But can our writer find poetic inspiration there too?
"I don't know much about that sort of thing, I'm afraid," says the woman at the Nayland Rock hotel. "I should know about Margate's history, but I don't." I am in Kent looking for the seaside shelter where, in 1921, recuperating from a nervous breakdown, TS Eliot had sat while writing Part III of The Waste Land. "On Margate Sands./I can connect/Nothing with nothing./The broken fingernails of dirty hands./My people humble people who expect/Nothing." Having spent the previous evening in Margate, I know how he felt.
I'd seen a shelter on the promenade, and wanted to confirm that this was indeed the place where I could imbibe essence of Eliot. So far no one has been able to offer reassurance, even though the shelter recently made the news when it was given Grade II-listed status. Margate's visitor centre is closed on Mondays, and the only other person in the shelter when I arrive is a drunk eyeing me suspiciously. There is no commemorative plaque, several panes of glass are broken or missing, and the windows on o