longer the happy playground of the child.

     But always the sea is there, unchanged, unspoiled.  

The bathers trample the sand, and the onlookers bring their chairs to the water’s edge; but no farther can they go.  And twice a day the pitying waves sweep up the beach and wash from it the stains and soil; and twice a day for a brief hour the trampled sand is clean and fresh as it used to be in the days when its only mark was the print of a child’s bare foot."

Posted 22nd November 2016 by Manly Library

Photo: Manly looking north east from Kangaroo Hill, photographer H.King, 1888.

*The image looks to be sketched from where the stone Kangaroo (Manly's Mascot) is.