Margate deserves a David Bowie memorial as much as Brixton and Berlin

In the Père Lachaise cemetary in Paris, cannabis burns like incense at Jim Morrison’s grave. In Freddie Mercury's memory, there's a bleak statue on Lac Léman, Montreux. Some lay flowers where Marc Bolan's tree used to be, on Queen’s Ride, Barnes. For John Lennon, there's the ‘Imagine’ memorial in Central Park, the Cavern, Abbey Road. 

But where do you go to mourn David Bowie?

Nearly two years after his death, there is no dedicated destination. Not even his Beckenham home, Haddon Hall, still stands. His Balinese villa on Mustique, more redolent of his magic (I was lucky enough to stay there) was long ago sold. 

In Berlin, the Bowie Tours - taking in Haupstrasse 155, where he lived, and Hansa Studios, where he recorded - are in demand. We can hang around outside 40 Stansfield Road in Brixton, where he was born; at the Beckenham Bandstand, where he first played; on Heddon Street off Regent Street, immortalised on the cover of ‘Ziggy Stardust’; on the Hollywood Walk of Fame; and at 285 Lafayette Street, Manhattan, where he died. 

However, I go to Margate.

David Bowie

What do a kitsch Kent resort and the coolest artist who ever lived ever have in common?  You might be surprised. 

I remember the day, at the turn of the Seventies, when David divulged. I’d gone to Haddon Hall, where he shared a flat with his first wife Angie and producer Tony Visconti. A few of us used to doorstep our local hero after school. Angie would give us signed photos. One day, I realised, she’d be out and he’d answer the door. He’d ask us in for tea. It happened.

"My cousin saw you in Margate," I  said.

"Margate!" he enthused. "I'm very fond of down-there. Maybe I’ll move there one day. It’d be a great place to bring up kids. I do feel an affinity. I have a real fondness for the old seaside schtick, all that music-hall, end-of-pier stuff.

"My nan was a nurse at the Seabathing (Hospital) on the front, before the First World War. She used to sing me little ditties. One of them was about Margate. 'A breeze! A breeze! Who sails today the ocean’s swelling waters...'. My grandparents got married there, and lived there for a while."

"Mine still do," I said. My grandfather Emlyn Jones, once a star player at Everton FC, ran the putting green beside Margate station, opposite the beach.

"I’ve potted a few balls there in my time," he smiled. 

In 1965, David was the lead singer with the Lower Third, a Margate Mod band. He loved the local attractions: Dreamland, the caves, the Tivoli Park circus, the waxworks, the Winter Gardens, the Shell Grotto. Especially the latter, which fascinated him. He loved a mystery. 

Discovered by chance in 1835, the grotto’s walls and ceilings feature mosaics made from some five million shells. It has proved impossible to date. Prehistoric astronomical calendar, religious temple, Knights Templar meeting place, aristocrat’s folly? No one knows. Its most striking design, above what is presumed to be an altar, is an intricate eight-pointed star. 

David visited the grotto often, half a century ago. He was drawn back and back there, he said. Perhaps that star inspired the artwork of his final album, Blackstar.

He’d probably love Margate more today, with its revamped harbour, the Turner Contemporary art gallery, local girl Tracy Emin’s patronage, the Seathbathing reinvented as luxury dwellings, the high-speed rail service to St Pancras. And still the Shell Grotto. 

I think of Margate as a shrine to Bowie now.

Lesley-Ann Jones is author of Hero: David Bowie, which is out now in paperback (£9.99, Hodder & Stoughton). To order your copy, call 0844 871 1514 or visit books.telegraph.co.uk. To download as an e-book, go to books.telegraph.co.uk/Product/Lesley-Ann-Jones/Hero--David-Bowie/20228531