Margate is a masterpiece in its quirky old way...
LOOK at that,’ I said to my wife. She looked, and read aloud the handwritten slogan above the souvenir shop: “For a dinky weekend come to Margate.” So?’ ‘No, no.’ I said. ‘Not dinky, dirty. “For a dirty weekend come to Margate.” ’ ‘Oh, right,’ said my wife. The slogan was written by Tracey Emin CBE. You can scarcely move in Margate for Tracey. She calls the shots and sets the tone. She does not labour alone, however. Her sidekick is J. M. W. Turner, whose name has been given to a gallery on the seafront.
Right now, though, Turner is best known for Timothy Spall’s portrayal of him in Mr Turner, Mike Leigh’s inordinately long biopic, which opened last week to swooning reviews.
Turner loved Margate for its light, and spent much time there. But he has little in common with Tracey; true, he was coarse, sexually liberated, and resolutely single; but he was one of the greatest artists Britain has produced, and Emin is not.
The gallery has some fine pieces and there are many good shops and restaurants in the Old Town. Not only that, but Dreamland, the fabled amusement park that closed in 2005, is due to reopen next year, and once again we’ll all be able to scream ourselves silly on the big-dipper.
SO LET’S not be negative. The Margate I discovered as a boy half a century ago is still there, even if dressed in irony and feeding on nostalgia. We stayed at the funky Walpole Bay Hotel & Museum. We chose it because we’d heard good reports and because it’s dogfriendly. We always take Harry, our cranky, paranoid and supercilious springer spaniel with us.
Tracey Emin loves the hotel — and has boasted of having had the best sex of her life there — but that didn’t deter us and shouldn’t deter you. What you need to know is that the Walpole is a very good hotel, with comfy beds, excellent food, and spiffing service. You feel you are among slightly eccentric friends.
The dog behaved well, and was civil to other guests. ‘Where have they put your bowl of gin?’ a man asked Harry as he passed him at the bar.
Harry, belly down on the carpet, with his head between his paws, raised an eyebrow at me, but waited until the man was out of hearing before saying: ‘If there is one thing I can’t stand, it is facetious whimsy.’ The owner, Jane Bishop, has filled corridors and walls with bric-a-brac going back to Victorian times.
There are old typewriters, sewing machines, an ancient Bible, flappers’ dresses, hats and more hats, and wedding dresses.
Walpole Bay beach itself has a man-made tidal pool, so you don’t have to walk miles for a swim when the tide is out, and I didn’t see any instructions to keep your dog on a lead.
The only notice I saw was on the jetski beach next to Walpole Bay: ‘It is UNLAWFUL to operate a jetski while under the influence of alcohol. Offenders WILL be reported.’ Harry lifted his leg beneath the notice and said: ‘You wouldn’t get me on one of those things, boss, unless I was well hammered.’
So there it is. For a dinky weekend come to Margate.