During the 18th century, the most popular way to arrive in Margate, the voguish English coastal resort, was by water. Cargo ships carried passengers from London who wanted to experience saltwater swimming, which was touted as a panacea for all sorts of ailments. By 1815, one could travel from the British capital by steamer in just under eight hours. The salt air, and even saltier entertainment, drew literary figures from John Keats to Oscar Wilde. (“The Waste Land,” T. S. Eliot’s 1922 poem, which references “Margate Sands,” was partly written at Nayland Rock, a Victorian promenade shelter.)
A century later, direct trains whisk Londoners to this sprawling Kent town in just 90 minutes. Margate is in the midst of another cultural renaissance that is no less seismic. The vast crescent of sand and all-consuming skies, which J. M. W. Turner declared “the loveliest in all Europe,” is as remarkable as ever. No wonder the artist captured its wild, blustery beauty in more than 100 paintings.
