Finding the source of the binge – and other hidden delights

For some reason it is often the inconsequential titbit that remains lodged in the mind long after a trip abroad. While hitchhiking along the Rhine in the late 1970s, I came across the German town of Bingen. My Penguin guidebook informed me that it lies at the intersection of several important wine growing regions and that locals traditionally enjoy imbibing, which gave rise to the phrase “to go on the binge”.

This trivial fact has stuck with me in the hope of answering a pub quiz question which sadly has never been asked. However, questions have come up about Hildegard of Bingen, the 12th-century abbess, visionary mystic and celebrated composer. All of this sparked off thoughts about the alleged death of the printed guide that is threatened by smartphones and other wifi devices. Few pleasures can match rummaging through old copies of Baedeker’s, Cook’s Traveller’s Handbook, or Murray’s, with its folding map in a specially designed wallet inside the back cover. The golden era of guidebooks was in the 19th century when steam made trips easy and were part of every civilised traveller’s armoury. The oldest ones on my shelves date from the Victorian or Edwardian era, survivors from the days when second-hand bookshops thrived. Apart from the architectural detail of the public buildings, they are not much practical use, but are cherished period pieces resonant with a scent of age that still floats off their yellowing pages and faded appearance.

Herr Baedeker produced some of the most thoroughly researched of all guides. The terminology in the gold-stamped Baedeker’s Paris and its Environs (17th edition, 1910) outlines “railway time”, stating that clocks in the interior of the stations are purposely kept five minutes slow. “Belgian” (Greenwich or West Europe) railway time is four minutes behind, and “Mid-Europe” time (for Germany, Switzerland and Italy) “56 minutes in advance of French railway time”.

Bread of Paris

Readers are apprised of immutable detail such as “the bread of Paris is excellent and has been famed since the 14th century”. Just four years before the outbreak of the first World War, the book presents a poignant picture of the texture of life that was soon to be devastated: “Cabs belonging to Valentin or Camille are the most comfortable and India-rubber tires are indicated by small bells on the horse’s neck.” Cafes formed one of the most elegant features of the city and, on application, the waiter “conveniently furnished writing materials”.

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Solicitous advice is given to ladies about which cafes to frequent: “Some of those on the north side of the Boulevard Montmartre should be avoided, as the society there is far from select”.

Memories

While that same aura of romance does not surround my dog-eared copies of more recent Lonely Planet, Fodor’s or Rough Guides, a flick through them rekindles memories. It throws up the faded ticket of admission to the Uffizi Gallery in Florence and keepsakes such as a postcard from a visit to the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad (as it was then called) or notes on how to navigate through the labyrinthine souks of Marrakesh without being ripped off by carpet sellers. One favourite book is also of a more recent vintage and comes from the new world. Ferries of America, A Guide to Adventurous Travel was bought on location during a trip around New England in the 1980s. It is filled with practical details of the ferry services operating across portions of water in the United States. Covering all sorts of vessels from a wooden paddlewheel or a rope-pulled ferry to the luxury of liners, the guide outlines their service history and local points of interest.

Some are well known and include the Staten Island ferry, or the Millersburg ferry which crosses the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania and is a registered historic landmark dating back 200 years. Others are fixtures of Americana that will transport you to a time warp, such as the passenger ferry to Smith Island in the middle of Chesapeake Bay where the men always have leathery faces, strong hands and wear faded check shirts. Leafing through old guidebooks is an aesthetic delight, a snapshot from a vanished time and a world away from Trip Advisor. Even today, for many of those with wanderlust, the printed copy will always be superior to a screen, an indispensable part of their travelphernalia which through time will become suffused with nostalgia and a tangible connection with the past.