Betsey Trotwood, a fictional character, as immortalised in Charles Dickens story of David Copperfield was dreamt of here. The character however, was based on a real lady, from the black, and white house, who Mr Dickens saw chasing donkeys away from her property. Where, from his hotel window next door, in The Albion Hotel, he noted,an d wrote about many vignettes of life at that time. The house is now the Dickens museum, giving a glimpse of life during that era.
The Dickens museum, Betsey Trotwoods' house.
Today, everything looks mysterious, bleak and rain lashed, with mist rolling in off the sea. Filling the narrow streets, and small park with a smudgy, strangely luminous light. Through which, only outlines of buildings are seen. Whilst the horizon, where the sea meets the sky sits high above the level of the esplanade railings. Its pale grey water, laced with countless, white foamed breakers. Through which, battles a small red craft, the pilot boat, meant for leading boats to safety. Fierce waves breaking over its roof with crashing regularity, and it dips, and rises, making for a harbour up the coast. The high waves, to the left of it, slapping against the small pier, sited across the deserted beach, and tiny harbour. Nothing else is visible in the sea, or sky at all, not even seagulls.
As I watch, from the comfort of The Albion, the mist thickens, hiding the horizon completely. The sky, and sea merging into one, the boat, shrouded and lost to view. Ahhh, the winter in England has it's attractions. Hiding safe, and warm inside here, is one of them. Wth it's rich wealth of history, and architecture, it is a constantly fascinating place to explore, or only watch.
Here I stand, in the dining room, where, no doubt DIckens once stood. I walk the streets where many artists, and writers were drawn to stay. Several coming with Dickens, Willkie Collins, and Hans Christian Anderson to name but two. John Buchan, who wrote The Thirty Nine Steps wrote it here, based, Iosely, on steps leading down to beach, from the north foreland. There were many more, as it always attracted artists, and writers. George Elliot held an assignation here, Walter Richard Sickart, artist, painted here, Samual Taylor Coleridge, and even D.H. Lawrence came, and stayed, to enjoy its ambience.
Of the more mundane, Sir Edmund Vestey, and brother William, founded Vestey bros Union cold storage, and eventually the Blue Star Shipping. Line. Whilst Edward Heath, b.1916. Prime Mininster 1970-74 was born here. He, who took us into the Common Market. The list of names of many more influential, and talented men goes on.
Walter Sickert, dark alleys
If you want to explore the history, as well as present day of any of these small towns along the coast, each one will fill many pages of necessary information. Your only problem will be, what do you write about, and what stays out.
Today it's all about atmosphere, and inspiration. How it's energy, and location attracts the artist, perhaps the investor. Whether it be misty, and mysterious, blowing a gale, or bathed in sunshine, and visitors, it is compelling. Ever fascinating, with many facets to its character, many moods, with so far still to go. This is not the end of the story of Broadstairs, by any means.
Warm, safe, sheltered, I write. Ensconced in the very rooms so many famous, and talented writers have used before. Who knows, maybe it's possible to tap into their energy, into their talent. At the least, I share the location, and the view which inspired them. How lucky, am I.
I shall remain, open to the mystery, open to the mist, the magic that is here already.......waiting to be shared, maybe for me.
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