A Cultural Tidbit: Bathing Machines

In my latest historical mystery, Widow's Peak, the characters are seated at the dinner table, engaged in conversation. One of the women asks about the beaches in Scotland because she loves to go sea-bathing.

Many might believe, because of the modesty of our British predecessors, that they would never dare strip down to go swimming at the beach. Especially in mixed company! Perish the thought!

Well, that's both wrong and right.

Sea-bathing was a favored past time, as well as a medicinal treatment, for many in the "good old days."  In the 18th and 19th centuries, modesty was a serious business. There were no skimpy two pieces with G-string bottoms or bare-chested men in Speedos running around on British beaches.

The solution: the bathing machine. The bathing machine was a rolling room that allowed swimmers to change privately, stash their street clothes in a raised compartment so they stayed dry, and then step into the waves without scandalizing the crowd.

What would bathers wear? For a long time, nothing! That's what necessitated the machines. But eventually bathing clothes were developed.

Early to Mid-Victorian Era

For women, bathing dresses were long, ankle-length gowns made of heavy materials like wool or flannel, often worn over bloomers, stockings, and shoes. They were designed for modesty and sometimes had weights sewn into the hems to keep the skirts from floating up in the water. As the century progressed, hemlines became shorter, and styles evolved to include puffed sleeves, sailor collars, and double suits with knee-length dresses over leggings. There's a fun history behind women's bathing suits. So, naturally, I'll need to do another post on those!

Early 20th century

Men's swimsuit styles largely remained the same throughout history. Designers used wool as a fabric, and the popular style was a one-piece garment with the legs and arms cut out. It wasn't until he 20th century when men began to go bare-chested.

Once the bathers were dressed and ready to go, getting the machine into the water was a production in itself. The most common design had large, wide wheels, and the whole thing was pulled down the beach and into the surf by a horse—or sometimes a pair of horses—under the guidance of a driver. Less common were the machines pushed in and out of the water by human muscle power.

In some resorts, wooden rails were laid down to make the rolling easier, and in a few particularly advanced places, steam engines were used to haul the machines in and out with cables. It must have been quite a sight: a line of little sheds trundling into the sea, pulled by horses, while bathers waited inside for their moment of privacy.

Once the machine was in position, the bather would step down a few stairs from the sea-facing door and slip into the water. Many machines had doors at both ends, but if there was only one, the driver had to back the machine into the sea or turn it around so that the bather could exit discreetly. Privacy was the whole point, after all.

A bathing machine with a canvas privacy shield.

Some machines even had a canvas tent that could be lowered from the seaside door, sometimes all the way to the water, creating a little enclosed alcove. It was like a portable cabana, shielding you from prying eyes while you splashed about.

For those who needed a bit of assistance, resorts employed “dippers”—strong individuals of the same sex who helped bathers in and out of the water.

Early to mid-1800s swimmers. The dippers are dressed in black.

Some dippers were gentle, guiding nervous bathers carefully down the steps. Others were more enthusiastic, reportedly shoving bathers into the sea and yanking them out again with gusto. It sounds rough, but apparently it was part of the fun. If you were timid about plunging into cold waves, a dipper made sure you got the full experience whether you liked it or not. And when you were ready to return to shore, you simply raised a small flag on your machine to signal the driver.

So where did this curious invention come from?

According to some sources, the bathing machine was developed around 1750 in Margate, Kent. At that time, bathing costumes weren’t yet common, and most people bathed nude. The machine was designed to conceal the bather until they were mostly submerged in the water.

Credit is often given to Benjamin Beale, a Quaker from Margate, who supposedly invented the bathing machine and added the famous umbrella-like canvas screen. His design allowed bathers to enter the water discreetly, preserving modesty while still enjoying the health benefits of the sea. Historically, sea waters were believed to have healing properties, with ancient cultures like the Egyptians using sea salt for wound care and 18th century Europeans prescribing beach visits for ailments. These treatments applied to the physical like sea-bathing for skin and circulatory issues to the spiritual where the waters were considered a source of renewal and divine connection. More about this fascinating bit of medical history in another post.

At any rate, the timeline for the invention of the bathing machine is a little murky. In Scarborough Public Library, there’s an engraving by John Setterington dated 1736 that shows people bathing, and some believe it depicts early bathing machines. In Devon, meanwhile, the claim is that the date was actually 1735. And to complicate things further, an advertisement in the Caledonian Mercury from August 1750 mentions a bathing machine available daily at Leith near Edinburgh. It was this connection to Edinburgh that inspired the bit of conversation in at the dining table in Widow's Peak.

Regardless of its exact origins, the bathing machine quickly spread. It became most common in the United Kingdom and parts of the British Empire, but versions also appeared in France, Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, the United States, Mexico, and other nations. Wherever British culture had influence, the bathing machine followed.

Even royalty got in on the act.

Prince Albert used one at Osborne Beach near Osborne House on the Isle of Wight, and Queen Victoria herself was a fan. She used her bathing machine not only for bathing but also for sketching, and she wrote about her seaside experiences in her diary in July 1847. Her machine was unusually ornate, with a front verandah, curtains for privacy, a changing room, and even a plumbed-in toilet. After her death, the machine was repurposed as a chicken coop—an undignified fate for such a regal contraption—but it was restored in the 1950s and put on display in 2012.

Bathing machines remained in active use on English beaches until the 1890s, when they began to be parked on the sand rather than rolled into the water. By then, social norms were shifting, and mixed bathing was becoming more acceptable. Legal segregation of bathing areas in Britain ended in 1901, and the machines quickly declined in popularity. For a while, they lingered as stationary changing rooms, but by 1914 most had disappeared. By the 1920s, they were almost extinct, even at resorts catering to older visitors who preferred the old ways.

Still, a few survived into the 20th century.

In Aldeburgh, Suffolk, the artist Eric Ravilious painted bathing machines on wheels with winches still in use as late as 1938. And in many places around the world, the concept lived on in the form of stationary bathing boxes—small huts on the beach where people could change, store their belongings, and escape the sun. These beach huts are the modern descendants of the bathing machine, less mobile but still rooted in the same desire for seaside comfort and privacy.

Looking back, it’s easy to smile at the elaborate lengths people went to in order to preserve modesty. Horses, carts, canvas tents, flags, and dippers—all orchestrated just so someone could take a dip in the sea. But the bathing machine was more than just a quirky invention. It reflected the social values of its time, when propriety and decency were paramount. It allowed people, especially women, to enjoy the health benefits of sea bathing without compromising their dignity. And while it may seem quaint or even absurd today, it played a significant role in shaping seaside culture for over a century.

Personally, I kind of like the idea of little cabins along the sea shore to stash belongings, have a snack or a break from the sun, without having to leave the beach. Then, when you're ready, your little cabin can be rolled into the surf where you can either sit on the "porch" to dip your toes, or go in for a swim.