Saturday 10th December 2016

Two weeks to Christmas Eve. Apparently.

I can't remember the last time I felt festive. Wrk means I am usually traveling until just before the big day, and short weekend at home means I have little thought for preparations, like trimming up. We have made Christmas Beer, Christmas Cake, Rumtopf and ordered the Christmas meat. BUt as for cards and the rest, we have failed once again to get our act together. Mum says she has written 60 cards, and she has cut down severely on how many she used to write. But many are people she met on holiday three decades ago, and do they really care whether she writes or not? I do mourn the fact I am not closer to some of my best friends than I should, but will not be making that up just for Christmas.

That said, we will do our best, once we actually buy some cards, stamps, etc. We shall see. I did think about making mince pies this weekend, but thought better of it. There's always next week....

After the lack of sleep and nips of rum, I slept until half eight, and if I am honest, was a little wooly headed once I was roused by the smell of coffee brewing. Outside it is a dull and grey day, but there is the thought that I should get out of the house and do some snapping, and maybe enjoy some culture. THe artist that made me want to visit an art gallery was JWM Turner, and at the Tate in Margate there is a Turner exhibition on. So, why not have a trip to Margate, have some jellied eels, see the art and visit the Mad Hatter? Well, apart from the jellied eels, but they are available from the stall beside the gallery.

We go via Preston as I have some tabs to drop off, and to pick up some bacon and sausage meat, so we can have butties and Scotch eggs over the weekend. Anyway. That was the plan.

Over to Sandwich then up the Canterbury road before taking the Nash turning. Through the deserted and empty fruit fields, some trees still has sad looking wrinkled apples hanging. The land is as flat as Norfolk, and part of it used to be underwater, back in the middle ages, a Channel cut across from Reculver to Sandwich into which both the Stour and Wantsum emptied into. At least that explains why the village of Stourmouth is 5 miles from the sea!

The butchers is ramping up for Christmas; they have a tape of carols playing. I say tape, I mean CD I suppose. They are smiling and laughing. Talk is fo the day's football, and their blind optimism that Norwich were going to win later at Barnsley.

We drive out onto what used to be the seabed, through Stourmouth, Plucks Gutter (yes, you read that right) to Monkton and then eastwards along The Thanet Way before then heading north into Birchington.

It is some time since I was last at Birchington, with an old friend when his Mother still lived nearby. But the church was locked, but as ever whenever I pass a church, I sneak a look to see if the door is open. As we go past in heavy traffic, I see the door ajar! Panic!

We go to the roundabout in the square, double back and park at the church hall. I gather my cameras and walk to the church to find the inner door unlocked too, and two wardens inside, who nearly jump out of their skin as I walk in.

Are you going to be long, they ask. As we have a good dinner booked at the nearby pub as twelve. I look at my watch; five to. I'll try to be quick I say, trying not to engage them in conversation, but they want to talk. I do free myself, and go round what on the face of it was a Victorian church, but on closer inspection is in part Norman, and even has stones from its Saxon predecessor incorporated into part of the walls.

And as is usual when you are on a tight schedule, it is full of interesting things, especially in the north side chapel, crammed full of monuments and memorials to the local landed families. Still, I do my best and in ten minutes have 30 or so shots. It'll have to do, but then I am told it is now open every Saturday. So a return trip is planned.

Back to the car and along through Westgate and it's unusually named school; after the Saxon Kentish royal family I guess: King Ethelbert and Queen Bertha abound. We drive in, past 1950s housing, shops and finally into Margate where the main road turns into a High Street, running past corner stores and betting shops. In front of us, the bay open out, and so an expanse of mud is revealed as it is low tide. There is the smell of the sea in the air. Clearly, the local council has been bury, the promenade has been repaved, new benches built, and Dreamland is being tarted up. It feels on the up, which is good.

Across the main road from the gallery, the old town now is thriving thanks to a cluster of retro and vintage shops, and a market has been made of an old large pub. It feels a good place to visit, even on a dull and misty day.

We go into the gallery, which downstairs is full of a huge piece or art made of fabric and what looks like wool. Its called the Three Graces, and reaches to the ceiling high above. It seems to be a dragon. Or not.

THere is the largest lift I have ever seen outside a factory, and it is about to go up to the exhibition area, so I go in and see it has a capacity of 100 persons. A hundred. Just three of us this time, they on one side and me on the other, and we have to talk loud as we are so far apart.

Turner was so ahead of his time, so far that I might not be able to understand what he was trying to do. To make the movement of a storm or wind evident on a painting. He tried, oh how he tried. Not all his work is there, but some from around the world I have not seen before, and material from private collections. Notebooks, palettes and paints. All interesting stuff.

The rum has worn off and my appetite has returned with avengence. Over the main road and through Old Town is the Mad Hatter. A cafe run by an eccentric, like only you would find in Britain. Inside, every day is Christmas, the walls are covered with pictures from times past, and of horses and of the royal family. And then there is the Diana shrine. But then we all have our foibles, and why not? Sadly, he is to retire at the end of January, so this piece of weird will be no more. Sad too because his scones and tea are wonderful. And done in the proper way: scones, butter, jam, thick cream, tea cup, tea pot, milk jug, sugar and jug with extra hot water. Just mine fills the table. It is wonderful.

We pick our way down the stairs to py, weaving in and out of the nick nacks that clutter the cafe, but in a good way. Many places seem to think clutter is a cover for history or something. Not here, I imagine everything means something to the owner. Or not, does it matter?

We have ten minutes to get tot he car before our £%.50 for two hours parking runs out. One is tempted to say that if the parking prices were lower more people might come, or stay longer?

We drive home, I think the quick way to Ramsgate, but I forgot about Westwood Cross, the mall, that lies at the centre of Thanet. And once you're on the road you can't escape. But we're not delayed too much, making our way through the dozen roundabouts, past the Toby Carvery, Mecca Bingo and cinema.

From here it the road from the old Ramsgate office, a road I know so well, we're in no hurry, so other whizz past as we go back down to Sandwich and back to Whitfield and back home. Arriving back at ten to three, just before kick off. Just like I planned. Well, it was an accident, but still, best put the radio on, pay on the sofa and try to stay awake.

It will come as no surprise to hear that City slumped to 2 down by half time, but despite playing better in the 2nd half, still lose 2-1, to mean it is six out of the seven games lost. Bugger. Means I don't have to watch the highlights on Channel 5 though.

I cook steak and fried baked potatoes, garlic mushrooms and sweetcorn. It is very marvelous indeed.

We spend the evening in the company of David Attenborough and another fab episode of Planet Earth II