The Victoria Hotel

Weymouth was always meant to be the place we caught the ferry for France. It was not meant to be much more than a stopover, but we were curious about this summer beach resort, longstanding resort, a bathing resort since King George III started coming there in 1789, a fact recognized by the citizens in 1810 when they erected a statue thanking him.

We arrived in drizzle rain, but made it to the hotel easily. All along the way there were pensioners (i.e. retirees) dodging the rain moving from cafe to shop, there were lots of game arcades standing empty except for the single attendant, and there were rides and concessions all along the beach closed up, shuttered up as if the season were over.

When we arrived at The Victoria Hotel, the manager stopped cooking in the restaurant adjacent to the lobby, got someone else to watch to watch the three year old that was following him, and took Lauren upstairs to show her the room. We took our luggage up two flights of stairs, down a narrow hallway and into our room, the smallest room of the trip and the one with the thinnest walls and the thinnest sheets.

Even with the rain, the streets were busy with visitors, working class families seemingly, determined to enjoy the time in spite to the weather. It reminded me of Panama City Beach on a rainy summer day, and Lauren recalled similar days on the Boardwalk in Asbury Park. Just before sundown, the rain stopped, and a setting sun came out as did people seeking ice cream, a game of chance in the arcade or a ride on the now open carousel.

We walked out the door the next morning at 6:00am, leaving the key on a table near the entrance.