Margate murk

With chattering teeth hammering an irregular beat against the rim of the chipped, plain white mug, I scanned the bleak coastal horizon.

As I leaned forward to slice a path of vision through the murk, the creaking plastic garden chair jabbed at my spine. The remnants of a fried egg and beans breakfast gummed my rain jacket-clad elbows to the wipe-clean Union Jack table covering.

As seafront vistas go, this one wasn’t a postcard contender. Far beyond the rusting metal railings ahead, the water swirled in the wind. Its insipid hue twinned with my lukewarm tea. Devoid of sunseekers, litter, and haphazard clusters of seaweed-coated rocks populated the beach. From my vantage point, the slimy stones could’ve been groups of toads squatting in conversation.

Pulling up the apartment’s heavy blinds that morning had immediately dampened the longed-for first day of holiday promise. An anticipated view of Margate’s myriad fishing boats and harbour arm - a mere few feet away - was wholly erased by dense mist. The scene was so impenetrable you wondered if rubbing your eyes might sharpen the blurry picture.

Stepping outside made little difference. The town was strangely quiet, roads and pavements sparsely populated. Dishwater skies combined with Covid trepidation keeping the usual tourists at bay. In search of human life and bearings, we turned left past some crumbling, once-grand Victorian hotels' fuzzy outlines and followed the coastal path with no particular plan. Flimsy anoraks, jeans and trainers quickly proved feeble against relentless sideways downpours.

Jacket hoods pulled tight against the rain created a tunnel-like view of the promenade - a strip of fissured, potholed concrete punctuated with the odd plucky wisp of grass. Far from its usual associations of seaside grandeur and excitement, this walkway offered only boarded up ice cream huts with sad signage making empty promises of creamy 99s. Somewhere along the way, we caught a glimpse of a crazy golf complex on hiatus.

Soaking and seeking caffeine, the cafe with its frugally furnished terrace and dearth of customers, somewhere in the no man’s land toward Westgate-on-Sea, provided respite.

Time sipping tasteless tea finally brought June out of hiding, and Margate called us back. With the fog finally clearing, rows of esplanade beach huts earlier washed-out and largely concealed by our rainwear now vied for attention. Flamingo patterned, and candy-striped designs stood out among the Council-issue yellow and blue. Optimistic owners were unlocking shutters, pouring from flasks, sharing crisps and setting up for a day by the sea with friends and dogs.

Re-entering Margate, brightness to rival the seafront stores’ bold bucket and spade merchandise finally assumed control of the grey. An artist’s palette made dazzling by rain-intensified colour.

The retro amusement park Dreamland's gaudy acid yellow Art Deco frontage, earlier cloaked in the murk, paused pending lockdown’s easing, presided over the coastline. Next door, Brutalist tower block Arlington House, re-emerged from the gloom to once again stand proud and offer its ugly/beautiful appearance for judgement.

Sodden sand struck by sunlight regained a hint of its famed golden glow. Swingboat rides dressed in fire-engine red paint hung poised for imminent entertaining. A dip in the tidal pool began to look tempting.

And back at the promenade’s far end, the harbour, now freed of fog, sparked back to life with kaleidoscopic fishing trawlers and bobbing buoys. Along the sea wall, previously invisible microbreweries now appeared for inspection and future refreshment opportunities. 

Splashed across the tourist information office’s doorway like a beacon, local artist Tracy Emin’s installation bookended our journey through the colour spectrum. “I never stopped loving you” handwritten in neon pink scrawl. Margate again dipped in faith-restoring colour. The morning’s blanched landscape is now a distant memory.