Soviets Beside the Seaside: When Malenkov Visited Morecambe's Midland Hotel

Cold War obsessives plan their holidays differently to other people. Swimming pools and sun loungers? No thanks. Nuclear bunkers and abandoned missile silos? Ooh, yes please! If the gift shop sells reproduction copies of Protect and Survive, we’re booking our tickets and packing our cases.

For those who like a little finery with their fallout and radiance with their radiation, however, there are an amazing array of luxury holiday destinations with unexpected Cold War connections lurking beyond their lobbies. Many hotels across the UK were earmarked in secret plans as headquarters for regional governments had The Bomb dropped, while numerous highbrow venues such as ballrooms were destined to become hospitals in times of war. If you’d prefer your Cold War-themed holiday to focus less on doom and more on optimism, however, look no further than The Midland Hotel in (occasionally) sunny Morecambe, a favoured destination of soireeing socialites and Soviets alike.

The Midland Hotel in 1933, with a lady optimistically hoping for enough sun to warrant a parasol (Image courtesy of RIBA).

Opened on 12th July 1933, The Midland Hotel epitomised Art Deco opulence, being hailed as ‘the most modern hotel in Europe’ and ‘the wonder hotel of the North’. The Midland replaced an earlier hotel of the same name, a crumbling Victorian edifice built from misery-inducing grey stone in 1848, which came complete with leaky window shutters and malodorous horse stables round the back.

The old Midland Hotel: not exactly a byword for luxury.

In the early 1930s, with the world in the grip of the economic slump known as The Great Depression, the last thing a holiday resort such as Morecambe needed was a depressing hotel. Subsequently, the horse manure was shovelled up, demolition teams razed the old hotel to the ground and in its place was built a gleaming white building, which glittered in the sunlight thanks to crushed glass embedded into its facade. Built by a railway company (LMS) and designed by architect Oliver Hill to resemble an ocean liner, The Midland resonated with an optimistic population who were keen to travel and eager to transport themselves into a brighter future. Little wonder the hotel earned itself the moniker of ‘Morecambe’s white hope’.

The Architectural Review, October 1933.

Unfortunately, events beyond Morecambe’s shores were about to put a mocker on things. In Europe, an evil Charlie Chaplin lookalike was shortly to become Chancellor of Germany. International nerves started to become somewhat strained as the Nazi party flexed its military muscles across Europe. In 1939, the world was plunged into global conflict and those trying to have a nice holiday in Morecambe were turfed out of the Midland Hotel to enable its conversion into a military hospital. Bedrooms became wards and operating theatres, while the hotel basement had the misfortune to become a morgue. (Incidentally, I believe these rooms now house the toilets beneath the hotel bar, so be sure to check if there are any ghosts watching before lowering your trousers!)

When the Midland finally reopened in 1948 (after extensive repairs had been carried out), the world was a very different place to when the hotel had first welcomed guests. The Atomic Age had begun, and a war weary world was once again faced with the prospect of conflict, albeit this time on a much, much bigger scale. In 1949, the smidgen of comfort that could be derived from the fact that only the United States possessed nuclear weapons evaporated when the Soviet Union joined the atomic club much earlier than expected. Fast forward to 1953 and both superpowers had detonated thermonuclear weapons, making the possibility of total planetary annihilation earth-shatteringly possible.

Soaring geopolitical tensions only heightened holidaymakers’ craving for fun in the sun, however. It seems that most people felt that if the world was going to be blown to smithereens, they might as well meet their maker while wearing a Kiss Me Quick hat and sucking on a stick of rock.

The Morecambe Guardian of August 4th 1953 – eight days before the Soviets tested their first H-bomb – reported that Morecambe had just seen its busiest Bank Holiday weekend since the war. ‘Hotels and boarding houses [were] crowded with tens of thousands of daytrippers and holidaymakers,’ many of whom will have stayed at The Midland. The hotel was enjoying a renaissance of glitz and glamour, playing host over the coming years to celebrities such as Abbott and Costello, Shirley Bassey and Laurence Olivier.

Then, in March 1956, the Soviets invaded.

Early in the month, the Midland Hotel received a reservation for 20 Russian diplomats to partake in a traditional British afternoon tea while on a tour of the UK’s atomic power plants. The delegation was rumoured to be headed by Georgi Malenkov, the former Prime Minister of the Soviet Union, who had recently been demoted to Minister for Energy.

The prospect of Soviet feet plodding up and down Morecambe prom was a worrying one. In 1950s Britain, Communist Russia was a country non grata, the home of infectious political ideas and evil dictators. Since 1952, Morecambe’s flagpole had fluttered with the flags of all nations, except one: Russia. Any country which threatened to blow up the world with atomic weapons wasn’t afforded the privilege of decorating Morecambe promenade. (The US and UK seem to have been exempt from this ruling).

The Visitor, 20th August 1952.

Local newspapers were quick to jump on the hysteria bandwagon, recycling well-worn clichés to enhance the threat of the approaching Soviet visit. A particularly menacing image of Georgi Malenkov was chosen to grace The Visitor‘s front page on the announcement of his visit. The caption beneath his picture may as well have read, ‘Don’t mess with me, comrade’.

Residents were warned that 20 burly Russian bodyguards would accompany the delegation, presumably armed with sickles and wearing bear skin hats. Locals needn’t have worried should the ‘increased supply of vodka at the Midland’ have led to violence, however, as ‘a large sprinkling of Police Security Officers’ would be on hand in the town to take down any aggressive Ruskies. Meanwhile, the supposedly inherent Russian trait of suspicion was also predicted to rear its head during the visit: should any ‘gifts of Morecambe’s famous shrimps’ be made to the Soviets, there was no doubt that they would be ‘faithfully examined for poisonous content’.

A stern Malenkov glares from The Visitor‘s front page, 23rd March 1956.

The day of the visit dawned at last. Was World War Three about to begin over tea and scones in Morecambe?

Black Russian Ziss cars swept up the drive of the Midland at 16.20pm. The cars bore flags marked CD; for once in the Cold War context, this stood not for Civil Defence but for Corps Diplomatique.

Georgi Malenkov emerged from the back seat, to the unexpectedly deafening cheer of the Morecambe crowds who had gathered around the hotel in hope of glimpsing what a man from beyond the Iron Curtain really looked like. To everyone’s surprise, he looked like… any other man. Military uniforms were nowhere in sight; the chubby Soviet bigwig instead wore a jolly green tie, was hatless and had a ‘lock of black hair tumbling over his forehead’. Most shockingly of all, he was smiling. The ‘beaming’ politician immediately went to greet members of the public across the road, where he shook hands, signed autographs and lifted a six year old boy onto his shoulders to give him a better view of the Russian convoy.

Malenkov then strode back to the Midland, where upon entering the lobby the ‘hotel orchestra broke into a selection of Russian music and his smile became wider than ever’. The party moved through to the hotel dining room, where Morecambe Town Council officials and the Soviet delegation were served afternoon tea, with lemons provided for those who took their tea Russian style. It was a jovial tea party, and the bonhomie continued when Malenkov took it upon himself to leave the hotel for a walk along the promenade. There, he wished good luck to an engaged couple, expressed his hopes that two old ladies out for an afternoon stroll would live to be 100 years old, and patted a traumatised Corgi named Candy, who had been rescued from the surging crowds by one of the ‘stalwart and surly’ Soviet bodyguards.

Before taking his leave of Morecambe, Malenkov warmly shook hands with the town mayor, Mr R. Allen. Standing on the steps of the Midland, Malenkov extended an invitation through his interpreter, saying, ‘If you are in Moscow, you must come and see me.’ The beaming mayor replied, ‘I would like that.’

The press response which followed the Soviet visit was overwhelmingly positive. Gone were stereotypical slurs and aggressive rhetoric, replaced with compliments and the shocked realisation that, behind the facade of government propaganda, there were real human beings who smiled, chatted freely and sought friendship, not war.

The handshake between Malenkov and the mayor represented a glimmer of hope for a peaceful future. How appropriate that it took place on the steps of Morecambe’s White Hope.

By Rebecca Shaw

(Postscript: As a side note, I’d just like to state that the Midland Hotel does one of the best afternoon teas in the country. Just remember to bring your sunglasses as the sunroom gets very bright!)

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Soviets Beside the Seaside: When Malenkov Visited Morecambe's Midland Hotel

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