Hot tips in Margate
A seaside postcard
Surveying the seafront at Margate from the window of a barrel sauna, the juxtapositions are striking. Fishing boats bob beneath Turner Contemporary’s elegant sheds. Flamingo Amusements and adjacent Weatherspoon entice one market niche, Wayne Hemmingway’s reimagined Dreamland lures another. Arlington House, an 18-storey brutalist tower block casts a shadow over the shelter where TS Elliot composed The Wasteland.
Adding to this scene a wood-burning sauna appears to be a further incongruous abutment – a hipster enclave on southern England’s foremost bucket-and-spade beach. But once I’m cooling off in the tidal pool’s briny, I am reminded that waterborne cures are nothing new at this sandy extremity.
Just 500 meters away is the former Royal Sea Bathing Hospital, an extraordinary institution of 1791 that promised healing through the inhalation of fresh air and immersion in sea waters. It endured until 1950, when improved living standards, among other things, reduced the need for tuberculosis care.
A couple of uncertain decades followed for the handsome hospital, doric portico and all. Some wings collapsed, others lost their roofs. Eventually, a developer came forward, and a transformation into apartments began. On the seaward side, where bathing machines once lowered the infirm into the Thames estuary, a row of chalets ‘that take their cue from traditional beach huts’ are the work of architect Guy Hollaway.
Beach huts, for me, are a jumble of seaside colours, sand on the floor, and tea with a waft of paraffin smoke. Perhaps in time the residents of Hollaway’s cool glazed boxes will break out the primary paints and give their homes more of a beach-front feel?
Unusually, Margate has two tidal pools, both built in 1937 by the borough engineer, and fashioned from concrete blocks and repurposed tram rails. The tide goes out by as much as 250 meters here; the function of the pools is to retain a safe swimming place close by the promenade. The Walpole Bay pool is said to be the world’s largest – it encloses an area of around four acres, although when the tide comes it, the structure is immersed entirely the waves.
Both tidal pools are now listed, so will, hopefully, endure. Renewed interest in open-water swimming meant that I had company on my several dips. Provenance and official recognition are no guarantee, however. The Egyptian-styled beach lift that once brought bathers down to the Walpole pool is now in a parlous state, despite renovation in the 1990s. A fellow swimmer told me that another refurb was on the cards – my fingers are crossed.
It is indicative of the challenges facing the resort. Despite huge investment – in Turner Contemporary and Dreamland – and the vigorous revival of the chi-chi Old Town, the sense of being permanently out-of-season still hangs on the air. The vast Lido, and Winter Gardens complexes lie rotting. Sensationally positioned hotels appear derelict, and many shops in the main shopping area are vacant.
With such rich variety, however, it deserves to succeed. It offers an unrivalled cultural spectrum, beaches of every kind, and a built environment that is full of surprises.
My sojourn concluded with high tea at the deeply eccentric Walpole Bay Hotel. Visitors are encouraged ride the 100-year-old elevator and stroll around the narrow and meandering guest corridors. Every wall and corner over five stories is adorned with a random and unexplained collection of household appliances, office equipment, and decorated fragments of vintage hotel linen.
As my eight-year-old daughter and I took in the brass bedpans, ancient typewriters and Edwardian luggage, the inevitable occurred. Behind a door we were passing a visiting couple were noisily enjoying the freedoms of a seaside hotel room. ‘What’s happening in there daddy”, she not unreasonably asked? Whether she was convinced by my response – that they were probably trying out a Victorian carpet cleaner – I am not sure. As she observed, however, they were making it sound like good fun.
Motoring back to London, I wondered what saucy-postcard-king Donald McGill would have made of holidaymakers who chose to get into an over-heated barrel with half a dozen other bathing suit wearers? “Hot tips in Margate” is a punchline well-suited to the genre, I decided.
Alas, seaside postcards now exist only in the past tense. After three days in Margate, however, I determined to return in short order for another filling of the pleasures they once celebrated.