Many Victorians went abroad for their health. Tuberculosis was killing 50,000 Britons a year in the 1850s and anyone who could afford it was advised to escape the cold, wet British winter by heading south to the French Riviera – Mendon, ideally. Or they could head for the clean, dry air of the Alps, where Davos was a particular favourite. And then there were the spa towns with their hydrotherapy and hydropathic treatments. The original Spa, in Belgium, was an almost entirely English town, fondly remembered for its gambling tables where you could lose a fortune while you were cured of your indigestion. Most of the German spa towns, such as Wiesbaden and Baden-Baden, also had thriving casinos – there was nothing else to do. A visitor to Bad Wildblad in the Black Forest complained that “after your early bath you were ordered to return to the blankets and, above all, to avoid reading or thinking.” With so little to do, meal times became the highlight of the day and each spa had its own recommended diet. I especially like the sound of the Vichy diet where salad was forbidden but wine and cheese were recommended. Early tourists carried sketches and watercolors, but with the invention of the Kodak camera in 1888, photography soon took over. And, of course, postcards – in 1903 the Glasgow Evening News worried that “in 10 years Europe will be buried under picture postcards”. Sending them seemed to be a peculiarly feminine vice: men rarely bothered. But everyone was buying souvenirs and there was a great demand for dolls in local clothes and Italian straw donkeys. What were tourists looking for? Wonderful landscape; History? Civilization? The farmers working in the fields as a reminder of an older, pre-industrial way of life? Classical ruins were popular – Dickens exclaimed when he saw the Colosseum: “Thank GOD: a ruin!” But of course the ruins were often not as picturesque as in the Piranesi prints and tourists destroyed ruins anyway. As Lethbridge astutely observes: “The overarching paradox of tourism is that it so often destroys what it seeks.” And it’s bad for the planet. Alpine snow machines working through the night to push displaced snow back onto ski slopes use enough fuel every hour to drive a Range Rover from Britain to East Africa. Lethbridge is constantly throwing exciting events like this. I wish at times he could have paused from the facts to paint a bigger picture. She has proven herself to be a very conscientious researcher: now she needs to learn to be a little more relaxed writer. Tourists by Lucy Lethbridge is published by Bloomsbury at £20. To order your copy for £16.99 call 0844 871 1514 or visit Telegraph books
