Margate and Ramsgate

Somehow we managed to survive the blowing of two coil packs in the car engine, one after the other, that necessitated calling out the AA twice within an hour. Margate was freezing cold but completely gorgeous; we ate fish and chips while we waited. The Offsprogs made me go on the big wheel at Dreamland, even though I am terrified of them. I felt a million feet tall after surviving the ordeal. We went to the Tate as well, and saw the Arp exhibition and Tracy Emin's bed (which is not a sight for sore eyes if you have ever been a 20-something woman yourself).
There was a bitter wind and Offsprog One noted that the sand felt like snow when you walked on it.
We ate dinner at the end of the pier in Ramsgate, serenaded by the loud chatter of a group of chaps celebrating the birthday of one of their party, and we had to block out their sound by talk of our own. Out over the water, a flotilla of yachts bounced on the black swell, their masts decorated by fairy lights of every conceivable colour. Just beautiful. We nearly blew off the pier walking back to the car; the sky was full of stars and the wind was icy cold and fierce.
This morning we watched the lashing rain thrash the beach as we ate breakfast and a seagull tried to rap his way into the hotel with his beak. 'He comes every morning', said the waitress.
It was too wet for ice skating at Dreamland, and too dreich for the Shell Grotto. We drove home and had pasta round the corner, and resolved to go back to Margate as soon as we can, because it's lovely.