Stained glass window 1

In the beginning, piers were built as landing stages for boats, though they evolved into promenades where people could enjoy the sea and the sea air without getting wet. However, there is another way of looking at piers: as the elongation of beaches. In this, I am with Rachel Carson who wrote, in her 1955 book The Edge of the Sea: ‘A pier is but a pathway for those who wish to walk where the land meets the sea, a man-made extension of the beach’s timeless conversation with the tide.’

Thus, just as I have defined the limits east and west for BrightonBeach356 - see How long is Brighton Beach? - I am now stating my intention to consider the piers as part of Brighton Beach, a la Carson!

Moreover, I am also revealing an intention to run a series of posts inspired by the much over-looked stained glass windows in the Palace of Fun building on Brighton Pier. There are 45 windows, though two have slats rather than glass, and there are 24 designs in two sizes. Most designs appear twice, and the duplicates are sometimes reversed or with a slight detail change. 

These beautiful and characterful stained glass designs seem to have been cheapened by their amusement arcade surrounds, and forgotten over time - I can find no evidence of them being designed or installed, I will, however, have more to say forthwith about these windows. Meanwhile, over the 365 days of 2025, AI and I will endeavour to let each one inspire their own daily post. 

A limerick starter

Two windmills stood high on the hill,

Turning round with a whistling thrill.

They spun day and night,

With the sea in their sight,

And they never, not once, stood still!

The Windmills and the Sea (in the style of D. H. Lawrence)

The wind rushed over the rolling hills, bending the grasses with its force, carrying the scent of the distant sea. Mary stood at the crest of the land, watching the twin windmills turning - slow, steady, relentless. They had always been there, just as her father had always been at sea, just as her mother had always stood at this same window, waiting.

Below, the land curved in smooth undulations of green and brown, reaching towards the edge where the cliffs met the vast expanse of blue-grey water. The tide was coming in, waves curling against the rocks with a kind of eternal purpose, much like the windmills.

She had grown up in their shadow, listening to their groaning creak as they spun in the wind, their movements as inevitable as the cycle of seasons. They stood like sentinels, watching over the land and the sea alike. But today, Mary felt a change. There was something different in the air, a charge beneath the steady rhythm of the blades slicing through the sky.

A figure moved near the base of the western mill - Samuel. His presence always unsettled her, a shadow in the otherwise predictable landscape. He was a man of the land, thick-shouldered, hands rough from work, and yet his eyes carried something deeper, something searching.

‘You’re watching the sea again,’ he said as he came closer, wiping sweat from his brow.

She did not turn. ‘The tide’s changing.’

He followed her gaze. ‘It always does.’

She wanted to tell him about the feeling in her chest, the stirring that had begun to take root ever since she had received word of her father’s ship - lost. Not wrecked, not sunk, just. . . missing. Somewhere beyond the horizon. She wanted to tell him that she felt as if the windmills, steady and ceaseless, were whispering something new today.

But instead, she said, ‘One day, I will leave.’

Samuel’s hands tensed at his sides. ‘And where would you go?’

She exhaled, watching the windmills, the sea, the endless sky. ‘Anywhere the wind takes me.’

A gust of wind rushed over them, and the great wooden blades groaned, turning, turning - just as they always had, just as they always would.

And yet, for the first time, Mary felt something shift.