Cattersty Sands looked perfect this morning. The sun was out, the beach was almost empty, and the North Sea glittered like it wanted to be inviting. It was not. Nobody so much as dipped a toe in. I had half expected to see someone bobbing about in neoprene—open-water swimming being all the rage now. Not me, though. Childhood swims at Skegness have cured me of that enthusiasm.
Back in 1906, The Manchester Guardian ran a piece that cast a wry eye on the sea-bathing habits of Edwardian Britain. The writer, Evelyn Sharp—author, suffragist, and not short of opinions—dismissed the idea that the French did it better. According to her, the English simply imagined France more glamorous. In places like Calais, she said, the bathing experience was just as awkward as at home: clunky bathing machines, inconvenient tides, and no real improvements apart from the occasional hot tub you had to pay for.
Sharp argued that good bathing should be private. Real swimmers, she said, do not treat it like theatre. By contrast, most holidaymakers seemed to wade in with great reluctance while loudly pretending to enjoy it.
Things got livelier when she turned to swimwear. Though France’s tradition of mixed bathing had influenced costume design, she insisted that elegant, functional outfits existed on both sides of the Channel. English sportswomen, driven by utility, often struck the right balance. Sharp observed a cultural divide: French women who could not swim stayed in the shallows; English women, unable to do much more, flailed about with theatrical strokes. Her advice: dress for your abilities, not your illusions.
She made material suggestions too—taffeta silk, Italian cloth, or bunting instead of heavy, joyless serge. Off-the-shelf bathing dresses came in for criticism. Their collars chafed, sleeves pinched, and the bloated combination of tunic and knickerbockers left little to be desired. Her alternative was cleaner and more sensible: a bodice and knickerbockers in one, fastened at the shoulder, with a separate skirt that ended at the knee. Optional stockings, if modesty demanded. Sleeves, she thought, should be practical and unremarkable.
Then came a curious item I had never heard of: the peignoir. Popular in France, where one had farther to walk to the sea, it served the purpose of today’s dry-robe. Some bathers wrapped themselves in towelling cloaks. Sharp preferred a Japanese-style kimono made from bunting or wool flannel—water-repellent, warm, and not too fussy. Whether or not it matched the swimsuit was a matter of taste. She clearly did not care.
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