Brighton triathlon - no swim!

Brighton’s big swim-bike-run became a run-bike-run this morning after organisers cancelled the sea swim overnight on safety grounds. TriBourne Multisport Events said a review with the swim safety team and the latest forecast left ‘no doubt the swim conditions will be too rough’ as waves were set to build through the night. The decision turned all adult triathlons into duathlons and scrapped the standalone 1,500 m swim.

Racing still began on time off Hove Lawns with revised formats. Standard distance athletes started with a 5 km run before the 40 km closed-road bike and the usual 10 km finish; sprint athletes opened with a 2.5 km run before a 20 km bike and 5 km run (see photos); TriStar and super-sprint waves rolled straight out of transition on the bike; the aquathlons became 10 km and 5 km runs; and the 1,500 m swim was cancelled with refunds or deferrals promised. Duathlon waves were folded into the main beach starts at 9:30 for sprint and 9:40 for standard.

The event’s modern history dates from 2016 when, supported by the council, the city hosted its first Brighton & Hove Triathlon on Sunday 11 September, centred on Hove Lawns with a sea swim, closed-road bike laps and a promenade run. By 2019 the weekend drew more than 1,600 competitors across children’s and adult races and even hosted British Age-Group qualifying, cementing its place on the calendar. This year was billed as the biggest edition yet, with the familiar fast, flat, traffic-free loop on the seafront.

Conditions in the Channel have been a recurring talking point locally, but today’s change was about surf height rather than water quality. Previous concerns have included bathing water standards, with citizen-science testing of Hove seawater year-round reflecting the scrutiny on coastal bathing waters (see Brighton and Hove News). Nationally too, governing bodies from British Triathlon to Swim England have pressed for cleaner rivers and seas after high-profile pollution incidents disrupted events elsewhere (see The Guardian).

Brighton’s triathlon now sits alongside the city’s other mass-participation fixtures that bookend the year: the Brighton Marathon Weekend each spring, the long-running Brighton Half Marathon, and the British Heart Foundation’s London to Brighton Bike Ride that empties thousands onto Madeira Drive each June. Those events, together with today’s reworked duathlon, underscore Brighton Beach’s role as a year-round arena for large, closed-road endurance sport.

Goodwyn’s Rental and The Old Ship

Three hundred and sixty years ago today, a surveyor named Goodwyn compiled a rental for the town of Brighthelmstone. Known ever since as Goodwyn’s Rental, it is the earliest surviving document to give a detailed account of property ownership along the seafront. Most significantly, it records the Old Ship, a tavern that stood directly on the beach and would later become Brighton’s first great hotel. Owned then by Richard Gilham, the Ship was already well established enough to be recognised in this roll of holdings.

Goodwyn’s Rental rental, dated 30 August 1665, lists some two hundred and twenty properties, covering the length of the town from east to west, but it is those facing the sea that now seem the most evocative. The shingle was not yet hemmed in by groynes or promenades, but the Ship looked south across open water much as it does today, and its mention shows how the town’s fortunes were already tied to the beach. By setting down ownerships and tenancies, Goodwyn’s Rental provides a snapshot of Brighton before the later century’s storms and rebuilding, an early record of the way houses and taverns clustered against the cliff line.

The document is also remarkable for what it says about leisure. Among the listings is reference to a bowling green, providing rare evidence of organised recreation in seventeenth-century Brighton. This was no rustic farming village but a town where visitors and townspeople alike could spend their hours in play. The inclusion of such a facility underlines the breadth of life the surveyor was attempting to capture, not only houses and yards but amenities that gave the town its character.

Read today, Goodwyn’s Rental is more than an account of land and rent. It fixes Brighton’s early connection to its shoreline, records the first great beachfront inn, and reveals that even in 1665 entertainment was part of the town’s appeal. The Old Ship would grow in renown, the bowling green would have successors, and the beachfront would become the defining edge of the town. In its dry listings of tenants and properties, Goodwyn’s Rental holds within it the beginnings of Brighton’s story as a place shaped by the sea and enjoyed for its pleasures.

I’ve used the earliest image of The Old Ship I can find, from A Peep into the Past: Brighton in Olden Time with Glances at the Present by John George Bishop, freely available to read online at Internet Archive. And the image of Goodwyn’s Rental comes from The Keep’s Facebook page.

The Hotel Avocado

On this day a year ago, the comedian Bob Mortimer published his second novel The Hotel Avocado. The book is rooted firmly in Brighton, with much of the action revolving around a fictional seafront hotel in Hove distinguished by a giant avocado sculpture outside its doors. Mortimer’s Brighton is a place of seaside hotels, bus stops, eccentric neighbours and surreal detail, a backdrop that frames his off-beat comic sensibility.

Robert Renwick Mortimer, born in 1959, is best known as one half of the comedy duo Vic and Bob. Raised in Middlesbrough, he studied law before turning to performance, eventually creating Vic Reeves Big Night Out, Shooting Stars and Gone Fishing. Though he lives in Kent, Mortimer has long used Brighton as a location in his fiction, and in The Hotel Avocado it becomes the centre of his comic universe.

The novel - published by Gallery Books and a sequel to his debut The Satsuma Complex - follows Gary Thorn, a diffident solicitor from Peckham. His girlfriend Emily has inherited and is attempting to renovate a Brighton hotel. Gary is caught between his safe but dull life in London - sharing pies and walks with his elderly neighbour Grace and her dog Lassoo - and the pull of Emily’s Brighton Beach project. Matters become more fraught when he crosses paths with the threatening Mr (or Clive) Sequence, who is intent on silencing Gary in a corruption trial. Meanwhile, Emily wrestles with planners over the proposed avocado statue, Gary’s friends embark on ever stranger schemes, and Mortimer shifts the narration through multiple unlikely voices, from Emily to a pigeon.

From the opening chapter of The Hotel Avocado; picture above is by ChatGPT.

‘If you’ve never heard of the Hotel Avocado, then you are way behind me. Miles back, in fact. If you have heard of it, then well done you, but don’t go getting all pumped up about it because I’ve actually seen it. I see it most days. Sometimes from the pavement as I walk past, sometimes from the bus stop opposite when I’m having my lunch. To be honest, I’ll take any vantage point I can. I’m not fussy like some people. There is a chance that you’re someone that has seen it for yourself, in which case we are #equals. Better still, of course, you might be someone who has been inside or even stayed at the hotel. If that’s the case, then I have to concede that you are an Avocado scholar compared to me. Yes, I’ve glanced through the front door and some of its windows (so I’d want credit for that), but I’ve never set a foot over its threshold. That would be the dream. Maybe one day.

For those who are coming to it all ignorant and innocent, let me add some paint to the picture. The hotel is second from the end of a long terrace of hotels and apartment buildings directly facing the sea on the promenade of my town called Brighton on the south coast of England.

It’s a big five-storey Victorian stuccoed building painted a yellowy magnolia and nestled between two identically designed buildings: the Royal Hotel to the left and the Hove View Apartments on the end plot to the right . . . You can forget those two places as far as I’m concerned; it’s the Avocado that steals the show. For one, its windows are always clean, but listen to this (and apologies if you are one of the people who has seen the place): on the front of the hotel is a huge (five metres tall), sliced in half, avocado sculpture.’

Brighton’s grand dame

One hundred and thirty-five years ago this summer, on 26 July 1890, the grand Hotel Metropole swung open its doors. It was the largest and most prestigious hotel outside London, with over 700 bedrooms and a 500-seat dining hall. The opening was so spectacular that a luxury train carried 1,500 visitors from Victoria and Brighton’s King’s Road was carpeted with red Hassocks sand. In the run-up, rumour had run riot - some said the Metropole would boast 4,000 bedrooms, others that its electric lighting could illuminate the entire town.

The Metropole was the vision of hotel magnate Frederick Gordon, known as the ‘Napoleon of the Hotel World’, who wanted a showpiece to crown his chain. He turned to Alfred Waterhouse, the celebrated architect of the Natural History Museum, whose use of red brick and terracotta gave Brighton’s seafront a startling contrast to the familiar white stucco. Together they created a building that was both vast and imposing, a statement of modern luxury that set out to eclipse anything the resort had seen before.

In its early years, the Metropole was a glittering hub for stage-struck society: Julia James and the Dare sisters, Zena and Phyllis; Vesta Tilley, the famed male impersonator (see The St Aubyns performers); Lillie Langtry, the Jersey Lily; Countess Poulett in her sumptuous finery - all taking tea under chandeliers and whispering success, scandal, and style. And in August 1917, Princess Louise, Queen Victoria’s artistic daughter, stayed for ten days, blending royal grace with genuine empathy as she comforted wounded soldiers.

During the Second World War, the hotel pivoted from luxury to service. It housed RAF aircrew and Australian and New Zealand forces, becoming a wartime hub with hospitality leagues, chaplains, dentists, thousands of grateful servicemen, and fresh New Zealand tinned oysters. In July 1945, it even became a Red Cross centre to repatriate POWs, offering warm baths, clean uniforms, de-briefings and tender reunions.

Post-war, the Metropole staged a glamorous revival: in 1947 Winston Churchill and Clementine dined there after he received the Freedom of Brighton, and that signed menu remains in the hotel’s library. The 1950s and 60s saw it flourish as a VIP hotspot - Shirley Bassey, Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor, Princess Margaret, Margot Fonteyn, Ian Fleming - graced its casino which once hosted 800 guests a night.

From today’s vantage - 135 years down the line - the Metropole still stands as Brighton’s grand dame. Its original façade remains unmistakable; the building’s integrity continues despite 1960s extensions. The south-facing bedrooms still look out over the beach, offering views that have changed little since 1890, apart from the line of wind turbines on the horizon and the melancholy remains of the West Pier slowly crumbling into the sea. It remains the largest residential conference hotel in the South of England, with 340 bedrooms, now operating under the DoubleTree by Hilton brand since 2023.

More on the hotel can be found at Wikipedia, or at Judy Middleton’s excellent Hove in the past website.

Through Dammo’s eyes

Following on from the Brighton Mod Weekender, two exhibitions are giving Brighton a chance to look at Mod culture in fresh detail. On the beach front, beside the i360 and the Upside Down House, the photographer David Clarke - known to the Mod community as Dammo - is showing Through My Eyes, a free outdoor display of his work. 

The exhibition sits between the shingle and the traffic, where the promenade railings overlook the sea, so that anyone strolling past or pausing for an ice cream finds themselves drawn into the images. Running until the end of August, it charts twenty years of the Brighton Mod Weekender, from scooter ride-outs to sharply dressed gatherings, and captures how a once-fringe revival has matured into a fixture of the city’s summer. Clarke’s images are not posed studio portraits but candid records of Mods in their element, whether standing by the railings in the wind or reflected in the chrome of a Vespa.

Inside Brighton Museum & Art Gallery, a parallel exhibition takes a deeper dive into the roots of the movement. The In Crowd: Mod Fashion & Style 1958-66 brings together garments, photographs, ephemera and music that defined the original scene. From Italian-cut suits to miniskirts, from Motown singles to Lambretta brochures, the show aims to immerse visitors in the years when the Mod aesthetic was first forged. The curators emphasise that Mod was as much about attitude as appearance, with a spirit of youthful confidence shaping fashion choices and nightlife.

Although both exhibitions centre on Mod identity, their approaches differ. Clarke’s photography celebrates the Brighton revival, with an eye on the community that has kept scooters on Madeira Drive most Augusts since 2005. The museum’s survey looks back to an earlier moment, before Quadrophenia and before the myth-making, when Mod was still a modernist youth movement in the making. Together, they offer a conversation across sixty years: how a style born in late-1950s London became heritage on the south coast, and how today’s enthusiasts carry the look forward.

The contrast between the two is deliberate. Clarke’s work meets passers-by in the open air, integrated into the ebb and flow of promenade life, while the museum requires a step indoors into a curated, reflective space. One is part of the spectacle, the other a retrospective. For the Mod faithful, the seafront show is also a chance to find themselves in the pictures: Clarke has been a regular on the front line of ride-outs and has built up an archive unmatched in its scope. Meanwhile, the museum exhibition situates Mod within broader shifts in British design and music, drawing links with jazz clubs, Carnaby Street boutiques and the global rise of youth culture.

A boy, a yacht and a cat

On this day in 1951 the Daily Mirror published the tale of a boy, a yacht and a cat. ‘Shivering and soaked to the skin,’ it began, twelve-year-old Roger Maitland stood on the deck of his father’s topsail schooner Rustler as heavy seas drove her toward the shingle. When the anchor cable parted and a tow proved hopeless, Roger tucked the kitten inside his jacket and swam for the shore while holidaymakers cheered. ‘I was not afraid,’ he said afterwards; ‘The kitten got frightened and clawed my face.’ The Daily Mirror set out the scene in tight detail: the beach some sixty yards away; his father, Kenneth Maitland, and family friend Fred Austin also abandoning the vessel; and the Shoreham lifeboat with a hawser aboard but unable to pull her clear.

The Telegraph, the same day, added the practical coda: after failed attempts to refloat her that tide, Rustler was hauled higher up the beach by a lorry to await the next rise. A photograph in The Journal of the Royal National Life-boat Institution - captioned ‘Shoreham life-boat and the yacht Rustler - shows the schooner grinding in the surf with the lifeboat standing by.

A year later, the wreck was still a Brighton landmark. Ernie Charman’s diary places him on the promenade on Sunday 24 August 1952, photographing Rustler beached between the piers as crowds filed past. His note fixes the date; the memories it prompted show how fast the vessel became part of seafront life.

Local recollections found at My Brighton and Hove fill in what happened next. ‘The Rustler could not be refloated,’ one reader remembers; ‘dozens of volunteers shovelling stones away from the ship,’ recalls another. Several contributors say children were allowed aboard: ‘we climbed on board, I was eight years old,’ wrote Terry Hyde; ‘the man let us on board to play . . . it was fabulous,’ remembered Rosemary Brazill. As the fabric failed, accounts say the remains were eventually burned and beachcombers picked through the cooling timbers for copper and bronze.

The Mod Weekender

Thousands of scooters and sharply dressed Mods descended on Brighton this Bank Holiday weekend, with Madeira Drive once again the focal point of the annual Mod Weekender. Lines of Vespas and Lambrettas, many lavishly customised with chrome, lights and Union Jacks, stretched along the promenade, while the beach and seafront filled with spectators and photographers. For many, the weekend has become a living tribute to the subculture that defined the 1960s and found one of its most enduring homes in Brighton.

The Brighton Mod Weekender was established in 2005 by The New Untouchables, a London-based collective of DJs, promoters and enthusiasts committed to keeping Mod culture alive. The group had long been organising club nights and events centred on Northern Soul, ska, rhythm and blues, and 1960s beat music. Bringing their efforts to Brighton in the mid-2000s was both symbolic and practical: the city was immortalised in the 1979 film Quadrophenia and already had a global reputation as the spiritual home of the Mods. (See also Mods and Rockers clash in the 60s.)

The inaugural event in 2005 drew hundreds of scooters and enthusiasts, with daytime meet-ups on the seafront and late-night parties at venues such as the Komedia. Over the years it has grown into one of the largest gatherings of its kind, attracting visitors from across Britain and Europe. Scooter ride-outs to Beachy Head and beyond became part of the ritual, as did competitions for the best customised bikes, while the weekend marketplace offered records, clothing and memorabilia. The event also helped shift Brighton’s civic stance: once a city that banned Mods from its pier in the 1960s, it has since embraced them as part of its heritage and tourist identity.

The Weekender has not been without its defining moments. In 2014, thousands of Mods marked the 50th anniversary of the infamous 1964 seaside clashes with Rockers, filling Brighton’s streets with scooters in what local media described as the largest gathering since those heady days. In 2019, the seaside saw record crowds again, just before the pandemic forced a pause in 2020. When the event returned, the emphasis on heritage was clearer than ever, with exhibitions, photographic retrospectives and fashion shows anchoring the programme alongside the music and scooters.

This year marks the 20th anniversary of the Brighton Mod Weekender, and the celebrations have been extensive. Yesterday and today Madeira Drive was packed with scooters, while crowds lined the seafront to watch the ride-outs and browse the stalls.

Intrepidly into the sea

This month marks 170 years since the final monthly number of William Makepeace Thackeray’s The Newcomes appeared in August 1855, an anniversary that recalls the novelist’s life and his enduring ties with Brighton - above all the pages that put Brighton’s beach, pier and sea-air squarely into Victorian fiction. In Vanity Fair he sketches the resort as ‘a clean Naples with genteel lazzaroni’, while in The Newcomes he steps onto the Chain Pier and, in a few gleeful lines, all but lets the surf spray the page.

Thackeray was born in Calcutta on 18 July 1811, sent to England as a child, and educated at Charterhouse and Cambridge (he left without taking a degree). After a short flirtation with art and a loss of much of his inheritance, he turned to journalism and illustration, writing for Fraser’s Magazine and later Punch, where The Book of Snobs made his name. He married Isabella Shawe in 1836; the marriage was shadowed by her severe mental illness, and he raised their daughters - Anne (later the novelist Anne Thackeray Ritchie) and Harriet Marian - largely on his own. His major novels followed in quick succession: Vanity Fair (1847-48), Pendennis (1848-50), Henry Esmond (1852), The Newcomes (1853-55) and The Virginians (1857-59). In 1860 he became the first editor of the Cornhill Magazine. He died in London on 24 December 1863 and was buried at Kensal Green. (See Wikipedia for more on Thackeray’s life and this sketched self-portrait.)

Brighton sits in the middle of both the life and the work. Thackeray knew the resort first-hand - letters mention him ‘sitting on the chain pier in a bath chair’, dosing himself with sea-breezes - and he was fond of calling the place ‘Doctor Brighton’, a quackish but kindly physician for overworked Londoners. In July 1859 Thackeray stayed at the Royal Crescent Hotel and produced a small watercolour titled Brighton from The Royal Crescent Hotel, July 17th 1859. Though best known as a novelist and satirist, he had trained as an artist and continued to sketch throughout his life, leaving behind drawings and painted vignettes of the places he visited.

When looking at his fiction, Brighton is less a backdrop than a mood: brisk, gaudy, restorative, faintly satirical. Vanity Fair uses Brighton as a stage where masks slip. Newly married George Osborne and Amelia Sedley take the air on the front; Becky Sharp and Rawdon Crawley work their separate hustles in lodgings, billiard rooms and on the cliff; and as the Waterloo campaign gathers, ‘all the principal personages’ decamp. Thackeray’s aside - Brighton as ‘a clean Naples with genteel lazzaroni’ - is both postcard and pin-prick.

The Newcomes (available to borrow digitally at Internet Archive) brings its readers to the seafront with a panoramic relish, the narrator Arthur Pendennis surveying the parade of bath-chairs, schoolgirls and telescope-wielding day-trippers. The scene catches the democratic sprawl of the beach long before cameras made it commonplace.

‘In Steyne Gardens, Brighton, the lodging-houses are among the most frequented in that city of lodging-houses. These mansions have bow-windows in front, bulging out with gentle prominences, and ornamented with neat verandahs, from which you can behold the tide of human-kind as it flows up and down the Steyne, and that blue ocean over which Britannia is said to rule, stretching brightly away eastward and westward. The chain-pier, as everybody knows, runs intrepidly into the sea, which sometimes, in fine weather, bathes its feet with laughing wavelets, and anon, on stormy days, dashes over its sides with roaring foam. Here, for the sum of twopence, you can go out to sea and pace this vast deck without need of a steward with a basin. You can watch the sun setting in splendour over Worthing, or illuminating with its rising glories the ups and downs of Rottingdean. You see the citizen with his family inveigled into the shallops of the mercenary native mariner, and fancy that the motion cannot be pleasant; and how the hirer of the boat, otium et oppidi laudi et rura sui, haply sighs for ease, and prefers Richmond or Hampstead. You behold a hundred bathing-machines put to sea; and your naughty fancy depicts the beauteous splashing under their white awnings. Beneath the rippled sands (stay, are they rippled sands or shingly beach?) the prawn-boy seeks the delicious material of your breakfast. Breakfast - meal in London almost unknown, greedily devoured in Brighton! In ten vessels now near the shore the sleepless mariner has ventured forth to seize the delicate whiting, the greedy and foolish mackerel, and the homely sole. Hark to the twanging horn! it is the early coach going out to London.’

Little ol’ me

Hmm… these green buses aren’t very tasty. All showy paint, no chips inside. Crunchy, yes, but not the good kind. Not like a battered sausage. Or even one of those flapjack cubes from the café with the seafront awning. I miss those. Oh crumbs, literal crumbs - I miss crumbs. These days, crumbs wouldn’t keep me alive for five minutes, not since I’ve grown to the size of an SUV.

People screaming. I don’t want to hurt them. I thought maybe this time one of them would drop something hot and greasy and perfect. I don’t want phones; they taste almost as bad as beach pebbles.

Why did I peck the bus? Why do I keep pecking buses?

Oh no . . . someone’s filming again. Look at them, tiny hands raised like they’re trying to tame me. I’m not a monster. I’m just big. And starving.

That mixer thing, ahead of the green buses. It smells odd. Kind of like eggs? Hot pavement? A building site in summer? Maybe it’s got gravy inside. Maybe it’s a giant sausage roll for machines. Maybe - just one peck. One nibble. Ugh.

I didn’t ask to grow this big. One minute I’m arguing over a churro with Kevin, the next I’ve outgrown the bandstand and I’m scaring toddlers, and their parents are calling 999. I don’t even fit under the pier anymore. I used to roost there. It was cosy. It was safe. Now all I want is food.

There’s another bus. I’m getting a sense that I need to do more, work a bit harder to feed myself . . . The people inside, they’re looking very tasty. Oh look, some of them are getting off at the bus stop. I’ve grown too hungry to control myself, now I see the answer perfectly: this may be a bus stop for people, but it’s a food stop for little ol’ me.

KRS‑2519CRGB‑1

Found on the beach: a custom or OEM RGB seven‑segment display module, tailored for a specific device or manufacturer. One side of the object features a digital display with a three-digit readout, the letters ‘L’ and ‘R’ in blue and green respectively, a lightning bolt icon, and a distinctive logo composed of multi-coloured fan-like blades. The reverse side shows a printed circuit board marked ‘KRS‑2519CRGB‑1’ and ‘2520’, alongside gold-plated contacts and through-holes indicative of surface mounting.

The part number, ChatGPT, advises does not appear in public electronics catalogs or databases, suggesting the component was produced either for internal use by a specific brand or as part of a mass-produced but undocumented consumer device. The inclusion of ‘CRGB’ implies RGB lighting capability, meaning the segment display can change colour, possibly to indicate power levels, warnings, or operational states. The number ‘2520’ may refer to a production batch or date code, such as week 20 of the year 2025.

Such displays are commonly used in e‑bikes, electric scooters, children’s ride-on vehicles, smart sports gear, or small remote-controlled electronics. The L/R notation may signify directional indicators, balance sensors, or audio channel outputs. The lightning bolt icon, a near-universal symbol for electricity or charge, hints at a function related to battery monitoring. The visible wear and absence of surrounding components suggest the item was once embedded in a plastic housing, likely waterproof or weather-resistant, before being separated and washed ashore.

Despite the lack of direct identification, other modules with similar codes, such as KRS‑2351AW, are listed on electronics supplier sites as LED or RGB seven‑segment displays, used in meters, control panels, or dashboard-style readouts. 

Sources: Amax Technologies and Bossgoo

Where the sea has no memory

Here is the 14th of 25 stained glass window designs on the Palace Pier which AI and I are using as inspiration for some of these BrightonBeach365 daily posts - see Stained Glass Window 1 for background. This image shows a coastal landscape. In the foreground, rounded white shapes suggest foamy waves breaking onto the shore, with different shades of blue indicating the sea. To the right, green and yellow forms rise upward like a cliff or headland. Above, a large pale cloud dominates the sky, with smaller purple-tinged clouds drifting across. Cutting through the centre is a brown bird in flight, wings outstretched against the sky.

A limerick starter

Clouds of pale lavender hue,

A bird split the turquoise in two.

Where emerald cliffs lean,

On the foam’s shifting green,

The sky wrote its story in blue.

Where the sea has no memory (with apologies to Cormac McCarthy)

The sky above Brighton was broken with cloud. A bird cut through the wind and went on across the water, dark against the pale. The sea was restless. White spume drifted over the stones like smoke and the tide ran its slow iron rhythm, pushing the shingle, pulling it back.

A man stood at the rail of the pier. His coat was buttoned but the wind got in all the same and pressed the cloth against his body. He watched the bird, the curve of its wing, the small correction of its flight. He thought of how the sea had no memory and how the gull had no home but the wind. Behind him came the sound of coin machines, the bark of a stallholder, the scream of a ride, all faint in the distance like echoes in a dream.

He turned from the pier and went down to the beach. The stones rolled under his boots. He stooped and picked one up, dark and wet, and he held it in his hand. It was cold. He turned it over and over, looking at the way the water had smoothed it, how it had come to be like this from years beyond counting. He thought of his father and the silence of him. He thought of his mother’s warnings about the sea and how she feared it though she could not stay away from it.

He walked to the edge where the water reached. The foam curled white around his feet. The gull cried and turned inland. He looked at the horizon where the sea and sky were one. The thought came to him that a man could walk straight into that line and never come back and the world would not change for it.

A child’s voice rose up behind him and he turned. A boy was running along the beach, chasing another, both laughing. Their shouts carried in the wind. The man watched until they were gone. He dropped the stone and it fell among the others and vanished from him.

The sea kept on. The pier stood in its shadow of iron and wood. The bird wheeled once more above the headland, and then it too was gone. The man put his hands in his pockets and began to walk.

Aroe with divan

Aroe’s arch piece on the seafront still stops you in your tracks. Two luminous female faces float inside the red-brick curve, one in profile, one tipped skyward, airbrushed light drifting like sea mist between them. The brickwork’s scars and drips are left in play, so the image feels breathed onto the wall rather than pasted over it. It is classic Aroe, probably painted 2015-2017: cinematic scale, soft gradients, and a refusal to separate photorealism from the grit of a working shoreline.

Brighton and its beach has Aroe’s worked etched, as it were, everywhere. He has been active since the first hip-hop wave hit Britain in the early 1980s, coming up through Brighton, joining MSK, and becoming one of the city’s defining writers. He is now four decades deep, with recent retrospective-style shows in Brighton confirming how far those train-yard beginnings have travelled. The long arc explains the polish on the arch: a style that has been iterated, toured and argued over for years.

Eleven years ago this September, Aroe and fellow Brighton artist Gary were invited to paint the sea-facing hoardings for the i360 build, a seafront commission that announced, in broad daylight, how institutional Brighton had become about its outlaw form. That job set the tone for a run of shoreline works and helped normalise the idea that tourists might arrive at the beach and find serious graffiti looking back at them. 

Other Aroe pieces on or by the seafront have kept that momentum. In 2015 the MSK crew covered roughly 100 metres of the i360 hoardings, turning a building site into a rolling gallery (see Graffiti Brighton for some examples); in 2016 Aroe helped brighten Hove Lagoon’s south wall with neighbours and local supporters (see HOVE LAGOON in murals). These episodes sit alongside Brighton’s longer, sometimes uneasy story of city-sanctioned walls, conservation rows, and the simple fact that the arches remain the most visible outdoor gallery the town possesses.

And the bed? It reads like a found prop that accidentally completes the composition. Aroe’s portraits make the arch feel domestic, as if the curve of brick were a proscenium and the door a pale, painted window; the patchwork chaise invites a pause, a place to sit and look back at the faces. There’s no sign it belongs to the artist, but in context it works like street-level staging: a fleeting, Brightonish still life where public art, furniture and promenade collide. The mural will outlast the upholstery, but for now they belong to the same scene.

See Art Plugged and Helm for more on Aroe.

The Big Beach Café

The Big Beach Café has been putting music at the heart of environmental action this summer, joining forces with GEN R to host a ‘jukebox for nature’. Visitors could pick a track while donating to ocean restoration projects, turning everyday café culture into a playful act of climate activism. It was a typically inventive move from a venue that has always blurred the line between community hub and creative playground.

That sense of openness also drew Dad La Soul, the fatherhood collective tackling isolation and mental health, to pack up its crew and head to the café. No big plan - just music, mates and a jukebox that restores. It was an informal afternoon, but one that showed why the café has become a natural meeting point for groups who thrive on community and creativity.

The café’s modern story began in June 2013, when Norman Cook - better known as Fatboy Slim - teamed up with chef Daniel Stockland to take over a fading site on Hove Lagoon once run by Heather Mills. Cook, a long-time Brighton resident, said he wanted to give something back to the community, while Stockland brought the culinary experience of a classically trained chef with years spent catering for touring musicians. Their shared ambition was to create a relaxed, family-friendly spot with affordable food and a beach-side welcome.

Over the years the Big Beach Café has become a landmark on the seafront. Its dog-friendly policy, sandy-toes informality and hearty seaside staples - bacon sandwiches, burgers, cheesy chips - helped it thrive not as a celebrity project but as a genuine community hang-out. It has doubled as a stage for live sets, local art, charity events and the odd surprise appearance from Cook himself, reinforcing its identity as a space where the local and the playful come together.

Last October, however, the café hit a serious obstacle when inspectors found rodent droppings and unsafe food practices across the site, ordering an immediate closure and warning of an imminent risk to public health (see The Argus). The setback was sharp but temporary: deep cleaning and new food-safety systems quickly followed, and the café has since worked to restore both its standards and its reputation. Its survival owes much to the loyalty of regulars who see it as part of Hove life; and that bond was underlined this February when Zoe Ball quietly swapped her breakfast-show mic for a barista apron, working alongside her ex-husband in the café. The sight of the pair behind the counter offered a fresh, light-hearted reminder that the Big Beach Café’s story is as much about community and reinvention as it is about celebrity.

Meanwhile, the recent collaborations with GEN R and Dad La Soul capture what the Big Beach Café has always tried to be: accessible, quirky, creative and rooted in the rhythms of the community it serves.

The Bad Guys 2

Brighton’s seafront played host this weekend to an unusual sight: a suave wolf in a white suit prowling near the Palace Pier clocktower. It was all part of a colourful promotional event for DreamWorks’ latest release, The Bad Guys 2, which opened in UK cinemas in late July. A branded tent and giveaways drew the attention of families and passers-by, while costumed characters posed for photos against a backdrop of desert pyramids and cartoon mayhem. The stunt brought Hollywood marketing spectacle to Brighton Beach, tying in with a film that has already been praised as a sharp, energetic sequel.

The appearance of The Bad Guys 2 team in Brighton underscores the film’s broad appeal. The original 2022 animation introduced a band of reformed animal criminals - Wolf, Snake, Shark, Piranha and Tarantula - trying to go straight after years of high-profile heists. The sequel, directed by Pierre Perifel with voices from Sam Rockwell, Awkwafina, Marc Maron, Craig Robinson and Zazie Beetz, expands their story. Having struggled to adapt to respectable life, the crew find themselves forced into a cosmic-scale caper by a trio of new villains known as the Bad Girls, with much of the action shifting to a rocket and a space station. The mix of snappy humour, frenetic action and moral dilemmas has been credited with keeping the franchise fresh - see The Washington Post.

According to Wikipedia, the film has already done well commercially. Produced on an estimated budget of $80 million, The Bad Guys 2 has grossed more than $117 million worldwide to date, with strong opening weekends both in the US and UK. Reviews have echoed the audience enthusiasm, with critics highlighting the film’s blend of kid-friendly slapstick and witty nods for adults. DreamWorks has hinted that a third instalment is already being discussed, following spin-off holiday specials and now a full-scale sequel.

In Brighton, where film promotions often make inventive use of the pier and seafront, the weekend’s activity linked global cinema with local spectacle. Visitors found themselves stepping into the film’s world for a moment, whether collecting branded bags or watching the wolf strut across the promenade. For families, it was an unexpected holiday diversion; for the studio, it was a reminder that in an age of streaming and saturation, taking the characters directly to the public can still turn heads and sell tickets.

The blessing of the sea

Brighton’s seafront witnessed a striking fusion of ritual, performance and protest this afternoon at the annual ‘Blessing of the Sea’. Clergy in white robes stood at the Doughnut Groyne beside the Palace Pier, leading prayers over the waters while a banner proclaimed ‘The sea is rising and so are we’. A few feet away, the Red Rebels of Extinction Rebellion moved in silent procession, their scarlet veils lifted in slow gestures of lament and warning. The scene unfolded beneath a cloudless August sky, the green bronze ‘Afloat’ sculpture framing both the pier and the gathering of worshippers. (See also Hamish Black’s Afloat.)

This year’s service was announced by the Diocese of Chichester on Instagram and widely shared on local forums such as Anthony Murley’s post to the Brighton & Hove Notice Board. Organisers called it both a Christian rite and an act of ecological witness, recognising the sea as a source of sustenance, beauty and peril. The clergy’s words of blessing were joined by calls for responsibility toward the coast at a time of rising tides and intensifying storms.

The ceremony is not without precedent. Brighton’s fishing town ancestors sought blessings over their nets each spring, a custom enshrined in the 1580 Book of all the Auncient Customs and revived in the late twentieth century as the ‘Blessing of the Nets’ on the beach by the Fishing Museum -  for more on this, see the Brighton Seafront Heritage Trust and My Brighton and Hove. Meanwhile, the city’s Greek Orthodox community has long marked Epiphany with the ‘Blessing of the Waters’, casting a cross into the waves from the pier. Today’s event consciously draws on both traditions, updating them with a climate-conscious emphasis suited to Brighton’s identity as a coastal city where faith, protest and performance often overlap.

What emerged on the groyne today was therefore more than symbolic: it was a reminder of the continuing link between the sea and the city, between prayer and protest, and between past traditions and present anxieties.

The Seafront Office

Brighton’s Seafront Office is the hub of activity and safety along the city’s shoreline, based at 141 King’s Road Arches on the lower promenade. From this base, the Council’s team oversees maintenance of the seafront, the running of lifeguard services, first aid posts, bookings for beach huts and boat lockers, as well as enforcement of bylaws across the Brighton Beach stretch of coast and as far east as Saltdean. The office also deals with lost property, provides safety advice, and coordinates outdoor events, filming, and ceremonies at the Bandstand.

The role of the office has always been wide-ranging, but recent months have brought significant changes. This summer the RNLI launched its first ever beach lifeguarding service in Brighton and Hove, taking over from the council’s own operation. (See RNLI to take over beach safety). Ten RNLI units now cover beaches between Hove Lagoon and Saltdean, providing a daily service from May to September. The RNLI describes its crews as highly trained and it emphasises the strong partnership with the Seafront Office - ensuring quick responses to emergencies on both land and sea.

The arches that house the Seafront Office itself are also undergoing a major transformation. In July the council secured £21 million from the Department for Transport to support the next phases of the seafront arches restoration - see More support for King’s arches. This funding will help rebuild the section around King’s Road playground and Shelter Hall, including the arches that contain the office and the lifeguard store. The refurbished structures are being designed with concrete cores, improved ventilation, and energy-efficient heating, but will retain their traditional brickwork frontage.

At the same time, the area around the i360 is being reshaped. Work on the surrounding arches and public spaces is nearly complete, bringing new shops and food outlets into use. Together with the continuing restoration of the arches and the arrival of the RNLI lifeguards, these developments highlight the central role played by the Seafront Office, balancing heritage, safety, and the daily life of a busy seaside city.

The Seafront Office also maintains a regular presence on social media with posts on Instagram and Facebook. Here’s a cute little video that takes you inside the office for a tide time booklet: ‘Planning a trip to the beach? Or a dip in the sea? Our tide time booklets help you stay safe and make the most of your visit! Learn how to read tide tables to avoid getting caught out by rising water. Pick up your copy from the Seafront Office.’

Victory in Japan day

Victory over Japan Day, or VJ Day, marked the formal end of the Second World War when Emperor Hirohito announced Japan’s surrender on 15 August 1945 - exactly 80 years ago today. For Britain it was the conclusion of six years of global conflict that had brought bombing raids, rationing and separation into everyday life. In Brighton the news spread quickly, and by early evening the town centre was thronged with people eager to take part in a final wartime celebration. After years of blackouts and restrictions, the streets were suddenly alive with light, noise and movement, as locals embraced the moment with the same gusto they had shown three months earlier on VE Day.

The backdrop to Brighton’s celebrations was still visibly shaped by the war. The seafront had been fortified for much of the conflict, its beaches fenced and mined, piers partially dismantled, and coastal waters patrolled against the threat of invasion. Even in August 1945, ordnance still washed ashore, and the task of clearing wartime defences was only just beginning. Yet on VJ Day night, these reminders of danger faded into the background as bonfires flared along the shoreline. At the bottom of West Street, just yards from the beach, a huge blaze was fed with anything combustible, while other fires sprang up on the shingle itself, sending sparks into the Channel air.

In the heart of the town, thousands jammed the streets from the Clock Tower to the seafront, singing, dancing, clapping and cheering. Fireworks appeared from nowhere, buses and cars attempting to pass were swarmed with revellers, and the air filled with the shrill of whistles and the beat of improvised drums. The atmosphere was one of unrestrained release, a communal letting-go after years of anxiety and hardship. 

Eighty years on, today, Brighton is marking the anniversary with a Service of Reflection at St Helen’s Church in Hangleton. According to the council, the service will honour the thousands of Allied POWs and civilian internees who endured immense suffering during the Asia-Pacific conflict’. Personal testimonies from local residents, either recounting their own experiences or those of relatives, will form a heartfelt part of the commemoration - all told a quieter, reflective event far removed from the wild, good-natured chaos of that night in 1945. Here is a first hand account of that day, recorded by a young Tony Simmonds in his diary. 

‘We decided not to go out as early in the evening as we did on V. E. Day but at 7.15 we trooped out heading for the Clock Tower. Even by 8 o’clock the fun exceeded even that on V. E. Day. Where all the fireworks came from remains a mystery - never before have I seen so many people jammed together in two streets. It was impossible even to guess how many shouting, singing, dancing clapping uproariously happy people were there. Every bus or car daring to invade the area was banged and rocked and “fireworked”. No bus left the area without its boards being missing - still they make a nice bonfire.

The first big bonfire was lit in a patch of waste land near the Prudential - on this was dumped all the material used to begin a fire at the top of West Street - a fire soon put out by Police. I think I led the “Boos” that followed this action. Still the other bonfire soon made up for it. Denny and I now went off again up to the Clock Tower giving repeated blasts in our whistles - what hooligans - but still, even old men were blowing whistles and shaking rattles and every old dear was waving a flag. Then about 11.30 the fun really began.

A huge bonfire was lit at the bottom of West Street, every moveable piece of wood in the area was dumped on this fire. The Sports Stadium, the Odeon, Sherrys and the Harris Grill were all stripped of their advertisement boards - time and time again. The police tried to stop it but they hadn’t the slightest chance against such a crowd. Then the N[ational] F[ire] S[ervice] arrived. In course of ten minutes, every moveable article on the lorry was dumped onto the fire - from hose pipes to doors. As a retaliation one Fireman drenched the crowd with showers of water.

The fire was as high as the buildings when Denny and I left at 12.30. On the way home we saw other huge bonfires on the beach and smaller ones in almost every street - and around each bonfire danced hilariously happy people - men, women and children. That ended the most glorious evening of my life - the crowds weren’t riotous - on the whole very little damage was done - but just supremely happy that the greatest of all wars was over.’

Images from this diary as well as the photograph above (which actually dates from 18 August 1945) are used courtesy of Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove. Further information about Simmonds and his diary can be found at Victory in Europe Day and in my book, Brighton in Diaries.

Charting the elsewhere

Found on Brighton Beach: It lay on the pebbles as if dropped or blown ashore. The tide did not seem to have expelled it in a tangle of kelp; there was no fraying, no evidence of long immersion. Its weave was tight, its colours - burgundy, ochre, olive - arranged in intricate, purposeful shapes. 

If you examined it closely, you might think of Kashan or Samarkand, the way the patterns interlocked like conversations in a crowded tea house. Yet the dyes were wrong for Persia, the silk too fine for Turkestan. I brought a friend of mine - a textile historian from the university - to examine it. She knelt on the pebbles, and did something unusual: she sniffed it. She said she had caught the faintest trace of myrrh and woodsmoke, and beneath that, the sharper scent of a salt that does not belong to any sea in Europe. She suspected the carpet had crossed more than geography - that it had come from a coast where the tides are measured in centuries.

By the third day, I noticed it was moving very slowly - not dragged or blown - a measured distance westward, towards the West Pier’s blackened skeleton, aligning itself, pattern-wise, with the central ruin. I continued to observe, day by day. No one touched it. No gull tugged at its fringe. Yet, I was sure, the carpet was creeping, pebble by pebble, as if drawn to the pier’s iron bones.

I say no one touched it, but I was not a lone observer, A wizened old soul, clearly more at home on the pebbles than at home, had begun to use the textile as a kind of marker for taking photographs. Several times a day he would approach the textile very gingerly, never stepping on it, but aligning his tripod according to its position - seemingly to photograph across the sea to the horizon. 

One evening, it was dusk, I asked him what he was seeing, what he was photographing. He showed me on the camera’s display: faint, translucent outlines above the waterline, shapes like hulls or wings. The textile, he claimed, was a magic carpet, a base from which the invisible could be photographed - vessels, for example, from elsewhere.

‘What do you mean, ‘elsewhere’, I asked a little too sharply. His only reply was to look westward into the sky, where Venus was shining in brightness.

I returned at dawn the next day, and at dusk, and then again the day after, but the old soul was gone, and the weaving too. I stood for a while each time, scanning the sea and sky. Once, I fancied I saw the faintest glimmers just above the horizon - a shimmer too steady for cloud, too high for a sail - but I’m sure that was my imagination.

Perhaps, I thought, the carpet’s origin lay not in any country but in the seam between countries, woven from places that exist only in the moments they are crossed. Its destination was always the next seam, wherever that might appear. And its purpose on Brighton Beach had simply been to open, for a brief span, a doorway into the atmosphere - one the old man had managed to capture with his camera.

For those few days, Brighton Beach and its piers had been a port again, as in days of old - not for excursion steamers or motor launches, but for travellers charting the elsewhere.

Guest beach: Brighton Beach, Duluth, Minnesota

Brighton Beach in Duluth, Minnesota, at the eastern end of Kitchi Gammi Park, is built on a rocky Lake Superior shoreline steeped in more than a century of history. The city established the area as its first dedicated tourism campground in 1922, offering auto tourists public lakeshore access. In the early 1930s, cabins were constructed - four in 1930 and five more in 1931 - to accommodate overnight visitors.

During the mid-20th century, as Duluth’s harbour shifted from an industrial zone into an area for leisure and tourism, Brighton Beach benefited from the same ethos, retaining its popularity as a local recreation spot. The 1960s saw several fierce storms that reshaped much of Duluth’s shoreline, including Brighton Beach, prompting later efforts at shoreline reinforcement. Plans for enhanced public access culminated in the 1980s and 1990s with the construction and eastward expansion of the Lakewalk, built in part from rocks excavated during the construction of Interstate 35. By 1991, the Lakewalk linked downtown Duluth to Brighton Beach, establishing it as a vital gateway to Lake Superior and a beloved picnic, ship-watching, and stone-skipping destination.

Though no longer a campground, Brighton Beach remains beloved for its cobblestone terrain, ideal for agate-hunting, wading, ship-watching and picnicking along the nearly mile-long lakeshore stretch that marks the eastern terminus of Duluth’s Lakewalk. 

Discussions about renovating the site began around 2015, but after severe storms in 2017 and 2018 caused major erosion and repeated damage to Brighton Beach Drive, planners shifted toward what officials called a managed retreat strategy in 2019: relocating public infrastructure inland and stabilising the shoreline rather than rebuilding in place. The City of Duluth embarked on a multi-year programme beginning in 2019, guided by a mini-master plan to rejuvenate the beach, extend the lake walk, relocate the road, rebuild shore protection and add resilient landscaping with native North Shore forest plants.

By 2023, shoreline restoration and most park improvements - including installation of picnic tables, grills, vault toilets, recycling stations, pet-waste stands, hammock stands and new accessible paths - were substantially complete. The relocated one-way road and separated pedestrian pathways were fully rebuilt by October 2024. Duluth then officially reopened Brighton Beach in a ribbon‑cutting ceremony at its historic stone pavilion, celebrating the end of the six-year, $6.4 million revitalisation. See the Duluth News Tribune and WDIO for more.

Back in February this year, MIX108’s Nick Cooper published photographs and a report about ‘waves of ice shards rippling along the shore’ of Brighton Beach. The waves, he said, were catching the last light of the day in the approach to sunset. Moreover, ‘the noise of the waves and ice shards in the water was pretty soothing and almost hypnotic’.

Huddlestone’s Brighton Story

It is 65 years since John Huddlestone’s series of illustrations about Brighton first appeared in the Brighton and Hove Herald. Beginning in 1960, his weekly cartoon strips traced the town’s story from the Domesday Book to the mid-twentieth century. The feature was so popular that, by the end of its first year, the strips were gathered into a 64-page pictorial booklet titled The Brighton Story, first published in 1961 by Thanet Books and sold for 2/6 (12½p). The original yellow-covered edition is now scarce and has become something of a collector’s item. A blue-covered facsimile reprint appeared in 1999, published by SB Publications of Seaford, which noted that all attempts to trace the author or his heirs had failed.

Despite the enduring appeal of the book, remarkably little is known about Huddlestone himself. He was described by Herald editor Frank Garratt as ‘a Northerner’, who developed an interest in Brighton after reading Unknown Brighton by George Aitchison. Huddlestone had already contributed historical illustrations of Kentish coastal towns to a local newspaper when, by chance, Garratt saw his work and wished aloud for someone with similar ability to do the same for Brighton. That same day, Huddlestone called at the Herald office and offered his services. Garratt, astonished by the coincidence, accepted immediately.

In his own introduction, written in May 1961, Huddlestone explained that he had known Brighton since 1930 and was especially drawn to its rich and colourful history. He claimed descent from the Northern Huddlestone family, which included Father John Huddlestone, the Roman Catholic priest who attended Charles II on his deathbed in 1685. He also recalled being particularly fascinated by the story of Charles’s escape from ‘Brighhelmstone’ to France. His aim, he wrote, was to stimulate interest in Brighton, ‘the oldest and largest and most famous of sea-side resorts’, and the birthplace of what he called ‘a great and happy tradition’.

The Brighton Story rearranges the original newspaper strips by theme rather than date, and omits contemporary advertisements. With Garratt’s editorial support, Huddlestone’s affectionate cartoon history drew responses from readers all over the world and helped to record the town’s unique atmosphere at a moment of civic pride and change. When the Herald closed in the 1960s, its parent company was taken over by Southern Publishing and later absorbed into the Newsquest group, which authorised the 1999 facsimile edition.

Here are two of the pages in which Huddlestone draws and writes about the Brighton seafront.

CU, CU, CU at C2

Tomorrow, next weekend, sometime soon

Summer’s here, summer’s at C2

Come for the rock, stay for the indie 

Dive in the garage, lose it in the jungle

BU, BU, BU at C2

Skanking, moshing, grinding, headbanging

Summer’s here, summer’s at C2

Come for the reggae, stay for the punk

Be the pulse-hungry, feel the sweat-glaze

♡U, ♡U, ♡U at C2

Blue, pink, yellow, green

Summer’s here, summer’s at C2

Follow the streamers, stay with the fashion

Move with the colour, paint with the light

CU, CU, CU at C2

Arches, fans, triangles, feathers

Summer’s here, summer’s at C2

Peer in close, see the mini-peeps

Under the arches, dancing by fairy light 

World’s oldest operating aquarium

Brighton’s aquarium was formally opened on this day in 1872. Designed by Eugenius Birch, the engineer behind the West Pier (see Celebrating Eugenius Birch), it was built below beach level in the Italian Renaissance style and originally featured tanks lit by gas burners behind red glass to simulate sunlight. One of the world’s oldest purpose-built aquariums, it quickly became a Victorian marvel, drawing thousands to its seawater tanks, grand entrance hall and winter garden.

Among its more unusual early exhibits was a cigar-smoking sea lion, and for several decades it hosted regular military band concerts in a specially designed concert hall. In the 1950s and 60s, the centre of the aquarium came alive again as a music venue called The Florida Rooms, known for its nightly jazz performances and packed dancefloor. According to Sea Life itself, The Who played there every Wednesday and helped turn it into a hotspot for local mods.

By the 1920s, the attraction had been renamed the Brighton Dolphinarium and became known for its performing sea lions and dolphins. These shows later became the focus of growing criticism, particularly in the 1980s, as concern mounted over the ethics of keeping dolphins in captivity. The last were relocated in 1990, following sustained public pressure. For more history see Wikipedia and the Sea Life website.

Recognised as the world’s oldest operating aquarium and a Grade II* listed building, Sea Life Brighton combines original Victorian architecture and tanks with innovative modern exhibits, reflecting both its storied past and ongoing commitment to marine conservation. Highlights include the UK’s first glass-bottomed boat experience inside a tank, a 750,000-litre ocean display featuring sharks and a rescued green sea turtle, and the atmospheric Victorian arcade, still in use after more than 150 years. (Credit to Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove for the vintage picture of the building.)