The Bull’s Head
We left the train with the hoards, some down for the day, many to start preparing themselves for Limp Bizkit at Dreamland. That was not our plan. Along the seafront, down the promenade, fighting a little against a chill wind that undermines the June sunshine, we made our way to The Bull’s Head.
It sat in the corner of the square, The Lifeboat across the road and The Margate Bookshop a little further down. Pushing open the front door, we looked for our party amongst the somewhat scavenged furniture and old, worn brick walls. The pieces of art hung here and there, recovered planks from the Dreamland refurbishment, grabbed the eye and drew you around the rooms with their vivid aura and rough textures. Phien O’Phien’s work suited the feel very well.
We found the group and ordered beers, giving gifts to the birthday girl. The staff do well to look after us and the food was excellent, the soup, asparagus and mussels all presented with aplomb. It was not our first trip for lunch and will not be our last.
The Shell Grotto
Down the hill a little further and along King Street, we passed the closed Tudor House, the temporary closure notice old and flapping on the gate. Moving on, King Street became Dane Road and we were closing in on the Shell Grotto. More than half of our party of five were born in Margate, and yet just one of us had previously visited, meeting Father Christmas in the depths.
On arrival, the above ground gift shop was full of life, with the smallest children, through to their grandparents. We bought our tickets and made our way down. The first level provided some context, from the grotto’s discovery in 1835 through to today. Various pieces made of shells were dotted about, intricate houses and bouquets of flowers.
The main attraction was deeper. We descende the steps and passed through a bare, dim tunnel, we were presented with walls covered in over four and a half million shells. Designs of various forms, some seemingly in honour of fertility, others to Indian deities, the hours of concentration, dedication and strained eyes that had gone into the creation of the place must have been monumental. A labour of love and, perhaps, a little madness.
But it wasover in a flash, those millions of shells only go so far, especially in quite tight confines with many others. Returning the gift shop blinking, we looked through it at a pace, before moving on.
Ed Clark at the Turner Contemporary
I had never heard of Ed Clark (1926-2019) before. I am no historian, but I could see that his style of abstract painting was one that both plumbed great depths and remained accessible. That this exhibition at the Turner Contemporary was the first institutional exhibition of his work in Europe was a surprise, though the venue fit. Clark’s works focusing on horizon lines and ovals done at scale match the coastal setting of the gallery and the stark, sometimes merging colours of sky and sea.
Elsewhere, earlier works with less rules placed on the abstraction, showed great movement and visceral violence. The Turner had selected well and I hope that this exhibition brings a wider awareness to the late Clark’s work.
We left the gallery to find that the population of the town was swelling. It was hard to stomach queuing for a second round at The George and Heart House, though the pub was excellent. We entered to a mix of sitars over the speakers, intricate screens, low seating and hops hanging from the ceiling. This provided an intoxicating, clearly popular, and vibrant atmosphere. Instead of waiting we moved on, each of us heading for our differing forms of public transport.
We passed police, many red baseball caps that I was informed meant fans of Fred Durst, and found that there were not many people heading back west along the coast. Homeward bound.
Winkleft 