If you seek his monument . . .

Two hundred and seventy-five years ago, in 1750, Richard Russell, not yet famous, published De Tabe Glandulari, the treatise that would change both his career and the fate of Brighton. Its argument - that seawater, taken internally and externally, could treat diseases of the glands - propelled a little-known Sussex physician into national prominence. More significantly for Brighton, it directed medical attention to a town then struggling with erosion, collapsing cliff lines and a declining fishing economy. Russell’s decision to base his cure specifically on Brighton’s beach gave the town its first sustained influx of visitors.

Born in 1687, Russell studied medicine at the University of Leyden. He returned to England, practising in his home town Lewes from the 1720s. By the 1740s he had become convinced of the therapeutic power of the sea. De Tabe Glandulari was the outcome: a detailed Latin defence of marine treatment that was swiftly translated into English and circulated well beyond Sussex. It was the first substantial medical work to promote both the drinking of seawater and immersion in it, and it was unusually pointed in praising Brighthelmstone’s marine environment over inland spa cures.

Demand for Russell’s regimen soon overwhelmed his Lewes practice. By 1753 he had moved permanently to Brighthelmstone, purchasing a marshy plot on the Steine for £40 and building the town’s largest house. It had direct access to the beach, dedicated rooms for convalescents and south-facing windows intended to maximise exposure to sea air. Around it grew Brighton’s first recognisable health quarter, complete with bathing attendants, suppliers of warm seawater and the earliest stirrings of fashionable patronage. Figures of rank began appearing among his patients, giving the town a social standing it had never previously enjoyed.

Russell’s reputation rose accordingly. Elected a Fellow of the Royal Society in 1752, he became one of the most prominent provincial physicians of his generation, and his treatise passed through multiple editions. His will later required his son William to assume the surname Kempe in order to inherit family property, an unusual stipulation noted at the time. Russell died in 1759 and was buried at South Malling near Lewes. His practice was taken over by Dr Anthony Relhan, and his large house on the Steine evolved into what is now the Royal Albion Hotel. 

This hotel was very badly damaged by a fire in 2023. Of what remains, part was demolished for safety reasons, and the rest remains closed off and covered in scaffolding, Nevertheless, it’s just possible to spy the commemorative plaque for Russell which says: ‘If you seek his monument, look around.’ Brighton’s identity as a centre for sea air, convalescence and coastal recreation began with Russell and remains to this day.

For more on Russell see Wikipedia (which is also the source of the portrait above), an entry in Tim Carder’s Encyclopaedia of Brighton which can viewed online at My Brighton & Hove, and Brighton Journal. 

Where have all the punters gone?

The Christmas season in Brighton is gathering pace: the Palace Pier tree is up (see yeterday’s post), the promenade lights are on, and this week three very different Santas have announced their festive plans - one greeting families high above the city, one in the heart of the pier, and one welcoming children beside the lifeboats. 

Brighton i360 has unveiled its full programme, with ‘Santa in the Sky’ returning from 11am on selected dates. Flights are scheduled hourly, and each visit promises a meeting with Santa in the clouds, a small gift, photographs, and the satisfaction of being, as the blurb puts it, on Santa’s nice list this year. Tickets for adults are £23.50, with the pod transformed into a mid-air grotto and Santa surrounded by elves and decorations.

For families wanting a longer experience, the i360 is also offering ‘Breakfast with Santa’, a one-hour event starting at 09.00 in the Drift restaurant. A full English breakfast comes with juice or a hot drink, and children can decorate their own bauble, write a letter to Santa, and post it via the ‘Northpole post box’. After breakfast the whole group takes a pod flight at 10.00 to meet Santa in the Sky, with gifts and photo opportunities included. Adult tickets are £32.50.

Down on the seafront the Palace Pier is running its own grotto in the Palm Court Restaurant, with Santa in residence on selected December dates. Families can book a traditional pier-side visit, complete with the arcade lights, deckchair colours and winter sea views that are part of Brighton’s festive backdrop. It offers a more classic, ground-level encounter for those who prefer Santa without the altitude.

Across town Santa will also be putting in a shift at Brighton RNLI, whose volunteers are once again running their own grotto experience inside the lifeboat station. The photographs used in their promotion - Santa in full costume, perched cheerfully beside the D-class inshore lifeboat, yellow wellies and all - underline the RNLI’s characteristically practical approach to Christmas. Families can book timed entry slots, meet Santa in a working coastal rescue environment, and support the lifeboat station’s fundraising at the same time.

Although the three events could not be more different in setting - one 450 feet in the air, one on the pier, and one at beach level beside the Atlantic 85 - all speak to the variety of Brighton’s seasonal offerings, and to how central the Santa visit has become to local December traditions. 

Between the i360’s cloud-level grotto, Palm Court’s pier-side classic, and the lifeboat station’s shoreline version, one might wonder if the place wasn’t over-run with Santas, and whether there are any actual punters left!

Pier Xmas tree is up

The Palace Pier Christmas tree is up. A tall Norway spruce now stands on the pier forecourt beside the clock tower, strung with oversized coloured bulbs that sway in the onshore wind. It seems that Brighton has no official record of when this seasonal marker first appeared, but photographs show a large decorated tree in this exact spot by 2013, and by 2014 it was already being treated as a familiar feature of the seafront in December. Images from 2017 onward confirm it as an annual fixture, always in the same position, always forming part of the pier’s festive display rather than the city’s wider Christmas lights scheme.

Although the space sits hard against the public promenade, the forecourt immediately in front of the gates is managed by the pier’s operators, now Brighton Palace Pier Group plc. Seasonal decorations placed there follow the pier’s own branding and schedules, and in 2019 the tree was given a formal ‘lights switch-on’ hosted by the pier and handed to local children’s charities, leaving little doubt about ownership. The tree has never appeared in council lighting budgets or BID-funded lists, and it has never been tied to a sponsor. Everything points to it being a privately installed and privately funded tradition maintained by the pier’s operators.

This year’s tree matches the pattern: a full-sized spruce brought in early, anchored on the forecourt and fitted with the pier’s preferred warm-coloured bulbs. For more than a decade, thus, it has acted as the seafront’s unofficial marker that Brighton’s festive season has begun, standing just long enough to see out the winter storms before disappearing, and the bulbs heading into storage.

Sources: Urban75, Latest TV, Alamy, and Ebay.

The Shingle That Waited

Here is the 21st of 24 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 window - the only one of the 24 designs so muted, so unlit from behind - shows a semi-abstract landscape: a tall tree stands in the centre with a brown trunk and deep green canopy. Behind it, rolling hills sweep across the scene in bands of varied colours. To the left, a structure suggests the outline of a windmill. In the distance, layers of faded blue and purple evoke sea and sky, creating a sense of depth. (See below for an AI enhanced copy of the image.)

Limerick

A lone tree stood proud on the rise,

Where the hills blushed in patchwork disguise;

By a windmill’s red crown,

Colours drifted and wound,

As if landscape and daydream were allies.

The Shingle that Waited (with apologies to Gabriel García Márquez)

At first light on a morning without memory, a solitary tree stood on the Brighton Beach shingle where no tree had stood the day before. The tide had withdrawn in long blue breaths, and the stones around the tree seemed to have shifted to receive it, as if saving that space for longer than anyone had lived. Its leaves shone with a green so new the gulls wheeled in uneasy circles above it.

People approached quietly. They felt a warmth rising from the stones but did not lean close to confirm it. A boy of about ten pressed his ear to the trunk and later told his mother the tree was humming. He said it felt like a forgotten memory had entered him by mistake. When he stepped back, he stared at the horizon with the solemnity of someone recognising a distant call.

Days lengthened, and colours around the beach began to behave in unfamiliar ways. The sea deepened into shifting turquoises, the sky into purples without sunset, and the distant hills changed tone with the tide, warming as the water withdrew and cooling as it returned. Residents felt the changes but did not question them; they sensed the beach had entered a season beyond explanation.

Late in the month, a shape gathered itself on the horizon. Each dawn revealed more: a red-roofed windmill with long blue vanes turning steadily in air that held no wind. No one claimed to understand its arrival. The old ice-cream seller simply nodded, saying, ‘The sea keeps its stories. Sometimes it gives one back.’

One afternoon a young woman knelt beside the tree, drawn by a breath of warmth beneath her feet. When she parted the stones she saw, only for an instant, a faint radiance below the surface, colours laid out in careful layers like the remains of a celebration the earth still remembered. She withdrew her hands, and the glow vanished. Those who later dug in the same place found nothing but cold grey stones.

As the season shifted, the marvels retreated. The sky returned to its familiar greys, the sea to its disciplined blue, and the hills to their customary restraint. One morning, without any sign of their leaving, both tree and windmill were gone. The shingle showed only a slender arc of lighter stones tracing a path toward the water.

The boy who had heard the humming did not seem surprised. ‘They were waiting,’ he said. ‘And they heard what they needed.’

Sometimes at dusk, when the tide lies perfectly still, a tall, delicate shadow stretches across the stones, cast by nothing that stands there. Those who see it feel the shingle shift almost imperceptibly beneath their feet, as if making room again for what has not yet been forgotten.

Signal cannon relic

The small black-painted gun that sits on the Brighton Palace Pier today - now rather forlorn and out of place beside the men’s toilets and perhaps appropriately close to the thump of the funfair - is one of the surviving signal cannons from the Royal Suspension Chain Pier, which stood a few hundred metres to the east between 1823 and 1896. The Chain Pier operated as both a pleasure promenade and a working embarkation point for cross-Channel vessels, and its cannons played a practical role in that maritime life. They were fired to announce the departure or arrival of packet boats, to signal in thick weather, and occasionally to warn small craft off the pier’s immediate approaches. Contemporary guidebooks note that visitors often gathered to watch the gun being discharged before a steamer cast off, a brief spectacle folded into the pier’s daily rhythm.

The guns themselves were small muzzle-loading pieces mounted on simple timber beds, never intended for defence but for audible reach along the seafront and out to sea. Contemporary accounts confirm that a signal gun was kept on the Chain Pier and fired on ceremonial occasions. John George Bishop’s The Brighton Chain Pier: in memoriam describes how, during the celebrations for King William IV and Queen Adelaide’s arrival in 1830, ‘a signal gun was fired from the Chain Pier, as well as from the Battery, to indicate the welcome intelligence that their Majesties had arrived.’ Moreover, surviving pier toll records are said to indicate routine maintenance costs for ‘signals’ or ‘signal guns’, suggesting they were kept in regular working order through the pier’s lifetime. By the late nineteenth century, as the Chain Pier aged and cross-Channel services shifted west to the Palace Pier landing stages and to Newhaven, the signal guns fell gradually out of use.

The storm of 4-5 December 1896 destroyed the Chain Pier completely (see Brighton’s oldest pier), scattering its timbers along the beach. Some fittings were salvaged by the Palace Pier Company, including ironwork, lamps and at least one of the old signal cannons. It remained in storage for decades before being brought onto the Palace Pier as a heritage object. The weathered wooden carriage now visible beneath it is a modern reconstruction, but the barrel is original to the Chain Pier era. The small plaque on the pier deck dates it to the operational life of the Royal Suspension Chain Pier, 1822–1896, and stands as one of the last tangible artefacts from Brighton’s first great pier.

Sources: Wikipedia, Brighton & Hove Museums. PS: The full original name of the pier was the Brighton Marine Palace & Pier Company which explains the BM and PP initials on the wall behind the cannon. 

Do go see See the Sea

Do go See the Sea, a focused display at Brighton Museum which brings together more than three centuries of coastal art showing how the shoreline has been imagined since Brighton was a tiny 16th-century fishing village. The museum describes it as a family-friendly selection of dramatic seascapes and beachside scenes, inviting visitors to ‘sail through romantic seas and skies to views of today’s vibrant seafront.’ Within that sweep of changing light and tide, one image stands out for its sheer rarity: Adrian Hill’s rain-soaked view of the beach and front - Rain at Brighton (pictured).

Hill’s painting records a wet Brighton afternoon in tones almost never chosen by earlier artists. The roadway glistens like beaten metal, lampposts stretch doubled in puddles, and the pier seems suspended in a vapour of cloud and sea-mist. At a time when most painters presented Brighton as a place of perpetual sunshine, Hill shows the beach under the weather that so often shapes it, capturing how the whole seafront alters when rain flattens colour and rhythm.

The contrast with earlier panoramas in the gallery is marked. James Webb and George Earl’s Brighton from the West Pier presents a regatta day in crystalline light, the beach crowded and the new pier drawn with architectural pride. A related view from the pier-head shows the same coast alive with promenade fashion and small boats inching close to shore, mirroring the Victorian belief that the seaside was both spectacle and cure. The beach is tidy, public, and bright - a deliberate image of a rising resort.

Other works preserve the working coastline that preceded this leisure era. The early view - Kemp Town from the Sea by John Wilson Carmichael - shows a foreshore of fishing craft, winches and drying nets, with fresh-built terraces climbing behind the shingle. It records a landscape still half-rural, half-ambitious, caught just before Brighton’s speculative growth overwhelmed its maritime past. In stark opposition, Floating Breakwaters off Brighton (pictured) shows a rough Channel hammering the long timber groynes, the town barely visible through blown spray.

Queen Victoria in town

Queen Victoria, born in 1819 and reigning for more than 63 years, became the symbolic centre of a rapidly industrialising and expanding Britain. Her long rule reshaped the monarchy into a constitutional institution defined by ceremony, duty, and public visibility. Although she, famously, disliked the Royal Pavilion and sold it to Brighton Council, she did visit the town very often - the name is mentioned over 200 times in her diaries. Moreover, three different artworks connected lightly with Brighton Beach can be see as Albert and Victoria’s legacy in the town.

Victoria’s relationship with Brighton was shaped by the overhang of the Regency. She disliked the extravagant Royal Pavilion, with its fantastical onion domes and lack of privacy, and her early visits in the 1830s and early 1840s were intermittent. Yet the court’s presence nonetheless produced moments now central to Brighton’s cultural memory. On 8 March 1842 she left the town reluctantly, recording in her diary that ‘the walks & drives near the sea, were delightful… & it did my dearest Albert & the Children so much good.’ 

The same year, Albert made photographic history in Brighton when William Constable, the Marine Parade daguerreotypist, took what is believed to be the first photographic portrait of a British royal. That small, sharp likeness, made while the family was staying at the Pavilion, still survives in the Royal Collection.

Victoria’s visits also generated images that fixed Brighton in the public imagination. The best known is the illustrated scene from early 1845 showing Albert driving Victoria and the Princess Royal in a sledge across the snow-blanketed Pavilion grounds, a view reproduced widely in the illustrated press (here copied from the Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove). Such episodes helped counterbalance her general unease with the town’s bustle and its lingering association with George IV’s indulgence.

Today the most explicit marker of Victoria’s relationship with Brighton stands just above the shingle: the 1897 statue near the Peace Statue, where Victoria’s bronze figure faces the water she once admired briefly but never embraced fully, binding her story - almost despite herself - into the fabric of Brighton Beach.

Churning sea water

Found on the beach: sea foam. At first sight, there’s not much to the creamy-white frothy stuff that gets blown across the Brighton Beach shingle now and then, and, yet, look it up and you soon find yourself at the intersection of ocean chemistry, biology, and weather. 

When waves churn up water containing dissolved organic compounds - mostly proteins, lipids, dead plankton, fragments of seaweed, and microbial by-products - these act as surfactants, lowering surface tension and allowing bubbles to form and persist. The rougher the sea, the more vigorously the water column is mixed, drawing these organics from deeper layers to the surface. Brighton’s English Channel water, especially after storms that rip up seaweed beds, is particularly good at producing short-lived, bubbly foam.

A single litre of seawater can contain millions of phytoplankton cells, and when some species die off in blooms, the cellular breakdown releases long-chain molecules that are remarkably similar to the stabilisers used in food foams (like the head on a beer). That’s why foam can look so creamy despite being nothing more than air, water, and microscopic biological debris.

Globally, sea foam becomes more intriguing - and sometimes alarming. The most notorious examples are the ‘foam tsunamis’ of Australia’s east coast, where intense storm swell can drive metres-deep, cappuccino-coloured foam through seaside towns. In 2020 at Yamba and 2007 at Sydney’s beaches, whole cars disappeared under it. The foam itself was harmless; the force of the waves beneath it was not.

In California, the breakdown of Phaeocystis algal blooms has produced foam rich in proteins that can become irritant, stinging exposed skin. Conversely, along South Africa’s KwaZulu-Natal coast, winter sardine runs produce a slick of fish oils that help create thick ivory-coloured foam valued by surfers because it flattens chop on the surface.

The strangest example comes from the North Sea, where researchers found sea foam rich in microplastics - tiny fragments that stick to the bubbles and are blown far inland, making foam one of the vectors by which coastal microplastic pollution travels beyond the shoreline. The foam acts like a sticky film, picking up plastic shards, tyre particles and airborne dust.

Foam can also carry nutrients and spores. After the giant Sargassum blooms in the Caribbean, decaying mats generate surfactants that fuel disproportionately large foam lines on beaches; these sometimes carry bacterial loads high enough to make cleanup crews wear masks. In contrast, in Iceland and parts of the Baltic, sea foam streaks can be associated with whitish pumice ash, swept into the surf after volcanic eruptions.

Even the colour can be telling. Most foam is white because the bubbles scatter light uniformly, but brown foam signals a higher concentration of organic matter; greenish foam often appears during phytoplankton bloom collapse; and pinkish foam has occasionally been recorded after massive blooms of pigmented dinoflagellates - the same organisms responsible for some red tides.

Brighton’s foam, by comparison, is modest, fleeting and almost always benign. It’s simply the English Channel exhaling - a reminder of the constant churning, mixing, and invisible biological life just offshore, thrown up in small bright heaps that the wind leaves on the stones for a few minutes before carrying them away.

More information can be found at National Ocean Service, Science Direct, Marine Insight and How Stuff Works. The photograph of foam on the beach at Yamba was found at the BBC (Nature’s Weirdest Events).

Sickert’s Brighton Beach Pierrots

The German-born British painter and printmaker Walter Sickert spent part of the late summer of 1915 in Brighton, staying near the seafront and working intensively from the life around him. The temporary pierrot stage on the shingle opposite the Metropole Hotel quickly became one of his most productive subjects. Night after night through August and September he watched the troupe’s performances, sketching from the deckchairs, from the promenade railings, and from the side of the stage. 

By then Sickert was 55, a former actor and long-established painter whose training with Whistler and friendship with Degas had sharpened his interest in theatre, gesture and the mood of everyday scenes. Brighton offered all of that in a new key: a makeshift outdoor stage, shifting Channel light and the deep backdrop of the seafront terraces. These on-the-spot drawings became the basis of his Brighton Pierrots artworks, completed soon after. Their angled viewpoints, reddish evening sky and rows of empty chairs have often been read against the wartime context. Brighton was hosting convalescent soldiers, the younger crowds were largely absent, and distant gunfire could sometimes be heard across the water. Two principal versions survive, one at the Ashmolean and another at Tate Britain, both built from the same 1915 sketches.

Sickert’s relationship with the coast did not end there. After his marriage to the painter Thérèse Lessore in 1926 he lived for a short period in Brighton before returning to London, and he continued to visit the town throughout the 1920s and 1930s. From these stays came further seafront works. The Front at Hove (1930) captures the promenade at Adelaide Crescent, with a bowler-hatted older man - widely thought to echo Sickert himself - walking beside a younger woman. Another canvas, often titled The Chain Pier, Brighton, turns to the earlier Victorian landmark and sets small figures and beached boats against the curve of the old suspension pier. Smaller Brighton pieces, including a study from Bedford Square, also trace back to his 1915 notes and later returns.

No verified photograph places Sickert physically on Brighton Beach, but contemporary press mentions in the 1930s note him among the seasonal visitors enjoying Brighton’s autumn light. Between those references and the cluster of seafront paintings from 1915 to 1930, the seafront can be seen as a recurring source of material, first discovered during that wartime summer when the pierrots took to the shingle.

Hove Lagoon watersports

On a bright salt-washed morning the blue clubhouse of Lagoon Watersports beside Hove Lagoon looks almost theatrical, its white lettering impelling passers-by to learn, improve, progress. The building, raised slightly above the path and fronted by a tangle of kayaks, Pico dinghies and wakeboard gear, has become one of the most recognisable structures on the Brighton Beach seafront. What began as a modest watersports base more than thirty years ago is now woven into the daily life of the lagoon and the lives of thousands who first stood on a paddleboard, hauled a sail upright or felt the sudden tug of a wake-cable here.

Lagoon Watersports was formally incorporated in 1989 and has been run by the same management since the mid-1990s. Its chosen setting, Hove Lagoon, is an artificial remnant of the old Salt Daisy Lake, a brackish hollow that was gradually formalised during interwar landscaping of the Kingsway (see Brighton Toy Museum website which is also the source of the photograph below). The company turned this shallow, wind-swept waterbody into a training ground for beginners, school groups and would-be sailors. Over the years its programmes expanded across two sites - sheltered lessons and wakeboarding at the lagoon, and yacht sailing and power-boat sessions from Brighton Marina.

The lagoon has regularly thrown Lagoon Watersports into the local press. When the first cable-tow wakeboarding system went live in 2011 it drew a flurry of interest as one of the earliest installations of its type in the UK. By 2013 the centre was running three cables, including a beginner line and a rail section that drew riders from across the region. Newspapers ran bright, summery photographs of young wakeboarders skimming across the lagoon, a striking contrast to the placid model-yacht scene once associated with the site.

There have been quirkier stories too. One Argus report captured the arrival of paddleboard yoga on the lagoon, describing early sessions wobbling across the water. Another covered a women’s watersports day that saw first-timers taking to kayaks and paddleboards in breezy conditions, relishing the sense of achievement even when the wind and chop made the lagoon feel more like open sea. These sat alongside the regular run of charity challenges on icy January mornings, youth groups completing multi-sport days in howling south-westerlies, and the occasional windsurfer being blown clean across the lagoon and into the reeds, to the delight of watching schoolchildren.

The company’s daily rhythm sees staff usher in wetsuited school groups, kayaks carried to the slipway in lines, and the wake-cable’s soft mechanical hum drifting across the water whenever conditions are calm. The blue clubhouse stands at the heart of it all, part workshop, part briefing room, part symbol of Brighton and Hove’s multivarious beach culture.

The European fan palm

Found on the beach: Chamaerops humilis, commonly known as the European fan palm. It grows low and wide on the shingle, its fronds rattling in even the gentlest seafront breeze, looking half like a survivor from some Mediterranean headland and half like an escapee from a forgotten Victorian planting scheme. Brighton Beach is one of the few places in Britain where this species seems entirely at home. The salt spray, the glare, the scouring winds that flatten other ornamentals all suit it perfectly, and its scruffy, sun-bleached skirt of old leaves gives it the faintly rakish air of a visitor who has stayed long enough to become a local.

Chamaerops humilis is the only palm native to continental Europe, growing naturally around the western Mediterranean from southern Spain to Sicily (see pic below from Wikipedia). It is a compact, clumping species, often forming several short trunks rather than a single tall one, and its fans are stiff, segmented and edged with tiny teeth. The fronds emerge a bold green but quickly fade to a straw colour in coastal exposure, creating the characteristic thatch of shredded leaves seen on the beach. In spring it produces small yellow flowers at the base of the leaf stems, followed later by clusters of reddish fruit that are technically edible but rarely palatable. What makes the species so useful in Brighton is its tolerance: it survives drought, cold snaps, poor soils and salt-laden winds, and will root happily in rubble or shingle where more delicate ornamentals fail.

Historically, the European fan palm has been familiar to travellers since antiquity, appearing in early herbal texts for its fibres, which were used for rope, brushes and stuffing. Its leaves were woven into mats, baskets and the rustic rain capes once worn by shepherds in Spain and Portugal. Renaissance gardeners admired it as a curiosity from classical lands and often tried to coax it through northern winters, though with little success until more robust varieties were introduced in the nineteenth century. By the early twentieth century it had become a reliable feature of British seaside towns, planted in the optimistic belief that palms could summon the air of a warmer climate. Brighton adopted the idea enthusiastically, dotting the seafront with species that could endure the Channel’s temperament, and Chamaerops humilis proved one of the hardiest.

The palm on the beach now stands as part of that long horticultural experiment, a living remnant of the city’s desire to appear just a little more southern than it really is. Walkers pass it without comment, but it quietly thrives, shrugging off winter storms and growing a little wider each year. It is both out of place and perfectly placed, a Mediterranean native that has found its own niche on an English shingle shore.

Sources: Royal Horticultural Society, Kew Gardens, Harrod Outdoors, Wikipedia.

Hooray for Horatio’s

At the far end of Brighton’s Palace Pier, and settled easily into the funfair area, sits Horatio’s, an elegant all-purpose bar with what must be nearly 40 years of history. It evolved as the pier shifted from Victorian theatreland into full-blown seaside spectacle, and by the late 1980s it had become the pier’s resident big, breezy social hall - a place where the smell of sea spray and hot doughnuts drifted through the doors and where the floor could tremble slightly whenever the Turbo Coaster launched its cars overhead.

In 1984, when the pier was purchased by the Noble Organisation, it introduced free admission and new attractions. Two years later, it also embarked upon an £8 million refurbishment and enlargement programme which included new entrance kiosks, a remodelling of the Palace of Fun, and the opening of both the Fish and Chip Café, Victoria’s Bar (now the Palm Court Restaurant - see Fish and chips or moules) and Horatio’s Bar.

As the pier modernised, so did Horatio’s. It grew from a simple drinking space into one with occasional music events. Local bands began to play weekend sets, filling the glass-fronted room with Brighton’s familiar mix of covers, ska, indie guitars and the odd sea-shanty revival. Jazz arrived too, and Horatio’s became one of the venues used for the Brighton Jazz Festival, hosting double-header evening concerts with world-class players performing as waves thudded beneath the ironwork. Dance nights joined the offerings - Cuban salsa sessions with live percussion and teaching pairs leading crowds through rueda circles under the rope-woven ceiling.

A collaboration with The Latest led to a variety of performances not just music but spoken word events, film showings, club nights, art exhibitions, comedy nights. ‘We host everything,’ the Latest website says ‘from the monthly talk-based Cafe Scientfique and the infamous Catalyst Club events, to music shows hosted by The Great Escape, burlesque performance nights, Fringe theatre, charity events, kids events and loads more.’ Latest TV, meanwhile, broadcasts live interviews and band sessions directly from Horatio’s. 

A major refit in the late 2010s gave Horatio’s a more modern coastal look - rope-woven ceiling panels, timber slats and bi-fold doors that open straight onto the sea. But its essence hasn’t changed. This is still where parents take a breather between rides, where football fans crowd around big screens, where local musicians cut their teeth on stormy midweek evenings, and where - now and then - the whole place rocks gently when a winter sea pushes hard against the pier piles.

Sources: Wikipedia and My Brighton and Hove (but note the text here is taken from Tim Carder’s printed book, The Encyclopaedia of Brighton).

The Mystery of the Crowded Boats

Here is the 20th of 24 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 four small boats are clustered together on lively, broken water, their hulls overlapping as if pressed close at a busy mooring. In the foreground, a yellow boat and a white-and-red one tilt toward each other, their cabins and decks picked out in clean, angular lines. Behind them lie a vivid red boat and a pale grey one, half-hidden but still distinct, riding at slightly different angles as if shifting with the tide. Strong verticals rise from all four, suggesting taut mooring lines or slender masts, while the sea around them is fragmented into sweeping bands of deep blue, light blue and green, giving the whole scene a sense of movement and bright coastal weather.

A limerick starter

Four boats on a restless blue sea

Were tangled as tangled could be.

Said the yellow one: ‘Mate,

Is this some kind of date?’

Replied red: ‘Only if you moor with me.’

The Mystery of the Crowded Boats (with apologies to Enid Blyton)

Julian spotted the cluster of boats first. They were moored oddly close together, their bright colours bobbing on the choppy water just east of the old West Pier. The four of them were almost nose-to-nose, as if whispering secrets. George shaded her eyes and frowned.

‘They weren’t like that yesterday,’ she said. ‘Look - they’re practically jammed together. Something’s happened.’

Timmy barked in agreement and pulled at his lead. Anne, who always noticed the smaller details, pointed to the sandy shingle at their feet.

‘There are fresh imprints here,’ she said. ‘Two sets - and one of them looks as though the person was carrying something heavy. The prints sink deeper.’

Dick, who was already scrambling towards the nearest groyne, gave a low whistle. ‘And here’s another clue - look at this rope end. It’s been cut clean through. Someone’s taken one of the boats out, and put it back in a terrible hurry.’

George’s eyes shone. ‘Let’s hire a dinghy from the fishing hut and go over to them. If someone’s been up to mischief, we might still catch them.’

Minutes later, they were rowing hard through the shifting green-blue water, Timmy perched at the bow like a proud figurehead. As they drew nearer, the four boats looked even stranger. The yellow one was scuffed along its side, the grey one had a new dent near the stern, and the white-and-red boat was sitting lower in the water than any of them liked.

‘Julian!’ Anne cried. ‘It’s overloaded!’

They pulled alongside, and Dick leaned over. Inside the half-sunken boat lay a wooden crate, still wet and half wedged beneath the seat. Rough stencilled letters ran across its side: BEACH HUT 243 - KEEP SHUT.

‘It must have come loose from its mooring wherever that was, and drifted here’ Julian said. ‘And now it’s stuck between the other boats.’

George tugged at the crate and the lid came away with a snap. Inside were neat rows of shiny tin canisters, each labelled MODEL ROCKET FUEL - CAUTION.

‘Rocket fuel!’ Dick said in astonishment. ‘What on earth is it doing here?’

Julian looked back towards the beach, where the line of colourful beach huts curved towards Hove.

‘I think someone’s planning something they shouldn’t,’ he said. ‘And whoever keeps hut 243 may be in danger, not involved. We must inform the coastguard immediately.’

Timmy barked triumphantly. The children tied the red boat up to the others, and hauled the crate into their own dinghy before setting off to return to shore. Behind them, the four boats rocked together as though relieved to have given up their secret.

By the time the sun dipped behind the West Pier ruins, the Famous Five had uncovered a plot, saved a string of beach huts from a fiery mishap, and earned themselves enormous ice-creams from the grateful hut-owner - just the sort of ending, Anne thought happily, that Brighton Beach always seemed to give them.

Deep sea angling in Hove

At the far western end of Brighton Beach, where Hove meets Portslade-by-Sea, and where the millionaires enjoy their private patches of pebbles, there’s a distinctive looking building - a Martello tower? - with shack attached. Small boats are tied up alongside, and there are notices advising one not to talk to winch operators except in an emergency. This is the Hove Deep Sea Anglers Club, well over a century old now, and going strong.

The club was founded in 1909 by a Hove policeman with the aim of enabling local residents to take small boats from the beach and fish offshore. At a time when beach-launched craft were common along the Sussex coast, the club provided a formal base for what had become a popular pastime on the Hove foreshore. Its early wooden hut, erected in 1922 on the Western Esplanade, marked the club’s first permanent home.

Over the decades, Hove Deep Sea Anglers became known not just for fishing, but for colourful camaraderie and elaborate tales. Annual dinners in the 1920s featured the reading of classic verses like the Fisherman’s Prayer, and the evening was often filled with jokes and friendly banter. One legendary member, Alderman A. W. F. Varley, was renowned for winning over fifty prizes for sailing, rowing, fishing, and even cycling, which made him something of a local celebrity.

The club has several record catches in its logbooks. The story goes that one angler landed a salmon so large that, as he recounted, ‘even I may never need to lie’. In recent memory, there have been memorable weekends where boats returned so laden with fish that spontaneous beachside barbecues erupted, with the catch turned into a feast for all. Not all adventures ended with triumph: a famous Safety First demonstration in 1933 saw the Shoreham lifeboat ‘rescue’ a boat lent by the club secretary, giving the club a moment in local lore and sending up a cheer among members for its commitment to safety and spectacle.

The club’s history includes some lively disputes, particularly with neighbouring clubs during annual competitions. Once, a neighbouring club accused Hove anglers of ‘over-baiting,’ sparking a good-natured war of words that lasted for months. Another time, the mistaken identity of the club’s circular extension - often thought to be a Martello tower but not actually built until the 1980s - became a running joke among members, with playful bets taken on how many tourists would ask about its ‘Napoleonic’ origins each summer.

In late October 1996, high winds hit the Sussex coast early in the morning, parts of the clubhouse were demolished, the roof caved in, several walls collapsed, the snooker room was levelled and the interior of the club was under two feet of water. Fortunately, so the club’s own history states, ‘the bar survived unscathed, much to the relief of the 450 members’ and the repair bill amounted to around £20,000.

Today, the club maintains a fleet of around a dozen boats, launched most weekends of the year. It stands as a long-standing landmark and one of the last reminders of the era when small-boat fishing was a prominent leisure pursuit directly connected to the beach. Alongside its angling programme, the club hosts lunches, bar events, darts and snooker leagues, poker nights and seasonal gatherings, sustaining a membership that mixes long-standing families with new recruits drawn by its maritime heritage - often lured by tales of monster catches, fierce competitions, and a touch of chaos in local lore.

Main sources: Judy Middleton’s excellent Hove in the Past, and Hove Deep Sea Anglers.

Steamer trips from Palace Pier

This poster - found in Palace Pier by Albert Bullock and Peter Medcalf - advertises P. & A. Campbell’s Brighton excursions to the Spithead Naval Review of 1924, one of the great maritime set-pieces of the interwar years. The Review took place on Saturday 26 July, with the King observing long lines of capital ships, cruisers, destroyers and submarines anchored across the Solent. The event brought together around two hundred vessels, including representatives of the Dominions and visiting fleets assembled during the Imperial Conference. It was the first major Review since the war and was intended as a demonstration of stability and naval cooperation after the upheavals of the previous decade.

Brighton had its part to play. Campbell’s Sussex steamers - most prominently the earlier Devonia and the newly renamed Brighton Belle - were advertised on the Palace Pier railings and along the West Pier concourse, offering passengers a full afternoon cruise along the Sussex coast before joining the mass of small excursion craft mustering off Spithead. Leaving Brighton in mid-afternoon and early evening, the steamers carried holidaymakers through warm Channel air, past Shoreham and Worthing, and on towards the Isle of Wight, where the lines of warships stretched out like a floating city. Once darkness fell the fleet was illuminated from stem to stern, with searchlights sweeping across the water as the royal yacht made its slow progress through the anchorage.

Before the war and on this stretch of coast, the most powerful steamer, operated by Campbell, had been the Brighton Queen, a broad-sponsoned paddler that dominated departures from the pier. Recognisable from her high funnel (see photo, also from the Palace Pier book), she would shoulder out into deeper water before turning. But in 1915 she had been lost on minesweeping duty, and by 1924 she existed only in postcards and recollections traded on deckchairs below the pier head.

In 1924, the scale of the Naval Review would have been impressive, ships ranged in perfect alignment, their electric outlines reflected perhaps in still water, and the succession of salutes and night-time illuminations that carried on long after the King had departed. For Brighton’s excursionists it was a full day and night away, but the piers were busy again before breakfast, with talk of the searchlights, the size of the battleships, and how the holiday steamers seemed tiny against the bulk of the fleet. It was one of the last great Reviews before the naval reductions of the 1930s, and for those who embarked from the Palace Pier that July, it was a rare glimpse of the world’s largest fleet assembled within a day’s sail of Brighton Beach.

It is worth noting that the authors of Palace Pier mistook the poster above as advertising a much earlier and pre-war event. The caption (in the book but edited out of the poster image) reads ‘The coronation of King Edward VII was to have taken place on 26 June 1902. A few days before the coronation the King was taken ill with appendicitis and the Naval Review was postponed. The King made a speedy recovery and the event took place on 16 August 1902.’ However, the Brighton Belle, one of the two vessels making the round trip to Spithead, was not even built until 1905!

See also Palace Pier light and dark.

Beach hut Facebook group

At this year’s Hove Beach Hut Association AGM at the Hove Club, held a few days ago, committee member Cathy Biggs told members that the association would not run or advertise the winter open evening on 13 December because there had not been enough interest. For an event many hutters describe as a Christmas institution, the decision marks a pause in one of Hove’s most visible seafront traditions and throws a spotlight back on the group itself - what it does, how it started, and what worries its members now.

The association grew out of a sharp clash with Brighton & Hove City Council in 2018, when the council proposed a 10 per cent levy on hut sales, replacing a flat £82 charge. With Hove councillor Robert Nemeth acting as figurehead, owners organised, argued that the new ‘tax’ was unfair, and saw the plan dropped in July that year. By May 2019 they had turned that campaign into a permanent body. An AGM at the Gather Inn adopted a constitution, elected Biggs as chair and set early priorities: tackling vandalism and break-ins, lobbying on unsafe cycling on the prom, and dreaming up social events that would show huts as part of the community rather than a private enclave.

Since then the association has become a routine presence in the local affairs. Its representatives appear in West Hove Forum minutes and council reports on coastal defence schemes, licensing and the new King Alfred leisure centre, feeding back hut owners’ views on everything from lifeguard cover to the impact of new groynes and seawall works. Consultation documents on the 2024 beach-hut licence and transfer fee explicitly reference the strength of responses channelled through meetings and AGMs, confirming the association as the default body the council deals with when it wants to know what hutters think.

The public face of all this is the Facebook group, now with roughly 2,600 members. Its ‘about’ line promises ‘a place for interesting stories’ and a meeting point for anyone who cares about Hove’s iconic huts, and the feed bears that out. Owners swap recommendations for carpenters, hut painters and handymen, ask how to repaint roofs or whether to use undercoat, and dissect insurance quotes that have doubled in a year. Posts explain hut pricing in plain language - location, condition, fees already paid and the time of year - and sales come and go between Rockwater and the lagoon, often with dry comments about lampposts, loos and dog beaches. New owners ask how to fit out the tiny interiors; others advise on bolt-cutters for seized locks, or the best way to stop a door swelling tight.

But the same channel carries a steady stream of wider concerns. Hutters share links about major coastal protection and groyne projects, the King Alfred rebuild and its impact on seafront facilities, and a proposed e-scooter trial where councillors reassure them that scooters will be electronically fenced off the prom. Toilets and taps are recurring flashpoints: members complain about seafront loos opening late and closing early in high season, or taps at Rockwater and Hove Lagoon being turned off just as year-round swimmers and hutters most need them. There are posts about suspected break-ins near the lagoon and frustrations over the handover of lifeguard duties to the RNLI. Parking rows surface too, most recently around ice-cream vans driving and stopping immediately in front of huts, with councillors pointing members towards Operation Crackdown for reporting dangerous or antisocial driving.

Running through the group’s history is the winter open evening. As older members explain, it began as a church-run Advent event: one hut opening each night from 1 to 24 December, a charity effort organised by a local vicar. Rising insurance costs ended that format around the time of Covid, and hutters reinvented it as a single night in December when dozens of huts would open together, decorated and lit along the prom. Brighton & Hove News’s report on the 2022 edition described some 60 huts taking part, hundreds of visitors and collections for local and Ukraine-related charities, with association secretary Peter Revell calling it ‘quite a spectacular’. Online Advent-calendar posts of hut photos and Christmas jokes followed in later years, helping to draw in people who did not own huts at all.

Against that backdrop, this November’s AGM decision not to run or promote a 13 December evening this year feels significant. In the Facebook comments beneath Biggs’s announcement, members lament the loss and call it ‘so disappointing’ and ‘a Christmas institution’, while a few, like Sue Storey, immediately pledge to open their own huts anyway and invite neighbours to do the same. The association itself continues to field consultations, circulate petitions about the floral clock or seafront toilets, and coordinate responses to new hut fees and licence conditions. But the fate of the most visible, most joyful expression of Hove’s hut culture now depends on whether enough owners choose to go it alone on a dark December night, without the familiar banner of the association above the event’s name.

See also 161, what have you done?

Darker side of the beach

Yesterday, a brief hearing at Brighton Crown Court set a trial date for the criminal case concerning the alleged rape on Brighton Beach at about five in the morning on 4 October 2025. Three men, each charged with two counts of rape, appeared before the court (Brighton and Hove News). However, one of the defendants, a 25-year-old Iranian man, required a Kurdish interpreter, but only an Arabic interpreter was present, forcing the court to adjourn the formal arraignment. The other two defendants, both Egyptian nationals aged 20 and 25, waited in the dock as the judge worked through the scheduling problems that have delayed the case since October.

The alleged offence took place on the lower esplanade, a stretch of seafront below the main promenade and between the piers - an area of the beach that can remain busy even through the small hours. The investigation has been running under the Sussex Police codename Operation Brampton. The woman, aged 33, reported that she did not know the men. Officers made arrests quickly, and since mid-October all three defendants have been held in custody while interpreters, legal representation and immigration-status documents have been assembled for the Crown.

Det Supt Andrew Harbour was quoted in The Guardian and the BBC on 6 October: ‘This has been a fast-paced investigation with all three suspects having been identified thorough investigative work. I commend the bravery of the victim who we continue to support with specialist officers.’

At yesterday’s hearing, the court confirmed that the full trial will begin on Monday 16 March 2026 and is expected to last around three weeks. Until then the defendants will remain on remand. The judge repeated that the timetable would not be pushed back again, noting the need to avoid further delay for both the complainant and the defendants. With the administrative obstacles now cleared, the next significant moment in the case will come in the spring, when the jury is sworn and the evidence is heard for the first time.

Although hard numbers are obscured by under-reporting and shifting terminology in press archives, Brighton has seen a small but consistent pattern of rape cases reported specifically on the beach itself across the last half-dozen years. According to ChatGPT, police statements and the publicly visible press record suggest roughly a dozen distinct investigations since 2019, many centred on the two-pier corridor and the lower esplanade. It is worth noting, however, that the media footprint is significantly larger, because each incident generates multiple appeals, hearings and follow-ups, producing dozens of articles and giving the impression of a wider surge than the underlying case numbers alone might indicate.

Kitchener brings Tokyo to Hove

Earlier this year, a new slice of neon night appeared beside Hove Lagoon. On the seaward wall of Fatboy Slim’s Big Beach Cafe, London street artist Dan Kitchener has painted a vast rainy city scene, all umbrellas and headlights and reflections, so bright it seems to glow even on a flat grey Brighton afternoon. Walkers heading along the promenade towards the beach now pass what looks like a Tokyo crossroads in a storm, spread from pavement level almost to the eaves of the cafe building.

Kitchener’s mural shows a taxi edging through a crowded junction while pedestrians hurry across under clear plastic umbrellas. The buildings loom steeply upwards in forced perspective, their windows and signs rendered as streaks of cyan, magenta, yellow and white. The wet road is the real subject: a mirror of smeared colour where the city lights dissolve into the puddles. Up close you can see the quick, confident spray lines and splatters that create the sense of motion and rain. From a distance, the scene snaps into focus as a cinematic still, like a frame from a late night travel sequence.

The mural was commissioned and paid for by Norman Cook, Fatboy Slim, and donated to the city as a public artwork on his cafe. The Big Beach Cafe’s social media thanked him for having ‘commissioned and very generously donated this incredible piece by Dan Kitchener to the people of Brighton and Hove’, and Kitchener himself posted that he was ‘honoured to have a super colourful mural now permanently on show at the cafe’. The Argus covered the work, in late May and quoted Cook: ‘I persuaded Kitchener who was attending an event at the cafe] to stick around for a couple of days and paint a mural for us on the pristine wall of the newly refurbished toilets. Thanks to everyone who came and watched the painting of the piece, the council for giving us permission for public art, and most of all, the supremely talented Dan Kitchener for gracing our wall with his work. I think you will agree it beautifies the place.” ‘

Dan Kitchener, who signs his work ‘DANK’, was born in 1974 and grew up in Essex. He describes himself as an urban artist working mainly across London and the southeast, and has developed an instantly recognisable style of neon-lit, rain-soaked cityscapes, often based on late-night Tokyo streets. He works freehand, without projectors or stencils, building up layers of spray paint and acrylic to create the blur of headlights, reflections and crowds in motion. His murals now appear on walls in cities from Belfast and Brick Lane to Houston, Miami and Vaasa in Finland, usually at a scale that can dominate an entire building.

See also HOVE LAGOON in murals.

I thought I saw a figure

The sea had risen without warning, a white delirium of spray and roar. It came not in waves but in convulsions, as if the element itself were sick of containment and meant to unmake its boundaries. The wind pressed the foam flat, then tore it upward again, shredding it into a kind of blizzard. Somewhere in that confusion I thought I saw a figure.

It was no more than a dark suggestion in the cataract, a shifting form that seemed to heave forward and be dragged back in the same instant. Each time the sea struck, the human form appeared to resist; each time it fell away, the shape dissolved into whiteness. I could not be certain there was anyone there at all. Still, the mind insists on pattern - a head, an arm flung upward, a body twisted in the labour of survival.

I stood on the shingle, trying to avoid being overbalanced by the force of the waves, salt burning my lips, waiting for the form to resolve itself into fact. But the sea gave me nothing. The longer I watched, the more it seemed the apparition was not in the surf but in myself - a man conjured by exhaustion, guilt, memory. The old fear that the world was alive and would not have him.

When at last the tide receded, it left the beach furrowed and gleaming, the foam thinning into nothing. The figure was gone, if it had ever been. Yet I knew that part of me had been smashed out by the sea, had been taken - like a drowned man never found - the part of me that still believed there might be meaning in the tumult, a face in the water, a will behind the wave.

(After William Golding.)

The Town Beehive

Fifty years ago, in 1975, a modest paperback appeared under the imprint of QueenSpark Books - a fledgling community press run from Brighton’s Queen’s Park. Its title, The Town Beehive: A Young Girl’s Lot in Brighton 1910-1934, announced its subject with quiet pride. The author, Daisy Noakes, had been born in Princes Road in 1910 and lived almost her entire life within walking distance of the seafront whose hum and hustle she immortalised.

QueenSpark’s founders had set out to publish the voices of working people, and Noakes was among their first and most enduring discoveries. She wrote with humour, precision and memory unclouded by nostalgia. Her words carried the weight of a life lived in modest rooms, in domestic service, and later among the deckchairs and boarding houses of interwar Brighton.

 The Town Beehive was followed by two further volumes, The Faded Rainbow and Street Noises, as well as radio and television appearances. She became a familiar presence on BBC Southern Counties Radio, interviewing fishermen and stallholders with the same unvarnished curiosity that animated her writing. Later she appeared in the BBC’s Out of the Doll’s House, a landmark account of women’s history, and was honoured by Sussex University for her contribution to local culture.

Noakes’s style was direct and her recall extraordinary. The sea, for Daisy, was both backdrop and lifeblood - the edge of the world against which Brighton’s fortunes rose and fell. She remembered the beach not as a picturesque resort but as a working stage, crowded with buskers, vendors, families, and barefoot children chasing coins through the shingle. Few writers of her generation - and certainly none from her background - recorded the soundscape of the town so closely, from pier bands and concert parties to the black minstrel troupes who sang at low tide.

What gives The Town Beehive its lasting warmth is Noakes’s unpretentious humanity. Her Brighton is not the Brighton of postcards or pleasure palaces, but of aching legs, shared cups of tea, and the kindness of sisters. It is a Brighton of ordinary lives, played out within sight and sound of the surf. More about Noakes can be read at My Brighton and Hove and Writing Lives.

The Town Beehive is free to read online at the Queenspark website. Here are two extracts/

‘One of the times we were all together was Armistice Day of the First World War. With young George in the pram, we all walked to Brighton Sea Front and along to the West Pier. Everyone seemed to be singing and dancing, and I remember soldiers and sailors in uniform, the worse for drink, staggering around. We then walked back through the town to New England Hill, and all went in a cafe, where Dad bought a large jug of tea and one cup which we took turns in drinking out of. I still remember to this day how my legs ached with walking, and longed to have a ride in the pram if only someone would carry George, but no, it did not happen.’ (The image below is an illustration by ChatGPT.)

‘The seafront had plenty of attractions. There were bands that played on the Pier, two concert Parties, the one near Black Rock was called Jack Shepherd’s Entertainers, the one near the West Pier was Ellson’s Entertainers.

At this one, talent contests were held on Saturday afternoons, but one was only eligible to compete if one had a paid seat. The cheapest was 6d. I had earned 5d. that morning, and after a lot of persuasion my sister Emily gave me the other 1d. if I would sing her favourite song at that moment: “God send you back to me”. She had been friendly with a South African wounded soldier, and he had gone home. So we walked there and back but happy because I won a Teddy Bear for first prize.

Black minstrels played their banjos at low tide on the sands, and would get the children to join in the choruses, I remember “Oh Moana” and the actions. People on the Pier would throw pennies down to the sands, and the boys would scramble for them. All sorts of vendors were on the beach with newspapers, Brighton Rock and the Whelk Stalls where one could buy a small plate of whelks, cockles, mussels or winkles, and one could leave the plate on the beach to be collected.’

Raging with the greatest violence

‘A severe hurricane and occurring at the spring tide, the low tracts along the coast were inundated and considerable damage occasioned thereby. I drove to Brighton and arrived there between one and two, at the time the sea was raging with the greatest violence, the surf dashed over the pier and occasionally hid it from our view.’ This is from the remarkable diary of Gideon Algernon Mantell - doctor, geologist, and fossil collector - who died this day in 1852. Born in Lewes, he moved to Brighton where he lived in a house on Old Steine becoming something of a celebrity palaeontologist.

Mantell was born in Lewes in 1790, the son of a shoemaker. Apprenticed as a teenager to a local surgeon, he later trained at St Bartholomew’s in London before returning to Sussex to practice. His first fame came not from medicine but from geology: he was the discoverer of the Iguanodon, among the earliest of the creatures that would come to be called dinosaurs. His book The Fossils of the South Downs (1822) made his name, and within a decade he had identified a second great reptile. Yet his ambition remained medical: he longed to establish a prosperous practice among the aristocracy drawn to Brighton by the Pavilion court of George IV and William IV.

In 1833 he finally moved his family to 20 The Steyne, at the heart of fashionable Brighton. To his frustration, he became less a physician than a celebrity geologist. Visitors besieged his home, eager to see his fossils. In 1838, the collection was purchased by the British Museum. That same year he bought a practice in Clapham Common, which soon became a success and allowed him frequent trips to London to attend institutional meetings. He moved again in 1844 to Pimlico, where he remained until his death on 10 November 1852. Further biographical information is available from Wikipedia and Dinohunters.

A lifetime of diaries kept by Mantell were edited in 1940 by E. Cecil Curwen, whose father had lived in Hove. Extracts were first published that year in Sussex County Magazine under the title The Diaries of Gideon Mantell, F.R.S., based on Curwen’s fuller transcription now held at Barbican House, Lewes. Many of Mantell’s original notebooks and letters, however, were taken to New Zealand by his son Walter Baldock Durrant Mantell and are preserved today in the Alexander Turnbull Library and at Te Papa Tongarewa. 

Later editions have sought to complete Curwen’s partial selection: John A. Cooper’s The Unpublished Journal of Gideon Algernon Mantell, 1819–1852 (2010) makes available the sections omitted from Curwen’s edition and is freely accessible online, while  another volume covering June-November 1852 was separately published by R. Dell in 1983. It is Curwen’s typescript, together with these supplements, that remains the principal record of Mantell’s day-to-day observations of life in Brighton and Lewes. They reveal a man of abundant restless energy, fired with an ambition to become immortal in the realms of science, but also one who sought solace in the sea air and who described with striking immediacy the changing moods of Brighton’s coast.

Here are several diary extracts about Brighton Beach contained in Curwen’s original The Diaries of Gideon Mantell.

16 August 1823

‘Drove to Brighton; the sea very rough and magnificent. I walked along to the beach and seated myself on a rock, viewing with delight the tempestuous foaming of the billows around me: the hull of a vessel wrecked the preceding night was lying near me, and was hurled to and fro by the impetuosity of the waves. The foam from the surges dashing through the piles of the pier was fine and imposing.’

23 November 1824

‘A severe hurricane and occurring at the spring tide, the low tracts along the coast were inundated and considerable damage occasioned thereby. I drove to Brighton and arrived there between one and two, at the time the sea was raging with the greatest violence, the surf dashed over the pier and occasionally hid it from our view. So soon as the water was retired so as to allow of walking on the esplanade, we went to the Pier, which was much damaged by the waves; the railing in many places washed away, and the platform destroyed, so as to render access to the Pier-head difficult and dangerous: however we ventured to the farthest end although every now and then a sea dashed over us, and completely drenched us, but the awful grandeur of the scene more than compensated for the inconvenience of our situation.’

29 October 1836

‘A dreadful hurricane from the SSW at about eleven AM it was terrific - houses unroofed - trees torn up by the roots: chimney-pots and chimneys blown in every direction - sea mountains high. Went to the Pier, and was present when violent oscillations began to be produced by the hurricane: the whole lines of platforms and chains were thrown into undulations, and the suspension bridges appeared like an enormous serpent writing in agony - at length one of the bridges gave way, and planks, beams, iron rods - all were hurled instantaneously into the boiling surge! The tension of the bridge being thus set at liberty, the remaining bridges gradually became motionless; the damage done to this beautiful structure cannot be much less than £1,000. Some persons were killed by the falling of chimneys and lead blown off the houses.’

See also Brighton’s oldest pier.