Observation of Weymouth

Weymouth is small sea town, curled sleepily on a bay, blue, calm and lake-like but for the  slow pacing to and fro of the tide, which tumbles small shells and pebbles up and down the beach.  The softer sand lines the town front, where aged holiday makers slumber on Edwardian benches. Farther back are cheerful guest houses with flowerpots on every step and railing.  The town had its heyday in the Georgian era and King George III still hovers over the waters, enshrined in regal robes behind an iron fence.  One can almost imagine him being wheeled in his bathing contraption far into the sea waters to conceal his indecency from the public.  Perhaps holidays like these were balm to his madness.   A Tudor fort also glares on the unseen foe from a high point on the tip of land  and behind it the tiny peninsula of Portland peers out.   Behind the many guesthouses St. John’s, tall and steepled, Victorian through and through, points the passerby heavenward.  In front of the church, Queen Victoria herself stands on a little island between the roads,  engraven in black, carrying her ball and sceptre and looking down grimly on the speedy traffic, which proceeds unfazed.