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...