Visits to the Sea: Kent and East Sussex

Since arriving in England in late August 2009, I've made a few visits to coastal towns. Margate and Whitstable are both on the northeast coast of Kent. Whitstable is north of Canterbury by about six miles. Margate is northeast of Canterbury by about 20 miles, give or take. Brighton is a coastal town in East Sussex, which is quite a bit southeast of Canterbury. For those of you who glaze over at too much geographical detail, just think southern England coastal towns.

Let's deal with Margate first. Margate is one of those towns that, on first glance, you might think was down and out for good. The seafront businesses nearest the train station look abandoned, except for the gents drinking a pint at 9am at one of the few open establishements. Maybe they work the night shift somewhere? Hmmmm. Don't listen to me. Perhaps I am only envious of their leisure, their morning-imbibing insouciance. Where was I? Oh, yes. The arcades, which look as if they were loads of fun for young seaside resort goers, have been shuttered for a while now. There are a great many shops with plywood over the windows. It has the look of a town that was once a destination. As I understand it, Londoners used to come down to Margate in droves to bathe in the sea. Granted, we were not there in the height of summer, but I had to wonder where have all the tourists gone?

I liked Margate. I like places that scream potential, and Margate surely does...loudly. If you look beyond the first impression of boarded up shops, there's a lot to be said for Margate. It's an affordable place to live according to locals. There is the Theatre Royal Margate, second oldest in the country, which is said to be the most haunted theatre in Britain. I went inside the theatre alone, in the dark, and found it to be lovely and peaceful. But I must say, I did not feel alone in there. And even though the jury is still out on whether the 'orbs' that sometimes appear in pictures are indeed paranormal or simply a phenomenon of particulate and flash, I can tell you I captured numerous of these orbs (and never have before), which in successive shots, taken within seconds of each other, disappeared. I doubt the photos will reproduce well on the blog, but I do have a couple of nice general shots of the theatre which I'll show you.



What else is nice about Margate? It has a lovely beach. It's big. It's sandy. It's clean. I think it's far superior to Waikiki. Then again the weather is preferable in Hawaii, but we won't go too deeply into that depressing subject. I think Margate just needs a few entreprenurial gay men who don't mind the cold and it could be dressed up and decorated as the Miami of south England.



Also near the beach is a place of special interest to me, the Nayland Rock Shelter. You might remember from my introduction to this blog, that this particular beach shelter is where the poet T.S. Eliot came to sit each day during his 1921 stay in Margate. He was recuperating from a breakdown and general exhaustion. Anyway, he composed part of The Wasteland at the shelter and even namechecks Margate in this passage:

On Margate Sands
I can connect
Nothing with nothing
The broken fingernails of dirty hands
My people humble people who expect
Nothing

Um. Did I mention he was recovering from a nervous breakdown?




We visited the town of Whitstable, which even in a rainstorm was very charming. It bustles with activity even on a dreary day. Some of you may know Whitstable as it is referenced Sarah Waters' Tipping The Velvet. The BBC did a film adaptation of Tipping The Velvet and part of it was filmed on location in Whitstable. The main character of the story grew up in an oyster house there. Whitstable is famous for its oysters.






In keeping with our ghosty theme, I should mention that while visiting a small bookshop I bumped into...nothing. Well, what I mean is this. I went to back up to get a better view of the bottom shelf of books and my foot was stopped abruptly in mid-step. I thought I'd bumped into someone or something and turned to discover I was alone in the room save for the assistant behind the counter. There were no obstructions on the floor and I have no idea what it was I bumped. But I can tell you, it sure felt solid. The area has been inhabited since the paleolithic era, whatever that means, so perhaps it isn't surprising that there might be some unseen force there, an imprint of old times, a resonance of sorts.

It's easy to see that boating and fishing are still a big part of the goings on in Whitstable. We were there on a blustery day and enjoyed listening to the wind sing as it blew through the masts and rigging of the sailboats in one of the marinas. There are a lot of very sweet little beach cottages all perched together at the shore. Unfortunately, it's obvious that many of them are owned by what the locals call DFLs (Down From Londoners). The blinds were drawn and they looked sadly empty. I suppose if you live in the Big Smoke and could afford a cottage out of town, you wouldn't think anything of it. But it does tend to price locals out of the market and make for bleaker winter surroundings. That's probably an issue for any tourist town on the sea. A few miles off the coast, you can see, if you look closely, the abandoned sea forts used as anti-aircraft gun towers during WWII. Condos anyone?



We took a nice train ride down to Brighton on the coast of East Sussex. It was an incredibly dramatic day for cloud cover, but luckily it didn't rain on us. Brighton is supposed to be the gay capital of England. I suppose it is. But it's not over the top like some districts in gay-friendly cities in the States. I think I saw a few rainbow flags or banners displayed. And we did wander into a gay shop which had a back room full of leathery things and many unmentionable objects of interest primarily to the men folk. All I could think was ouch! and no friggin' way! Um, let's move on shall we?

Brighton has several hundred thousand people living in and around the city. It is a major seaside destination on the south coast, boasting many corporate conventions and millions of visitors each year. I suppose most of them come in the summer, but there is something for everyone there all times of year. It has loads of shops, restaurants, pubs, and nightclubs. There is a pier with arcades and fun houses, which, except for the weather, rivals the Santa Monica pier.


Were there any interesting people, you might ask? Oh, my yes. I'm sorry to say I missed the photo op of one fellow who was strolling the beach in his pants and a T-shirt. At this point it's important to note that the term 'pants' in BritSpeak refers to underpants. So, back to the beach...this fellow was strolling along in his designer tighty-whities and T-shirt. And why not? Even though it wasn't exactly a warm day, he clearly didn't need to fear any shrinkage issues, if you get my drift. Curiously, he was walking along with girlfriend and mama, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. And even more curiously, his mama reached into a bag she was carrying and handed him his trousers. At this point he hid behind a nearby sculpture while dressing. Modest? Hmmmmmm.

There was a hotel called Queens Hotel visible from the beach. I thought that was funny for obvious reasons. The beach itself is lovely. It's a shale beach which looks pink or orange depending on the light. We looked for, and found, several holey stones. These are highly valued by wiccans and pagans. And anyone who likes beachcombing, I would think.




My favorite stop was a pub right on the beach. And what could be better after a day of looking at shops and beachcombing and dodging the kids on the pier? A pint of Stella at the seaside pub. Perfect.

Fun With British Road Signs

Not that British drivers slow down long enough to look at road signs, but here are a few fun ones:

This one lets you know that there are men having difficulties with their umbrellas ahead.
Calling Mary Poppins!

This one lets you know that there are elderly ladies of questionable morals
and extremely forward behavior ahead.

This one lets you know that Evel Knievel will be performing just ahead.

More About Canterbury

I’m from the Seattle area. When I think of old buildings, the late 1800’s comes to mind. Here in Canterbury, that would be considered somewhat recent. There is newer construction in Canterbury, of course. Most of it would be outside the old city, or if it is inside the city it is post-war rebuilding after bombing raids destroyed certain areas.

One bit of brand new construction is the Marlowe Theatre. It has been totally redesigned and is under construction now. All but the fly tower, where the backdrops are raised and lowered, has been demolished. That was the one part of the theatre everyone wanted gone. But then it wouldn’t be much of a theatre, would it? Oh, well. A huge crane seems permanently parked at the site and there is an odd lack of activity at times (ah, a neologism? Lacktivity?). The Marlowe is a Canterbury landmark, and those familiar with literature will recognize the name. The Marlowe is named after the town’s literary star, Christopher Marlowe, a contemporary of the great Elizabethan writer, whats-his-name.

Folks here affectionately referred to the old Marlowe as the ugliest building in Canterbury. The men that lead the boat tours on the River Stour, which flows right through the town, are not shy about saying it as they approach the building site. I’ve heard the people in the boats laugh at this comment. Everyone has a building in their own town they feel that way about, right?

It’s an odd feeling walking through Canterbury. First, it’s confusing. It’s a medieval mess of narrow streets. Town planning wasn’t a big thing then, I’m told. Need a road? Just put it here. Needs must. Second, it feels odd because it’s so old. I look around at the buildings, some still straight as an arrow, others sort of leaning a bit (you’d be tired, too, if you were nine-hundred years old), and I wonder how many generations have lived and worked here. How many births and deaths? How many triumphs and frustrations? How much faith, how much doubt? How many of the businesses catered to the Christian pilgrims who came to witness the site of St. Thomas’s martyrdom? What did the locals think of all the pilgrims?

I say it feels odd, but it’s also sort of comforting. I like the way the buildings seem to lean in a bit to the street, especially on the narrow lanes. There’s something quiet and settled about that. The people come and go through the centuries; the buildings remain neighbours. They fit together. They hold the history, the smallest vibrations of the past, the footsteps, the laughter, the sighs. It’s all there.

No doubt you’re wondering if I’ve found the local Starbucks yet. Well, folks, it’s right next to the main entrance into the cathedral.

Christians need caffeine, too, you know. The other Starbucks is on the high street (there had to be another one, didn’t there?) I can tell you it was only just the other day I enjoyed a fine coffee beverage there. Decaf, of course. It was just as good as any Starbucks. (Um, what is she trying to say here?) They really are all the same. As much fun as I like to have at their expense, the continuity is a good thing, I think. If I ever get homesick for something that seems like Seattle (or Mukilteo, or Spokane, or Los Angeles, or even somewhere I’ve never been), I know where to go. It is good people-watching in that square outside of Starbucks. The kids come and hang out after school, to include a young skinny emo guy who plays his guitar and sings. His peers toss spare change into his pack as do some tourists. He earns his own pocket money it seems. Good lad. There was also a guy wandering around the other day who was blindfolded and had big microphones strapped to each hand and seemed to be listening through an earpiece. He had a minder who was taking notes. I dearly wish I had asked what was going on. Most everyone pretended not to notice him.

I’m told this response is very British. Apparently you could walk around the streets of London in a fluffy pink pig suit and no one would seem to notice you. Well, that’s London. But you could wear the same fluffy pink pig suit on the streets of any little village and I bet no one would blink. What do they say behind closed doors, I wonder. Hello, darling, I’m home. There’s someone dressed as a dirty great pig in the square. What’s for tea?

I have a favourite pub (or two or three) in Canterbury. The Hobgoblin is a fine pub, very rock and roll friendly unlike most of the others. It reminds me a little bit of Seattle. Mostly a younger crowd but very mellow. The brewery which does Hobgoblin Ale does other ones, too, like The Dog’s Bollocks. But that’s a seasonal ale…naturally.

Another nice pub is The Thomas Becket. I’m pretty sure the original Thomas Becket didn’t own a pub. He was far too busy getting his head chopped off at the Cathedral just down the road. It’s a nice place and I suppose some tourists stumble in but it does seem like a locals pub. I met a gentleman in there the other day who was 87 and had stormed the beach at Normandy. I thanked him, of course. One of the things I like about that pub is that they hang hops vines over the ceiling beams. This, my partner informs me, is a bit of a tradition in pubs.

The pub we’d likely consider our local is just around the corner and down the street a bit. It’s called The Unicorn. This one seems to be mostly locals. It’s currently owned by a friendly South African bloke. I’m told a certain hunky star who hails from Canterbury has been seen, and most importantly not bothered, in the pub; whereas, if he goes to the touristy places in the old part of town, he’s mobbed.

Whenever I need peace and quiet, I step into the church on the corner, St. Dunstan’s. Even though it is on an extremely busy corner and there is nearly always traffic, once you step inside, all of that goes away. It’s incredibly still. Yes, the walls are very thick and that does account for part of the quiet, but there is something else at work there. A thousand years of worship, I think, have made it quiet and peaceful. A thousand years. Imagine.

St. Dunstan's Bell Tower

Inside St. Dunstan's

Window in St. Dunstan's. The guy in the middle looks familiar...

Pictures As Promised

a couple of pics from the day of our civil ceremony:


yes, these are our hands. we did not use hollywood hand doubles.

here we are goofing off. attempted bunny ears. bad form on your wedding day, i know...

Goin' To The Chapel

We got hitched the other day. Tied the knot. Said ‘I do.’

So...while I await the photos our friend took to document the happy day, I'll share a thought or two with you all. Oh, joy. You know, I can hear you rolling your eyes...ha!

I never thought I’d have the right to legally marry a partner. Although it is called Civil Partnership, the rights and responsibilities and protections are the very same as marriage; indeed, I often call it marriage rather than making the superficial distinction. The only people who care about the distinction are the very religious types who don’t wholly approve of a ‘homosexual lifestyle,’ and the radical types who don’t wholly approve of the patriarchal institution of marriage. That’s okay. They can all go hang.

Like any newly married person I’m both giddy with delight and deeply moved by how much love there is between us, my partner and me. As we faced each other in an upstairs office at Wellington House in Canterbury, and were pronounced Civil Partners, I felt like the love we shared was literally moving out from us in ripples and filling the room. Even though we deliberately chose the no fuss service in which we only had to repeat a declaration that we knew of no legal reason why we may not be joined as Civil Partners, there was a solemnity and weight to it that was reassuring. The State takes us seriously enough to remind us that it is a lifetime commitment, not to be taken lightly. The government of the United Kingdom has a fundamentally different perception of my relationship than does the government of my own country.

The United States doesn’t care about my relationship. The government of my country has not bothered to rid itself of the influence of bullying right-wing zealots who dictate morality for the masses. President Obama doesn’t seem, at this early stage, to be readily poised to make any more progress on that front than did President Clinton. You know all those times a politician sucks the air out the room convincing everyone he’s a Christian in order to simply survive a primary race? Those are great big red flags that signal the continued rule of a narrow type of religiosity in America. We all know there is a litmus test for presidential candidates, which is that they have to be Christian enough. A Christian theocracy that masks itself as a democracy is a very difficult thing to change. There will not be a Buddhist, Muslim, Hindu, or Jewish president in my lifetime, or the lifetime of my nieces and nephews. There will never be an openly Atheist president. There will never be a U.S. president who describes himself as more spiritual than religious. However, for all their shows of piety, there have been and will be presidents who you’d swear were the devil incarnate. Don’t lose hope, though. The U.S. is still a young nation after all.

The United Kingdom, with its fairly brutal history, could not necessarily be held up as a model of religious freedom and civil rights through the ages. But a measure of how far it has come is the fact that my partner and I can legally marry and have our ceremony carried out by a smiling civil servant who seemed genuinely pleased to do so, genuinely pleased to welcome us to the community of souls with legally binding commitments and protections. All this in a nation that has a monarch as head of State. Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, is not only the head of State; she is also the head of the Church of England, defender of the faith. It’s hard for Americans to imagine gay people having any civil rights in that sort of scenario. However, burning heretics has fallen out of fashion, and so has imposing One’s religious views on One’s subjects. Although it probably took a lot pressure and great effort from the gay community, what you see here is change happening from the top down as well as from within society. The Labour government under Tony Blair (with support from the Conservative opposition, it should be noted) boldly enacted the laws that allowed my wedding to happen the other day. Bless them.

What does this tell us? It tells us that change comes even to societies that are steeped in religious tradition and rigid class systems. It tells us that there are governments willing to do the right thing and not wait around for the religious extremists, even those elected to government, to say it’s okay. [Note to moderate and progressive U.S. politicians: if your colleagues try to cut your hands off or otherwise smite you when you reach across the aisle, it’s time to stop reaching across the aisle. Besides, do you really want to shake hands with a guy who spouts bigotry and acts all holier-than-thou in our nation’s hallowed halls of democracy and then goes off and makes homosexual advances in the airport men’s room?]

Having been out of country a little while now, here’s what I can see clearly about the American political landscape:

a) Americans are kidding themselves if they think they live in the ultimate democracy. Perhaps once, and perhaps once again, but not lately.

b) Electing a black president, however wonderful and fluffy that feels to liberals, doesn’t mean jack in terms of actual civil rights. If President Obama and his Democratic senate decide to get something - anything - done instead of trying to play kissy-kissy-smooch-smooch with those clearly unwilling republicans, we may see some progress in terms of said civil rights. Get on with it, guys. I know. Let’s start with health care. That’s a basic civil right. Isn’t it?

Is it possible for change in America? Oh, absolutely. And one huge indication of a general desire for change is that voters went for the rhetoric of change. Ah, the audacity of rhetoric. Rhetoric is not necessarily a negative thing, nor is it always empty. If it works its way into the mainstream lexicon, the cultural norms and expectations end up being subtly altered over time. It matters little whether President Obama meant what he said, if the voters who elected him based on what he said put the pressure on him to live up to it. It may well be true that President Obama is the first U.S. president in a long time worth pressuring. It may not seem polite or politically correct to relentlessly pressure our first black president but we would completely underestimate him if we sat back and accepted anything half-baked from him. And truth be told, he can take it. He has to. As America’s first black president he’ll have to be better and work harder than any U.S. president before him. Every minority knows that’s true. As cynical as I may be about his alleged commitment to gay rights, there’s one thing I know for sure: President Obama wants to succeed. It’s palpable. Let’s help him.

Canterbury: A Quick History

Canterbury has been a community for a very long time. I can’t give you an exact date but it is written that the Romans took over the town in the first century AD when they made themselves at home here on this very big island [note: the British believe they live on a very large island indeed, and, as a guest in this country I think it would be rude for me to tell them otherwise]. Anyway, here are the high points of Canterbury history:

597 the Kingdom of Kent [note: Kent is the region or county] converts to Christianity. Boring.

1170 Thomas Becket, then Archbishop of Canterbury is murdered in Canterbury Cathedral, beheaded by followers of Henry II. Uh, apparently Mr. Becket angered His Majesty. The Cathedral becomes a place of pilgrimage for many Christians soon after. Boring.

1300s Chaucer writes the Canterbury Tales and high school students the world over have since been made to memorize this: Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote /The droghte of March hath perced to the roote. Ah, Middle English. Fabulous. Nay, boring.

1564 Elizabethan playwright Christopher Marlowe, contemporary of that other famous playwright, is born in Canterbury. Boring.

1977 Orlando Bloom is born in Canterbury. And yes, for those who are curious, he is occasionally seen here. Yum. Definitely not boring. Um. Where were we? Oh, yeah. Here are some more images of Canterbury and surrounds.

This is a typical street scene in Canterbury. The Cathedral is huge and yet within the town proper it's actually hard to see:



This is what Canterbury looks like from the campus of the University of Kent. The Cathedral would be the predominant feature, were it not for your inept photographer and the hazy day:

And this is what it looks like when you try to take a picture of yourself and your girlfriend with Canterbury as a backdrop:

And here is what a mailbox looks like in Canterbury [and all of the UK, I think]:


And here is what you might find in one local pub near Canterbury:
Yes. Goats. I can't think of any American pubs I've been in which featured goats. As a Capricorn, I have a deep appreciation for how much goats like pubs and should be allowed in. They don't really have any money, though, and concentrate mostly on eating any and all foliage. They probably don't tip their bartenders very well either.

Jet Lag

the actual jet

Here is a fitting topic for one of my first entries. Jet lag.

The United Kingdom is usually eight hours ahead of Pacific Time. The switch to and from daylight savings time does not always happen on the same day in each time zone, so that makes it especially fun to figure out whether now is a good time to call your girlfriend. Enough of that. I don’t have to worry about that because I got on a plane and flew nine hours and gained eight. I left at 7pm on a Tuesday and arrived at Heathrow at noon on Wednesday. I was lucky enough to get bumped up to Business Class, but that’s the subject of another post, I suppose. Although it must be said I am now entirely spoiled. I want my own personal pod whenever I fly. Nine million dollars later…

Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. Jet lag is not fun. In the forty-eight hours following my flight to London from Seattle, I found out that I actually am a wimp. I felt as if I had just been informed, after accidentally consuming about five sleepy anti-histamines, that I would have to fill in for the guest speaker at a conference on trigonometry. Oh. My. God. I would watch people’s mouths move, and then the sound would come a few moments later. What? The soundtrack was, shall we say, not in sync with the visual display. And then there was the urge to look for any flat surface upon which to lie down. Was I really fantasizing about having a nap on or around that municipal rubbish bin (not trash bin, mind you, rubbish bin)? Yes. Yes I was. I am sure it would have been the most comfortable place ever to catch a few zeds.

Which brings me to a few minor points. Zed is BritSpeak for the letter Z. Those of you in proximity to the Canadian border in the States will be able to verify that it is also CanadianSpeak for Z. And speaking of things that start with the letter zed, the kind of crosswalk you see with big bold stripes painted on the road are called zebra crossings…for sort of obvious reasons. But it’s not pronounced ZEE-bruh, as we would say. It’s ZEB-ruh.

And here’s another minor point. They drive on the WRONG side of the road here. Well, you all know that, but it needs to be said. Desperately. As a form of therapy, really. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong! And, sweet Jesus, they drive fast. Very fast. It is probably an understatement to say that I’m not the world’s best passenger. Zipping down a narrow lane at 40mph – a lane with high hedges on either side, and blind driveways here and there - is par for the course. And when I say narrow, I do mean narrow. It makes residential streets in Seattle look like runways suitable for jumbo jets. Narrow as in it isn’t wide enough for two vehicles (actually, I’m not sure it’s wide enough for one vehicle – auto painting businesses must be in huge demand). Narrow as in my God in Heaven we are going to collide in a very bad way with that oncoming car! As I am lucky enough to have a good driver for a girlfriend, we don’t collide. But it sure seems like a miracle each time.

There is a driver’s courtesy observed on the narrow lanes, which does not seem to be readily observed elsewhere on British roads. And that is the acknowledgement hand gesture (no, not that gesture). When someone pulls to the side to let you pass, you give them a little wave by lifting your four fingers off the steering wheel briefly. The epitome of calm, cool, and collected driving. I say, darling, very British indeed. Never mind that your American passenger is on the floor chewing the floor mat and saying the Lord’s Prayer. Does she even know the Lord’s Prayer? Not likely, but you get the idea.

home, sweet home

Why It's Called 'Up The White Road'

Thomas Stearns Eliot

The American born TS Eliot became a British subject in 1927 at the age of 39. He’d been in country for some time, having studied at Oxford. He wrote part of his famous poem The Wasteland in 1921 while staying at a town called Margate, not terribly far from Canterbury. Apparently visiting the Nayland Rock Shelter by the sea helped him clear his head and get on with writing the poem.

Nayland Rock Shelter at Margate

In the section called What the Thunder Said, he makes reference to one of Sir Ernest Shackleton’s expeditions in the Antarctic. Eliot was struck by Shackleton’s account of exploring the island of South Georgia with his men in which he said that he always felt there was one more crewman present than could be counted.

Sir Ernest Shackleton

Eliot’s passage from section five reads:

Who is the third who walks always beside you?

When I count, there are only you and I together

But when I look ahead up the white road

There is always another one walking beside you

I thought this reference was a perfect tie-in for a blog about my adventures in moving from Washington State to the United Kingdom. You, dear far away reader, are welcome to walk beside me on my journey.

Here are a couple links which are possibly of interest:

The Wasteland with notes

Wiki for Shackleton