Photographs of Margate (3)

Might as well add a third tranche of photographs while I'm at it! This first photograph shows Margate's oldest building -- the Tudor House, in King Street. Despite its name, this is late medieval rather than Tudor; originally a farmstead on the edge of town, and rather over-enthusiastically restored in the 1950s (the sort of restoration where the people concerned put in what they thought should be there rather than what the documentary evidence said was there, which would be heavily frowned on today).

This second photograph shows a small cottage in Market Street -- not perhaps the most elegant of dwellings, but one that is quietly proud of its modest contribution to the heritage streetscape (etc. etc. -- add posy wanky architectural criticism to taste).

This and the next photograph show the Margate Museum and the Town Hall (connected by an enclosed passage at first floor level) in the Market Place. The Town Hall was formerly the police station and magistrate's court, in the latter of which (I quote from the Margate Heritage Trail leaflet) "Dr George Simpson JP, Chairman of the Margate Bench, made his famous Sawdust Caesars speech during the Mods and Rockers Trial in 1964". There is a brief Wikipedia entry which covers this here.

Finally, India House in Hawley Street, built in 1767 for Captain John Gould, "late of Calcutta", who is said to be the first known example of a man "retiring to the seaside". There seems to be no record of how much longer he lived after so retiring, which is a bit of a shame.

Next time: the first photographs of Whitstable!

Photographs of Margate (2)

A second tranche of photographs from our visit to Margate on Saturday.... The first photograph shows a general view of the town from the pier. The figure in the foreground, in the green jacket and dark blue hat with her back to the camera, is indeed The Wugster.

A building in King Street, in the old (Georgian and Regency) part of the town. The painted sign on the window, reading "Vintage Goods", is to some extent a heroic attempt to pretend that this is not just another second-hand shop (although to be fair it does have some more upmarket and outre items than most -- spats, anyone?).

Some late Victorian exuberance, just because it is so irresistible.

This and the next photograph show the palatial (for the time) home occupied by the rich and successful local businessman and financier Francis Cobb. Indeed, he was so rich and successful that for a time he had his own bank, next door to his home in the white-fronted building visible on the left of the picture.

Photographs of Margate (1)

As promised in the previous post, some photographs of Margate. The Surfboat Memorial, commemorating those who died in an attempt to rescue the crew of a foundering ship in December 1897 (ironically, Margate now has no inshore lifeboat rescue facility, that having moved to Whitstable many years ago):

The open-air seawater swimming pool, a notable feature of Margate's beach front -- its date of construction is uncertain, but late 1890s-1900s seems about right:

Margate advertises itself as having the best sands in the world. This image, looking across the beach towards the harbour, shows both the Turner Contemporary Gallery (in the distance) and (in the foreground) a member of the beach clean-up crew at work on the day we visited. And (in between) the best sands in the world (possibly).

The town's clock-tower -- built to mark Queen Victoria's golden jubilee, as were so many clock towers which appeared throughout the UK at around the same time. One wonders whether the same will attend Brenda's jubilee in a month or so's time....and hopes not.

Once the office for all arriving and departing ships, where they were required to get their paperwork stamped before they could proceed to sea, this imposing buiding is now Margate's tourist information office.

A Grand Day Out

Today we went to Margate and Whitstable -- Margate because it is the home of the Turner Contemporary Gallery which is hosting an exhibition of watercolours by noted Regency and Victorian painter J M W Turner (the exhibition in fact closes tomorrow); and Whitstable (breaking our return journey to London) because it is a historic fishing town with an oyster processing and consuming trade which predates the arrival of the Romans in Britain. As ever, I took lots of photographs of the interesting old buildings -- rather more of Margate than I expected to take, because everything one reads about it suggests that it's a post-Victorian seaside resort which has been down on its luck ever since the Second World War; and rather fewer of Whitstable than I expected to take, because it is Overrun With Bloody Tourists who simply get in the way of everything: wobbling along with their vast chip-stuffed bellies and their hideous pasty-faced shrieking children, or if not obese and clad in terylene of mixed pastel and electric shades then rail-thin teenage gels with dyed blond over-straightened hair in skin-tight jeans and the peculiarly dead-eyed expressions which result from permanently welding themselves to their iPods, out for an afternoon of avoiding their parents in the company of their repellent concave-chested shaven-headed boyfriends with their trousers thrust down below their bottoms to show off their manky multicoloured underwear I'm sure I must have posted a rant not unlike this in a previous entry on this blogsite. But since we were in Whitstable we had some oysters for an early dinner, and very nice they were too. I should have taken a photograph of The Wugster (and the oysters) just as she was about to tuck in, to prove that we were there, but unfortunately I was too busy tucking into my own plate to grasp this point. Instead, here's a photograph of the oyster shell midden outside the particular emporium at which we consumed our seafood; and a photograph of The Wugster posing alongside a slightly overlifesized wooden model of a pirate at Whitstable's old harbour (so old that it is still in everyday use and in any case the north Kent coast has never, ever been subject to piracy -- but if you want people to photograph themselves against the supercalifragistilic parts of your town you of course have to provide the requisite props, what what?).

More photographs of Margate and Whitstable in the next post. (Perhaps.)

Forget-Me-Nots

Forget-Me-Nots in our back garden this morning (taken a few minutes ago, in fact). They're at their peak now; within a few days the flowers will start to fade and set seed (and most of them will then have to be pulled out if they're not to crowd everything out next spring).

Mutant Broccoli

Photographed at the allotment this afternoon. This colouration is presumably the consequence of a recessive gene in the plant, and is rather attractive. Unfortunately, grey aphids have found it attractive too, and the broccoli heads themselves are too infested to be eaten. Bum! Bum poo donkey smells!

In the Garden this Morning

A photograph of the Japanese quince in flower against our shady fence, taken a few minutes ago -- just because.

Steaming Away (The Motionless Picture)

Addendum to the previous post: I tried posting a video clip of the beam engine in operation, but after an hour the upload was still churning away, with no end in sight. It has therefore been abandoned. Instead, have this picture of the engineer's desk, with its giant spanners.

Steaming Away

Today it rained a lot; but we didn't mind, because we had planned to visit the Markfield Beam Engine in Markfield Park, a Grade II listed (i.e. historically protected) steam pumping engine from the great days of Victorian sewage engineering. (The website has, under the "History of the Site" tab, a detailed exposition of not just the engine's history but also the history of the struggle to bring adequate sanitation to late nineteenth and early twentieth century London. Who'd have thought that poo -- the stuff that comes out of botties -- could have such heritage value, eh?) The engine is not now connected to the sewage system, having been decommissioned in 1964, but was recently restored to working order with money from the Heritage Lottery Fund (which also built the cafe alongside and installed modern toilets) and now steams a couple of times a month -- the beam rocking back and forth, the pressure cylinders being pumped up and down, the flywheel spinning. It all looks suitably majestic, and here are some photographs to prove it -- a general view of the beam engine house, with (in the foreground) the gardens where the sewage filter beds used to be; a view of one end of the beam support structure, with the flywheel to the right; the flywheel itself, with added Judith for scale; the pressure cylinders in operation; and a view of the other end of the beam support structure, showing the stairs to the upper deck and (descending) one end of the beam itself. (The beam can be seen from above on the website, under "The Engine" tab -- a view denied to ordinary visitors.)

In a separate post, I shall upload some video I took of the engine in operation.

Another Victory

Today has been cool, overcast and occasionally drizzly; but that has not deterred me from attempting and almost completing the relaying of the back garden path. It was visible in Friday's photographs of the arch before and after restaining; what was not visible was its decayed and untidy state, where what had once been clean gravel had been pressed down into the soil and soil brought up to the surface in patches (very often by feral pigeons pecking in the gravel for seed dropped from the bird feedery by the sparrows and other birds). I had been putting off attending to it because of the volume of gravel which would have had to be sieved (and the length of time this would have taken); in the event, however, I made the decision to just rake off the top layer, leave the rest embedded in the soil, and lay down the new path over the top. This did require some digging out, in order to remove what had built up over time and lower the level back to the original; stony soil was accordingly redistributed to selected parts of the growing beds. I then laid a weedproof membrane to ensure there would be no future mixing of gravel and soil, washed and replaced the brick stepping stones, and applied the reclaimed gravel to the membrane. Except that the quantity of gravel reclaimed, plus another bag of gravel already in stock, wasn't nearly enough to completely cover the membrane; we shall need to acquire at least two more from B & Q at Tottenham Hale. (And a third bag to apply to the slope on the front face of the pond. Is there no end to the gravel requirements of 15 Jansons Road?)

Below are some photographs of the path relaying in progress -- the two-trug system used to reclaim the gravel (shovel it into one, add water and stir vigorously to separate it from the soil and weed plants, then sieve the washed gravel into the second), with Wugster feetyoids visible for scale; a view of the path being dug up; the membrane as laid; the replaced brick stepping stones; and the regravelling in progress (reclaimed gravel at the garden end, new gravel at the house end). Lashing rain is promised for tommorow, so the regravelling may not be completed until next weekend.

Achieving Great Victories

It's clouded over now -- and in fact clouded over a couple of hours ago -- but in the hours of sunshine available I completed two of the garden jobs I'd diarised for this holiday weekend: applying a new coat of wood stain to the arch which holds the bird feedery; and giving the grass its first cut of the year. Below are two photographs of the arch, before and after its re-painting; if it looks as though the uprights aren't vertical, and that the whole thing has a twist to it, that's not an optical illusion -- it really is crappily constructed, by yours truly.





While the sun shone, the Wugster also got some gardening done, mostly in the front while I was busy in the back -- so no photographs of what she was about, except for this one, of her doing some potting up for tomorrow's plant sale on behalf of the Wards Corner Community Coalition. As the Wugster, she is of course thoroughly rugged up against the cold, while I was happily legging about in a pair of shorts and nothing else. (Well, it meant that I didn't get any splashes of wood stain on my clothes, what what?)



Tomorrow, if it doesn't rain, I shall attempt another of the diarised tasks: relaying the brick and gravel path. A whole day's work, to be sure....

Easter Approaches

I was looking forward to Easter, and last weekend even drew up a list of things to be done in the garden and on the allotment -- give the grass its first cut of the year, remove the bubble plastic from the greenhouse, rehang the insect home on the fence, apply a new coat of wood stain to the arch which holds the bird feedery, repair bed edging and lay down some new carpetting, install guttering and a downpipe on the allotment shed....but the weather forecast looks grim, and it seems that little if any of that will now be possible (chiz chiz, as N Molesworth would sa). Not that there aren't things I can get on with indoors (sorting the photographs of Paris I took a couple of weekends ago into the existing Paris photograph album -- restoring some slipped fragments in the stained glass of the front foor -- various computery things -- reading some books), but postponing any garden work at this time of the year, when one is essentially setting things up for the summer and autumn, simply creates a traffic jam of Things To Do later on in the month, which is most non-robust (chiz chiz agane).

Still, the Markfield Beam Engine will be steaming on the Monday, and we are planning to go to that whatever happens. I don't have any existing photographs of the engine and its house, so will probably take a few and post them here -- a positive outcome!

Flowers in the Morning

The magnolia stellata in our front garden this morning, photographed a few minutes ago (note also the new shoots forming on the rose in front of it):


A clump of daffodils in the path in the back garden, also photographed a few minutes ago:


And just for contrast, a collection of tatty old refrigerator shelves, protecting newly planted out seedlings from being pecked to death by feral pigeons. This works!

"Why am I being assaulted by a tree in my own kitchen?"

-- queried The Wugster as she maneuvered around the folding bicycle propped against the oven. It was indeed a most apt question.

In all the years we've lived here, we've shampooed the carpets precisely once, when we hired a carpet cleaning machine for a weekend from a machinery hire shop in the High Road. But that closed down and went away years ago, and any carpet cleaning we've done since has been ad hoc responses to various spillages rather than a dedicated programme of care and upkeep. The result, inevitably, was rather grubbified carpets, spotted with evidence of past exudations of one kind or another. We had begun to talk of replacing the carpets, at least in the downstairs dining and living area, or laying down carpet tiles to conceal the worst bits.

But late last year, we began seeing adverts for Rug Doctor carpet cleaning machines which could be hired for a weekend, and thought we should give one a go. The Morrisons supermarket in Wood Green seemed the closest; then we saw that they could also be hired from B & Q in Tottenham Hale, a fifteen minute walk away. So we blocked out a suitable weekend, thoroughly vacuumed the downstairs carpet, moved quantities of clutter either upstairs or into the kitchen (mostly quantities of Wugster clutter, apart from the folding bicycles and my weeping fig tree), and set to on Saturday morning. Set to so thoroughly, in fact, that while I did the dining area of the downstairs, The Wugster had to return to B & Q to purchase more carpet detergent and stain remover.

Several passes later, the carpet no longer looked quite so grubby -- not back to its original oatmeal colour, but certainly not something to still feel embarrassed about whenever we have visitors. Not back to its original colour, that is, except for the more stubborn areas which had to be treated with the stain remover, the side-effect of which was to remove almost all the accumulated grunge and leave patches which are now lighter than the rest of the carpet, thus paradoxically drawing attention to themselves. Perhaps we should shampoo the whole thing in another weekend or so, and see what effect that has.

We had originally intended to do only the downstairs carpet, but ended up doing the whole house (apart from our respective studies, in which stuff was piled for the duration). Getting into the spring cleaning spirit, The Wugster also deployed some Mr Muscle spray on the oven -- meaning, with all these chemicals poisoning the air, we had to open the doors and windows wide to allow ventilating beezes to blow through on a weekend which turned wet and cold, with the daytime temperature falling back into single figures and The Wugster thus required to apply several layers of shirtage and woollies.

By Sunday evening, the carpets were more or less dried out, and stuff could start being returned to its usual places -- the bicycles to behind the chairs, the weeping fig tree to the front corner. At the time of writing, quantities of Wugster clutter still remain in her study, which should be a good oportunity to sort it out and throw lots of it away rather than simply stuffing it all back from whence it came. Or I'll keep sneaking in and seizing discreet handfuls of stuff to throw away if she doesn't....

Springing Forth

Bloody hell (as we say here), but it's been some time since I last checked in. To much to do, so little time (as Cecil Rhodes is reported to have said on his death-bed -- or was it Doctor No to 007 in the novel of the same name?). Anyway, we've been busy, as usual, but not too busy to have time for some preparatory work on the allotment for the coming growing season. On a couple of weekends in January, I used the long loppers to trim the trees along the southern boundary, to ensure that when they start coming back into leaf they won't cast any shade on our crops; and last weekend (although this doesn't strictly fit the "preparing for growing things" matrix) I cleared the blanket weed from the pond, "ready for the frogs to spawn" as I explained to The Wugster. She looked suitably dubious.

But when we went there this afternoon -- an unseasonably warm day, as though spring had arrived a month earlier than usual -- what did we find but the first blob of this year's frogspawn.

We also found -- or, rather saw -- several frogs: one pair clamped together in amplexus, one gravid female lurking on the bottom, and two skinny males waiting (presumably) for darkness to fall and with it the opportunity for the froggy equivalent of getting their rocks off. (This is the one time of the year when you can tell females from males, precisely because the former are so much fatter than the latter. Once the spawning season is over, they're indistinguishable.) Our afternoon tea break was enlivened by the gentle croaking of the males, who seemed not at all perturbed by our company. (Which is unusual -- the frogs in the allotment pond are much less habituated to human oversight than those in our garden pond, and usually stay well out of sight. Perhaps the drive to bonkety-bonk overrides all other considerations.)

Just to add to the unseasonality of the afternoon, on our return to the house as the sun was setting, we noticed that the magnolia stellata in the front garden had opened its first flower. We must clearly hope for No Frosts Whatever in March. In the meantime, photographs appropriate to this post follow!