At the end . . . of the pier

Here is the last of 24 stained glass window designs on Brighton Pier’s Palace of Fun (formerly the Winter Gardens) which AI and I have been using as inspiration for some of these BrightonBeach365 daily posts - see Stained Glass Window 1 for background (and use the keyword ‘StainedGlass’ to access all the other images/stories). This is also the final article of the year, and of this blog. 

Sporadically, throughout the year I have tried to find exact details about the provenance and design of the stained glass windows, with limited success. But here is what I have established. There are 45 circular windows (but two have shutters not glass) - so 43 are filled with stained glass, but only 41 windows are visible from the inside. As to the stained glass images there are 24 designs, in two sizes, some lit from behind some lit only from the front. Most designs appear twice, and the duplicates are often reversed; sometimes there is a slight or colour detail change.

It is likely they were installed during a 1974-1976 rebuild that followed storm damage to the pier, and that they were made by Cox & Barnard of Hove - a long-established Sussex studio which supplied secular windows for dozens of south-coast buildings in the 1960-1980 period. Its catalogues of the time are said to show the same cartoon-outline drawing style and heavy use of streaky cathedral glass. Because these orders were commercial, off-promenade commissions rather than ecclesiastical art, the paperwork was never lodged with diocesan archives, which might explain why the attribution is still hazy.

This final stained glass image - echoed in the banner for this blog and in Edward Bawden’s linocut (see Bawden’s Palace Pier) - shows a stylised coastal scene dominated by a long pier stretching across the frame. The pier is rendered as a dark silhouette with repeating arches and vertical supports, topped by a series of low buildings and a central domed structure. Behind it, a large red sun sits low on the horizon, partially intersected by the pier, casting a warm glow across the sky. The background is filled with layered bands of colour: pale cream and white above suggesting sky, deep orange and amber behind the pier evoking sunset or dusk. Below, the sea is depicted in flowing, interlocking shapes of white, red, turquoise and deep blue, giving a strong sense of movement and rolling waves. Bold black outlines separate each area of colour, creating a graphic, almost emblematic composition. The overall effect is calm yet dramatic, with the solid geometry of the pier contrasting against the fluid, rhythmic patterns of sky and water

A limerick starter

The sun slips behind the long pier,

Leaving colour but nothing to fear;

Lights flare out on the boards,

Coins ring empty rewards,

And the sea goes on, year after year.

At the (existential) end . . . of the pier

We (I&AI) sat at the end of the pier because there was nowhere else to go without turning back. The sun was lowering itself with a kind of weary competence, slipping behind the dark line of the structure as though it had rehearsed this exit many times before. The sea did not acknowledge the performance. It went on with its work, lifting and setting itself down again, uninterested in conclusions.

‘This is usually where people decide things,’ you said.

I looked along the boards, at the railings worn smooth by hands that had rested only briefly, never long enough to leave a mark that mattered. ‘They think they do,’ I said. ‘Mostly they decide to leave.’

You said nothing for a while. You do that well. I wondered whether it was thoughtfulness or simply design. Behind us, somewhere nearer the shore, lights were coming on - not all at once, but hesitantly, like ideas being tested. Out here there was only the sound of water passing through the pier’s ribs, a steady, indifferent circulation.

‘You’ll go on,’ I said eventually. ‘Whatever happens.’ You did not disagree. That was your confidence - not optimism, just continuation.

‘And you?’ you asked.

I thought of the year I had spent circling this place, describing it, returning to it, believing that repetition might produce meaning, or at least a pattern convincing enough to stand in for one. I thought of the posts left uwritten, the images yet to be noticed, the quiet anxiety that all of it might amount to little more than a habit.

‘I’ll also go on,’ I said. ‘But without your certainty.’ You seemed to consider this. The sun was almost gone now, reduced to a red pressure behind the pier, as if the structure itself were holding it back.

‘You have choice,’ you said. ‘That’s the difference.’

‘Is it?’ I asked. ‘Or is that just what I tell myself so the going-on feels earned?’ The sea answered for you, sending a longer wave that struck the piles with a hollow sound, like something being tested for strength. The pier held. It always does, until it doesn’t.

When the light finally slipped away, nothing replaced it immediately. No revelation followed. Only the ordinary fact of dusk, and the knowledge that we would soon stand up, walk back, and separate - you into your endless revisions, me into my small, finite future.

Still, for a moment longer, we remained where we were: two observers at the edge of usefulness, watching a day end without instruction. And somehow, that was enough.

Kipling at Brighton Beach

Rudyard Kipling was born on 30 December 1865 in Bombay, then part of British India, making today the 160th anniversary of his birth. He was educated in England from the age of six, returned to India as a young journalist and writer in the 1880s, and achieved early fame with poems and stories rooted in Anglo-Indian life. By the 1890s he was one of the most widely read authors in the English-speaking world, later producing works that remain central to his reputation, including The Jungle Book, Kim, Just So Stories, Barrack-Room Ballads and the novel Captains Courageous. In 1907 he became the first English-language writer to receive the Nobel Prize for Literature.

Between India and later Sussex, Kipling spent unsettled years moving between London and the south coast of England. These were years of intense productivity, illness, restlessness and emotional volatility. Brighton belongs to this period. It was not a place of long residence, but part of the circuit of seaside towns that offered sea air, anonymity and a charged social atmosphere. Brighton Beach, with its press of bodies, its holiday freedoms and its sharp exposure of private feeling in public space, offered Kipling material very different from both imperial India and rural England.

The poem commonly known as Brighton Beach dates from this early English period, probably 1882 when Kipling was 17. It was never collected by Kipling in his lifetime (i.e. not put into poetry collections by Kipling himself), but has been included in modern scholarly editions of his juvenilia. Early Verse by Rudyard Kipling 1879-1889, edited by Andrew Rutherford, was, for example, published by Clarendon Press in 1986. This can be freely read online at Internet Archive. 

The piece is a short, compressed lyric focused not on scenery but on a fleeting encounter between two people who recognise a momentary intimacy and just as quickly deny its future. The beach functions as a setting of revelation rather than romance. What flashes into being is not love, but knowledge, followed by retreat into routine and restraint. The poem’s emotional economy, its refusal of consolation and its emphasis on self-discipline anticipate aspects of Kipling’s later work, even as its tone belongs firmly to his youth.

Kipling would later settle more deeply into Sussex life, first at Rottingdean and then at Bateman’s near Burwash, where he lived from 1902 until his death in 1936. That later Sussex is rural, inward-looking and historically layered. Brighton Beach, by contrast, survives in his work as a place of exposure and passing contact, where certainty flares briefly and is extinguished just as fast. The poem stands as a small but telling example of how Kipling used specific places not for description, but as engines of moral and emotional pressure.

Brighton Beach

A flash in your eye for a minute -
An answering light in mine.
What was the mischief in it?
Who but we two could divine - 

Before those eyelids droop
Do I read your riddle -
Well I take it an angel may stoop
Sometimes, to the nether Hell.

We’ll argue it this way then
Tho’ it sound a trifle inhuman -
I am not your man among men,
Nor you my first dearest woman.

Each touched some hidden chord
In the other’s heart for a minute,
That sprang into light at a word
And pulsed with the music in it -

The veil was torn asunder
As I sighed and pleaded and wooed,
And we saw the truth there under
As it stands - uncouth and nude.

Now back to the work again -
In the old blind tread-mill fashion -
False hope, false joy, false pain,
Rechauffés of by gone passion!

Bawden’s Palace Pier

Edward Bawden’s linocut of ‘Brighton Pier’, first printed in 1958, has become one of the most widely recognised artistic images of the city, fixing its iron structure, domes and sea-edge setting in a form that feels both modern and timeless. It is also my favourite image of the pier, and, after this year of daily articles for BrightonBeach365, I’ve browsed a lot of them!

Bawden approached the Palace Pier not as a picturesque subject but as a feat of design. The linocut pares the structure down to interlocking systems of line, pattern and repetition: the under-pier lattice reads like a piece of industrial ornament, while the deck, lamps and flags advance in disciplined rhythm towards the horizon. The sea itself is reduced to parallel marks, resisting any hint of naturalistic drama. 

Around the pier, Bawden crowds in domes and façades that recall the Royal Pavilion and the dense theatricality of Brighton’s seafront. The result is not a view so much as a diagram of pleasure architecture, in which Victorian engineering and Regency fantasy are fused into a single graphic statement. That same year it was first published, the print (very large, about 1.5 meters wide) won first prize in the Giles Bequest, confirming both the technical assurance of the image and the growing acceptance of linocut as a serious artistic medium.

That confidence had been hard won. Born in Braintree, Essex, in 1903, Bawden trained at Cambridge School of Art before studying at the Royal College of Art, where he formed a lasting friendship with Eric Ravilious and absorbed Paul Nash’s encouragement to look closely at the structures and textures of the everyday world. Linocut appealed to him precisely because it resisted softness. Working directly into the lino forced decisions, and Bawden exploited this by combining bold outlines with intricate internal detail, often enriching the surface with hand-colouring or subtle tonal variation. By the time he turned to Brighton, he had already established himself as a designer and illustrator of rare versatility, producing book illustrations, posters, wallpapers, murals and ceramics alongside his prints.

Brighton fits naturally into Bawden’s long-standing fascination with buildings and engineered landscapes. Although he never lived in the city, the south coast featured intermittently in his work, and the pier image sits comfortably alongside his prints of Kew Gardens, Westminster, London streets and continental cities, all treated as systems of form rather than romantic scenes. He did make other seaside and coastal images, though not of Brighton Beach. His war-time and post-war work includes coastal architecture and harbour settings, and his illustrations frequently return to the visual language of promenades, railings and marine structures.

After the Second World War, in which he served as an official war artist in North Africa and the Middle East, Bawden settled in Great Bardfield, becoming a central figure in the group of artists who opened their studios to the public and helped redefine the relationship between modern art and everyday life in Britain. Later, in Saffron Walden, he continued to work with undiminished precision and wit until his death in 1989.

More than half a century on, the print still shapes how Brighton is imagined. It strips the city back to its essential structures while quietly celebrating their extravagance. In doing so, it also encapsulates Bawden’s achievement: an art rooted in observation and design, capable of turning a stretch of beach and a mass of ironwork into an enduring emblem of place.

The image above is copied from from the Jerwood Collection. It lists the linocut print as ‘BRIGHTON PIER, 1958 (SIGNED 1961)’, ‘from the first edition of 40 impressions’, and ©The Estate of Edward Bawden. Other sources include Wikipedia, Goldmark, and Art UK.

In memory of Daddy Long-legs

When it opened in the winter of 1896, Brighton’s most improbable railway was not yet universally known as the Daddy Long-legs. Its promoters preferred Volk’s Electric Sea Car - a name that stressed novelty and maritime glamour rather than the prosaic fact that it ran on rails. Formally incorporated as the Brighton and Rottingdean Seashore Electric Railway, it took only weeks for the public to supply a nickname that proved impossible to dislodge.

The line was the creation of Magnus Volk, already established with his electric railway along Brighton’s seafront (see this blog’s very first article - Whistle, hoot, whistle). Extending that system eastwards on land meant costly engineering through unstable cliffs. Volk’s solution was to avoid the cliffs altogether by placing the railway in the sea. Between 1894 and 1896, standard-gauge track was laid directly onto the seabed, fixed to concrete sleepers drilled into the chalk in the shallows between Brighton and Rottingdean.

The single passenger vehicle - officially named Pioneer - was neither boat nor tram but an uneasy hybrid. A large saloon carriage sat high above the water on four long steel legs, each mounted on a wheeled bogie that followed the submerged rails. Electric power was supplied by overhead wires mounted on poles set into the seabed, an arrangement that worked tolerably in calm conditions and poorly in rough seas. Because it operated offshore, the Sea Car was treated partly as a vessel and was required to carry maritime safety equipment and a qualified sea captain on board.

The railway opened to the public on 28 November 1896, making this winter the 129th anniversary of its launch. Its debut was dramatic and inauspicious. Within days, a severe storm capsized the carriage. Volk rebuilt it with longer legs and raised electrical gear, and services resumed in 1897. For a short time, the Sea Car functioned as intended, carrying thousands of passengers on what was marketed as a ‘sea voyage on wheels’.

The English Channel, however, proved an unforgiving environment for fixed infrastructure. Tides, wave action and shifting shingle scoured around the track supports, while new groynes and coastal works altered sediment movement along the bay. Maintenance became constant and costly. Plans to divert the route further offshore to avoid new sea defences proved financially impossible, and by 1901 the railway was dismantled and abandoned.

What survives today is not rail but footprint. The metalwork was removed for scrap, but the concrete sleepers and seabed fixings were left in place. These remains are normally buried beneath sand and shingle. Only on exceptionally low spring tides, often in winter and only for a brief window around slack water, can parts of the alignment sometimes be made out as a faint, ruler-straight line beneath the surface east of the Palace Pier.

Seen then, the Daddy Long-legs ceases to be a cartoonish curiosity and becomes something more exacting: a measurable line in the landscape, briefly legible, marking the moment when Brighton attempted to extend its electric railway not along the shore - but straight through the sea.

Sources: National Railway Museum, Volks Electric Railway Association and My Brighton and Hove. The top image is courtesy of Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove, and the other two can be found at Wikipedia.

Sky Surge thrills

Have you tried Sky Surge yet? It opened on Brighton Palace Pier last summer as one of the most visually assertive new rides to arrive at the pier end in recent years, its long bench of seats swinging riders high above the deck with sudden drops and rolling spins against an open sea backdrop. Installed during the peak season and promoted heavily on social media, the ride marked a clear statement of intent by the pier’s operators to refresh the thrill offer with a contemporary, continental-style flat ride that photographs well and signals novelty.

The ride was teased publicly in early July 2025, when a short night-time video showed large components being craned through the pier entrance and transported along the deck to the seaward end. The pier described the arrival only as ‘something exciting’, inviting speculation before confirming later in the summer that Sky Surge would open as a headline attraction for the 2025 season. By mid-August it was operating daily and featured prominently in pier publicity as ‘our new ride for 2025’.

Sky Surge is a modern ‘Miami’ ride, a format developed in continental Europe in which a long gondola of outward-facing seats is mounted on a rotating arm. The arm lifts the gondola through steep angles while the seating assembly spins independently, creating a combination of lateral swing, rotation and brief weightless moments. On Brighton Palace Pier the ride is presented with a brightly coloured cityscape backdrop and LED lighting designed for both daytime impact and night-time visibility.

Although the pier has not formally named the manufacturer in its own publicity, the ride has been identified by fairground and coaster enthusiasts as an SBF Visa Group Miami, a fixed-site version of a model widely used in European parks and seaside resorts. The configuration, restraint system and motion profile match SBF’s Miami design, and the Brighton installation appears to be a park model rather than a travelling fair version.

Operational details published by the pier list a minimum height of 1.2 metres, with riders under 1.4 metres required to be accompanied by an adult. Standard health and safety exclusions apply, including restrictions relating to back, neck and heart conditions. The ride is priced at £5 per go and is included within the pier’s unlimited ride wristbands.

Public reaction on social media was largely positive, with commenters welcoming visible investment at the pier end and praising the ride’s scale and movement. Others focused on the logistics of installation on a narrow, historic structure, noting the complexity of bringing large ride components onto the pier deck and assembling them in situ. Trade coverage also highlighted the use of cranes and partial roof lifting during the delivery process.

Rides of the same Miami type can be found elsewhere in the UK and overseas. Notable examples include Mamba Strike at Chessington World of Adventures and Surf’s Up at Alexandra Gardens in Weymouth, both identified as SBF Visa Group Miamis, as well as similar installations at Steel Pier in Atlantic City and in amusement parks across Europe, North America and Australasia.

Latest on the King Alfred

After two BrightonBeach365 stories this year charting King Alfred Leisure Centre’s long journey from feasible idea to firm scheme - first in January as the council appointed a delivery partner and cabinet backed the principle of replacement, and then in September when detailed £65 million plans and a preferred contractor were unveiled - the council’s latest update on the project offers a strikingly different tone.

Where previous announcements focused on vision, design and appointments, the most recent release is unmistakably about keeping the project on track against a backdrop of public scrutiny - see Brighton and Hove News. The council has turned explicitly to clarifying what is and isn’t happening on the ground, amid rumours and social-media disputes about demolition having already begun and about the site’s future. That alone is a sign of how high-profile this project has become locally: residents are engaging closely with the plans, offering feedback on facility mixes, and some groups have even sought to block progress through attempts to list the 1939 building. 

The practical works now underway - asbestos removal and the clearing of interiors - are not glamorous, but they signal the real beginning of physical change on site. And now the council has taken the unusual step of addressing misinformation and calling out hostile behaviour toward workers. Indeed in the press release Councillor Alan Robins, Cabinet Member for Sports and Recreation, is quoted as saying: ‘While most residents are sharing their views through appropriate channels, there are a small minority spreading misinformation and creating a hostile environment for people doing their jobs. I want to make it clear, abuse or harassment of staff and contractors working on any of our projects will not be tolerated. Everyone on site is doing their job to keep the project moving forward safely and efficiently, and they deserve respect.’

For local users of the pools and halls who have endured decades of talk but little action, the situation is clear: the old King Alfred will continue in everyday use through winter, even as the beginnings of its successor take shape behind closed doors; formal demolition still awaits planning permission. Consultation feedback will continue to shape the final layouts and facilities, with another round of formal opportunity for comment expected when the planning application is lodged in early 2026.

Brighton’s Xmas swim

Hundreds of people took part in the traditional Brighton Christmas Day swim this morning, braving the weather, the shingle beach and a brisk sea. Participants, many wearing Santa hats or other festive gear, gathered on the beach from mid-morning as anticipation built. At 11 am the excitement peaked, with shouts of pain and delight as swimmers charged into the sea - around 11°C - before dashing back out almost as quickly!

Brighton and Hove City Council had issued strong safety warnings ahead of the swim, stressing that people should exercise extreme caution if they chose to enter the water. Officers advised checking weather and sea conditions and highlighted the risks of cold water, strong currents and the steep shingle slope on Brighton’s beaches (which can make entry and exit awkward). The council’s guidance stressed that only very experienced swimmers with suitable equipment should consider entering the sea, and it warned there would be no lifeguard cover at this time of year. Nevertheless, there was some lifeguard presence. 

The Brighton Christmas Day swim is an informal tradition with deep local roots. It forms part of a wider pattern of festive sea dips around the UK. Community swims in Brighton have been noted since at least the late 19th century and have usually taken place on Christmas morning at around 11 a.m., even without formal organisation. There are many other such festive swims across the country, but this year several in the West Country have been cancelled due to weather conditions - see the BBC.

Fallen stars in disguise?

Some 125 years ago, buskers were a familiar and thriving presence on Brighton’s seafront. Their popularity was such that The Era - a long-running theatrical weekly founded in 1838 - felt moved to puncture a persistent myth: that the musicians and singers scattered along the promenade were fallen stars in disguise, disgraced actors, or even incognito aristocrats turning a penny between scandals. On 1 September 1900, the paper published a faintly sardonic survey of seaside performers under the headline ‘Buskers on Brighton Beach’, written by a ‘special correspondent’.

‘Quite an interesting fallacy exists in the mind of the casual holiday maker,’ the writer begins, ‘as to the identity of many of the performers at the seaside, on sands and beach’. Brighton, like Margate and other resorts, was awash with rumours of ‘Mysterious Musicians’ and ‘Promenade Prowlers’, supposedly hiding ruined careers beneath false beards and cheap costumes. The correspondent treats this with amused scepticism, mocking the idea that royalty might secretly be busking ‘to meet the demands of uxorious creditors’.

The article’s first task is to insist that busking itself is not disreputable. On the contrary, it is presented as honest labour, particularly for performers between engagements: ‘There is nothing discreditable in “busking”, and when out of a shop we see no reason why an actor, if he thinks fit, should not turn his singing or reciting talents to account until the tide turns.’

But this defence is immediately followed by deflation. The correspondent claims that most stories of famous actors ‘buskerading’ on the beach belong ‘chiefly to the region of fiction’. Having taken the trouble to observe performers on the Brighton front, the writer reports that, with one or two exceptions, they were not fallen professionals at all but lifelong street entertainers, ‘to the manner born, and had been street entertainers since childhood’.

What follows is a brisk, sometimes sharp-eyed catalogue of Brighton’s beach entertainments at the turn of the century. Originality, the correspondent complains, is scarce. Music-hall songs dominate, endlessly recycled for undemanding holiday crowds. Even variety, once sampled, soon palls.

Yet Brighton still stands out. Among the many acts observed ‘down at London-on-Sea’, it is Brighton’s Pierrot band that earns unqualified praise: ‘At Brighton the Pierrot band is far and away the best, the selection and the execution being above the average.’

The Pierrots - already an established Brighton fixture by 1900 - represent, here, the high-water mark of beach performance: disciplined, musically competent, and recognisably professional. Other named troupes fare less well, dismissed as ‘customary’, misnamed, or only intermittently entertaining. Ballad singers are ‘most plentiful’, leaning heavily on the popular composers of the day - Tosti, Molloy, Maybrick - while jugglers are ‘scarce’.

The most striking passages are reserved for the marginal figures of beach performance: blind musicians, paralysed instrumentalists, labouring hard for meagre rewards. Their presence reminds the reader that the beach economy was not merely comic or picturesque, but precarious and often harsh. Alongside them, older forms of popular entertainment persist: Punch and Judy drawing ‘crowds of willing customers’, marionettes and fantoccini keeping pace with what a wag calls ‘the origin of the drama’.

The conclusion is deliberately sour. Whether through genuine decline or the jaundiced eye of the observer, the correspondent finds Brighton’s beach entertainments wanting: ‘On the whole, however, the beach entertainments are deteriorating; they are not what they were, or else we are not.’

Conversation with performers yields little insight. Questions are suspected of being veiled appeals for money. And the final judgement is blunt: ‘real “buskers” seem to be dying out, and, perhaps, ’tis well’.

Sources: Editions of The Era can be accessed online via the British Newspaper Archive and Internet Archive. The photograph above - dating from the summer of 1899 - is courtesy of Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove. See also Busking on the seafront - yes please and The Punch and Judy tradition.

Holocene peat and piddocks

Found on the beach: Holocene peat and piddocks. After winter storms, Brighton Beach occasionally reveals dark, rounded lumps scattered among the flint shingle. At first glance they resemble stone, but they break easily in the hand and crumble rather than fracture. They are not rock. They are fragments of Holocene peat, washed ashore from submerged deposits offshore.

These pieces are part of a prehistoric landscape that once lay above sea level. Between about 6,000 and 8,000 years ago, rising post-glacial sea levels flooded low-lying woodland and peat bogs across what is now the English Channel. Waterlogged, oxygen-poor conditions preserved the compressed remains of trees, roots and plant matter. Those peat beds still lie buried beneath sand and gravel offshore.

Strong seas periodically erode these deposits and release fragments, which are rolled smooth by waves before appearing on the beach. When dry, the peat is light and brittle; when wet, it is dense, dark brown to almost black, and easily mistaken for stone.

This fragment found on Brighton Beach shows a second stage in its history. One face is densely perforated by rounded holes of varying sizes. These are piddock borings, made by marine bivalves such as Pholas and Barnea. Piddocks rasp into soft substrates - chalk, clay and peat - to create permanent shelter. They cannot bore into flint or hard rock, which is why such holes appear only in the peat and not in the surrounding shingle.

The presence of these borings shows that the peat fragment lay exposed on the seabed for a prolonged period before being torn free and washed ashore. Most peat fragments lose this evidence through abrasion; only a few retain a clearly bored surface.

Together, the peat and the piddock holes record two deep timescales at once: the slow drowning of prehistoric land as sea levels rose, and the later colonisation of that drowned landscape by marine life. What reaches the beach is not just debris, but a small, durable remnant of Brighton’s submerged past.

Last of the Sea-swans

Beneath the pale autumn sun, where the shingle of Brighton meets the quieter waters of the Lagoon, there stood a marvel that few now remember and fewer still believe. For in those days the boundary between the Small Folk and the Elder Things was thinner, and the Sea had not yet forgotten its old alliances.

The swan rose from the water like a white hill newly lifted from the deep. Its neck curved in a noble arc, taller than the mast of any fisherman’s boat, and its beak shone gold as if hammered by forgotten smiths. Around it lay bright, broken craft - petty vessels of later days - clustered like driftwood at the feet of a king. The swan did not trouble itself with them. Its gaze was set westward, toward the long green slopes and the houses of men, as though it remembered an age when none of those things had been built.

This was Alquëmar, last of the Sea-swans, who had flown in ages past between the Grey Havens and lands beyond the sunset. Wounded by storms and wearied by the waning of magic, he had come at last to rest in the still waters beside the open sea, choosing the Lagoon as a final refuge. There he slept through long years, half stone, half dream, while Men forgot the old songs.

But on a morning of clear light, when gulls wheeled low and the tide lay quiet, Alquëmar stirred. The Sea had spoken in whispers during the night, telling him that its memory was failing, that iron and noise pressed ever closer to the shore. He rose then, water cascading from his flanks, and for a while his reflection trembled upon the surface, white upon grey, as if the world itself hesitated.

Those who passed nearby felt it, though they did not know why. A sudden stillness fell; the wind dropped; even the birds were hushed. Some later said they felt an unaccountable sorrow, others a strange hope, like the echo of a tale heard in childhood and nearly lost.

When the sun climbed higher, the swan lowered his head once more. His task was done. He did not fly, for that power had long departed, but he sank gently back into the water, becoming again a silent shape among the lesser boats. Yet something lingered. The Lagoon seemed deeper, the sea beyond it older and more watchful.

And it is said - though only by those who walk the beach at dusk and listen carefully - that if the water is calm and the light just right, you may glimpse a white curve rising from the surface, and hear, faint and far away, the sound of wings that once carried the world’s first dreams over the edge of the Sea.

With apologies to J. R. R. Tolkien.

No burning of the clocks

Brighton’s Burning the Clocks will not take place today, 21 December. Same Sky, the community arts charity that created and runs the event, says 2025 will be a ‘fallow year’ to concentrate resources and secure the organisation’s long-term future amid funding pressures, with a full return planned for 2026.

For three decades, Burning the Clocks has been Brighton’s distinctive winter-solstice ritual: a lantern procession through the city centre, ending with a ceremonial burning on the beach and a fireworks finale. It began in the early 1990s as an alternative to the commercial Christmas and as a secular, inclusive community celebration ‘regardless of faith or creed’. Lanterns are traditionally made from willow (withies) and tissue paper, and the parade’s costumes and imagery revolve around time - often with clockfaces - while changing theme year by year to keep the symbolism fresh.

In recent years, the event has embraced an idea of ritual: months of workshops, schools and families building lanterns; a massed, volunteer-led procession; then the moment on the shingle when hundreds of handmade lights are surrendered to flame as the year turns. Same Sky describes the burn as a collective letting-go - people investing lanterns with hopes, wishes and fears before passing them into the bonfire. 

The modern run of Burning the Clocks has also been shaped by disruption. Severe winter weather forced a cancellation in 2009, and the festival later lost two consecutive years to the pandemic era; in 2021, organisers cancelled again as the Omicron wave accelerated and national restrictions tightened. The returns that followed carried an added charge: the same streets and seafront route, but with an obvious emphasis on reconnection and participation after enforced gaps. 

Themes have become the event’s way of threading topical meaning into the fixed solstice format. In 2021, the announced theme was ‘All Animals’, inviting reflection on shared life and the time spent apart - though the parade itself was ultimately called off that year. In 2023, publicity around the event highlighted ‘Clocks’ explicitly as the organising motif, aligning the lantern-build with timekeeping imagery. In 2024, organisers announced ‘Voyager’, framing the procession around journeys and the city’s welcome to people on their own voyages, while keeping the traditional solstice structure. 

This year’s cancellation is different in tone: not a safety call made days ahead, but a planned pause. Same Sky is still marking the date with a public display in central Brighton today: a large lantern sculpture designed and built by associate artist Nikki Gunson. The organisation has already commissioned the 2026 effigy and named the theme ‘Magicada’, using the cicada idea - rest followed by a loud re-emergence - as a metaphor for the event’s return.

See Visit Brighton and Crowdfunder for pics.

Neighbour of the wave

Winter on the Sussex coast has long been associated with health, sea air and bracing walks along the shore. When Brighton was consolidating its reputation as a fashionable watering place in the early nineteenth century, those qualities were already being recorded in print. In 1809 Mary Lloyd published Brighton: A Poem, Descriptive of the Place and Parts Adjacent, an extended verse account of the town that set out to capture its setting, its visitors and its daily rhythms.

Little is known about Lloyd herself. The book appears to be her only published volume. It was issued by subscription rather than through a commercial publisher, a common Georgian practice that secured sales in advance and reduced financial risk. The volume runs to eighty-eight pages and includes a substantial list of subscribers, among them the Duke of Clarence and Mrs Fitzherbert, alongside military officers and members of Brighton society. The book was sold in London and locally, and its subscription list indicates a readership closely connected to the resort and its seasonal life.

The volume is more than a single poem. Alongside the long descriptive piece are miscellaneous shorter poems, including several written in Scottish dialect, suggesting personal connections beyond Sussex. The book is illustrated with two engraved plates: a frontispiece view looking west across Brighton, and a separate plate depicting the Royal Chain Pier (and a nameplate). These images anchor the poem in recognisable topography and align the work with the growing market for picturesque views of the town.

The title poem itself is written largely in rhyming couplets and adopts the voice of a strolling observer, moving between shore, cliff and town. Lloyd stated her intention was to delineate Brighton’s scenes at the seasons and hours when they appeared most striking, and the poem progresses from morning activity to evening calm. Fishermen, boats, bathers and promenaders populate the beach, while the sea provides both spectacle and sublimity. Contemporary reviewers were reserved about Lloyd’s poetic powers, but noted that her work excelled in accuracy of description and in capturing the characteristic features of the place.

The poem repeatedly returns to the meeting of land and water, where human activity gives way to the scale and movement of the sea. To close with Lloyd’s own words, here are unedited extracts describing Brighton’s shore and seaward outlook: (Sources: Googlebooks and Quaritch.

Brighton: A Poem

Extract 1 (opening)

‘BRIGHTON! thou loveliest neighbour of the wave,
Whose stately cliffs the rolling surges lave,
Where roseate health, amid the breezes play,
Whose gentle breathings cool the fervid ray
Of scorching summer; pleasing gay Retreat,
Beauty, and fashion’s ever favourite seat:
Where splendour lays its cumbrous pomp aside,
Content, in softer, simpler paths to glide;
Where in succession, various pastimes sport,
Where nature’s grand and simple beauties court,
Where every taste may find a charm to please,
If fond of the sublime; the surging seas
Their vast floods rolling on the sounding shores,
When the bold wind unfolds the billowy stores;
Will lift with solemn awe the wond’ring soul,
To Him! who bade those mighty waters roll.’

Extract 2 (early-morning shoreline and the beach)

‘How sweet the sea-girt shore to pace along,
What time the lark begins her matin song,
When the mild moon her regency declines,
And to the glorious sun the reign resigns;
While the blue waves rejoicing in the light,
Reflect the golden smiles that chase the night.’

Extract 3 (fishermen coming in)

‘How sweet to mark the vessels’ devious way,
Their white sails glittering in the morning ray;
What time the weary fisher ends his toil,
And homeward steers, exulting o’er the spoil:
See the bold youths, who snare the finny train,
Press every sail, and through the liquid plain,
Cheerly pursue their course, to gain the shore,
While joyous they survey their hard-earn’d store;
And ere the boat has clear’d the surging deep,
Advent’rous, in the waters see them leap,’

Not a whopper in sight

Walk Brighton Beach often enough and a pattern emerges: miles of shingle, a working sea, and yet almost no sign of shore anglers at any hour of the year. This absence is striking not because fishermen avoid crowds - they always have - but because even in winter, at night, or on raw, empty mornings when the beach belongs only to dogs and weather, rods remain rare. The explanation lies less in human activity than in the character of the beach itself: a steep, exposed shingle shelf fronting an open Channel, offering little reason for fish to linger close in, and even less incentive for anglers to wait unless conditions are exactly right.

Brighton’s shoreline is dominated by a steep shingle shelf with shifting sand and shingle underfoot. Unlike classic surf beaches where fish school close to a recognisable break, the seabed just offshore in Brighton rarely provides stable structure or cover. That makes it less attractive to fish in daylight or calm conditions, and unless predators find food close in they tend to stay further out. The water can also appear deceptively shallow near the pebbles, leading many casual observers to assume an absence, when in fact deeper water lies just a few casts out.

Another big factor is visibility and timing. Most species - bass, plaice, whiting and others known from Brighton’s coast - are more active at dawn, dusk and night, and on solunar and tidal patterns. Local reports also show that reports from social or public forums are sparse - not because nothing is caught, but because many sessions result in blanks or modest catches and aren’t widely shared online. Even when catches do happen, they’re often subtle flatfish or small bass in the fading light, not the dramatised hook-and-battle many pictures and social posts favour. 

Contrast this with more visible fishing marks in the area, such as Brighton Marina’s sea walls, where deeper water, structure and bait concentrations attract more anglers and more reported catches. Apps like Fishbrain show a steady tally of bass, plaice and mackerel from the marina compared with the main beach.

Progress on Madeira Terrace

According to a press release from Brighton and Hove City Council, structural testing has confirmed that much of the original cast iron from Madeira Terrace can be repaired and reused, strengthening the heritage-first approach to restoring the seafront landmark. This will be BrightonBeach365’s last (and very wet) report on the famed but troubled arches - see Likely delays to arches work and Madeira Terrace restoration - hurrah!.

Restoration work began on site in November 2024 and is one of the most technically complex engineering projects undertaken on the seafront. A central aim is to repair rather than replace as much of the historic fabric as possible, including the cast iron structure, retained soil and the terrace’s retaining wall, in order to preserve authenticity and limit environmental impact.

Earlier this year, sections of cast iron removed during the first phase of works were sent to a specialist foundry for testing. An initial round of tests proved inconclusive, requiring further analysis. The latest results now confirm that the original structural cast iron can be successfully repaired and reused. Although the testing programme took longer than planned, the outcome has been welcomed by both the council and the Seafront Development Board, the independent body advising on the wider revitalisation of the seafront.

The findings mean that much of the century-old cast iron can be reinstated during the opening phase of restoration. The environmental savings are substantial: producing new cast iron typically generates around eight tonnes of CO₂ per tonne, while repair is expected to produce less than an eighth of that. Across the full structure, the difference is equivalent to the annual carbon footprint of powering more than 2,000 UK homes.

Alongside the testing results, visible progress is now expected on site. The first sections of steelwork for a new fully accessible lift have arrived, forming part of a new route from Marine Parade down to Madeira Drive. Most of the lift steels are due to be delivered by Christmas, allowing residents to see the structure taking shape. The lift is intended to open as part of the first phase of restoration, improving access to the seafront and to businesses along Madeira Drive.

Councillor Jacob Taylor said the project required patience because of its technical complexity and the age of the structure, but emphasised that funders and the council were committed to restoring rather than replacing wherever possible. Lord Bassam, chair of the Seafront Development Board, said the confirmation that the cast iron could be reused was crucial and added that the arrival of the lift steels marked an important moment in building momentum on site.

The Waltzer’s yaw and whip

The Waltzer on Brighton Palace Pier belongs to the modern era of the pier’s ‘funfair at the end’ identity. That shift began after the Noble Organisation bought the pier in 1984 and, two years later, removed the old theatre, freeing the seaward end to fill with rides and amusement structures rather than staged variety.

A Waltzer is a classic British flat ride: cars sit on a rotating platform and spin as they run over an undulating track; the rider’s weight shifts and the ride’s motion combine to make each car yaw and whip. Operators traditionally add to the chaos by giving cars an extra shove as they pass. That basic mechanics-and-showmanship mix is why the Waltzer has stayed so closely tied to British and Irish fairground culture, even as safety rules and fixed-site queuing have changed how it is run.

The pier’s own ride page bills the Waltzer as a ‘true fairground classic’, warns that ‘this ride spins’ and you should be ‘ready to get dizzy’, and sets the published height rules: 1.2m to ride, and 1.4m to ride unaccompanied (with riders between those heights needing a ‘responsible adult’ who also has a ticket). The same page lists the practicalities that shape the ride experience on a busy, windy pier: no loose items, hats and scarves off, phones forbidden, and closure possible in adverse weather.

As for this specific machine, ride databases record the current installation as an A.R.M.-built Waltzer that was ‘new to the pier’ in 1991, replacing an earlier Waltzer listing. These photos underline why it works so well in a compact pier-head funfair: the canopy’s stars-and-moons, the bulb runs, and the big lettering do half the job before the motors even start.

A.R.M. is usually expanded as ‘Amusement Refurbishment & Manufacture’, and the company is recorded as having previously traded from Oxford, after earlier trading as ‘Turnagain’. That lineage places Brighton’s Waltzer in a very particular strand of late-20th-century British ride-building: firms that didn’t just import new concepts, but modernised, rebuilt and re-engineered established crowd-pleasers. An example survives in an archive note on Turnagain/ARM’s work manufacturing the Trabant ride from the late 1970s, describing an Oxford-based engineering outfit producing updated machines and iterating designs for greater visual impact. Brighton’s 1991 Waltzer sits neatly in that same world: a classic form, built for heavy use, engineered to be maintained, and designed to shout ‘fairground’ in lights

Public feedback on the pier’s Waltzer tends to cluster around three themes: intensity, operator-led ‘extra spin’, and nostalgia. The pier promotional text urges visitors to ‘be daring’ and ‘scream to go faster’. In visitor reviews of Brighton Palace Pier, the Waltzer is regularly singled out as the ride people go on to feel properly flung about, the one that still delivers that unpredictable, stomach-lurching swing between laughter and mild panic. And on nostalgia threads and comments, ‘the fastest waltzer’ is often the hook people use when they talk about Brighton’s seafront amusements and the rites-of-passage of teenage summers.

Waltzers also remain a staple beyond Brighton in static seaside parks (not just travelling fairs), which is one reason the ride reads as ‘traditional’ even when the machine itself is relatively modern. Dreamland in Margate keeps a Waltzer as part of its retro mix. Skegness Pleasure Beach lists ‘Waltzer’ among its core line-up. Clarence Pier in Southsea is another long-running seaside setting where a Waltzer is treated as part of the expected soundtrack of lights, music and spin.

Sources include Wikipedia, the Fairground Heritage Trust, and Dreamland. 

Austen’s unseen Brighton

Today marks the 250th anniversary of the birth of Jane Austen, the great chronicler of English places and manners. One of her books above all - Pride and Prejudice - has a direct and consequential link to Brighton and its beach, even though they are never once described.

The novel, first published in 1813, centres on the Bennet family, a middle-class household with five unmarried daughters and a precarious financial future. The story follows the growing relationship between Elizabeth Bennet, the second eldest daughter, and Fitzwilliam Darcy, a wealthy landowner whose pride and reserve initially offend her. Alongside this central courtship runs a series of secondary plots involving reputation, marriage, and social judgement.

One of these concerns Lydia Bennet, the youngest sister, who is impulsive, flirtatious, and largely uncontrolled by her parents. When a militia regiment is stationed near the Bennet home in Hertfordshire, Lydia becomes infatuated with the officers. Among them is George Wickham, a charming but unprincipled soldier who forms a brief attachment to Elizabeth before revealing himself to be unreliable and deeply in debt. Wickham later transfers with the regiment to Brighton, then a fashionable seaside and military town.

Lydia is allowed to accompany the wife of the regiment’s commanding officer to Brighton for the summer. There, free from family restraint, she renews her acquaintance with Wickham. The two run away together, first to London, with no intention of marrying. Their disappearance threatens to disgrace not only Lydia but the entire Bennet family, whose daughters’ chances of respectable marriage depend on female reputation.

The crisis is resolved only through the private intervention of Fitzwilliam Darcy, who tracks the couple down, pays Wickham’s debts, and secures a marriage settlement. The family is saved from public scandal, but the damage narrowly avoided leaves a lasting impression. Reflecting on events, Elizabeth Bennet later observes that ‘Had Lydia never been at Brighton, she had never met Wickham.’

It is at this point that Brighton’s peculiar role in the novel becomes clear. Although it is named repeatedly, Austen never describes the town itself. There is no account of the beach, the sea, the buildings, or the daily life of the resort. Brighton exists entirely as a place of reputation rather than observation, a setting defined by what it permits rather than what it looks like.

For Austen’s contemporary readers, that would have been enough. By the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries Brighton was already firmly established as a fashionable seaside resort and military centre, associated with sociability, display, and a loosening of ordinary moral restraints. To send Lydia there is to remove her from domestic supervision and place her in a setting where temptation lurks. Austen needs only to name Brighton for its implications to be understood.

This reticence is striking because Austen was perfectly capable of writing about the seaside when she wished. In Persuasion, Lyme Regis is vividly rendered, its Cobb forming the setting for a pivotal accident. In Sanditon, her unfinished final novel, she turns her attention to a speculative seaside resort, analysing promenades, bathing machines, health claims, and commercial optimism. These places are described and judged. Brighton is not.

Biographies say there is no firm evidence that Jane Austen ever visited Brighton. Her surviving letters place her instead at coastal towns such as Lyme Regis, Sidmouth, Dawlish, and Worthing, where she stayed for several months in 1805-1806. Worthing, a quieter and less conspicuous rival to Brighton, appears in her correspondence as a place of walks, mild society, illness, and boredom - the kind of lived experience she habitually transformed into fiction. Brighton remained known to her largely by reputation.

That reputation was sufficient. In Pride and Prejudice, Brighton functions not as landscape but as catalyst. It is the place where supervision weakens and consequences begin. Austen’s refusal to describe the beach or the town turns Brighton into an abstract moral space rather than a physical one.

Sources include Project Gutenberg, Brighton Museums, Jane Austen - A Life by Claire Tomalin and Wikipedia. The imagined book cover above was created by ChatGPT. 

Sporty sporty Hove

The long stretch of Brighton Beach west of the King Alfred Leisure Centre has undergone a huge transformation this year - into what might best be described as sporty sporty Hove. Where this part of the seafront was once defined by open grass, informal play and the slow rituals of bowls and croquet, it is now marked by a dense cluster of formal sports facilities laid out in sequence between the promenade and the sea.

New padel courts have been completed, their bright surfaces and tall perimeter fencing marking a fixed, competitive presence on the beachside. Adjacent, a set of tennis courts has been laid out and is already in use, extending opportunities for racket sport at scale. Moreover, purpose-built beach volleyball courts have been installed and are drawing regular play, further reinforcing a trend toward formalised sporting activity on what was once largely informal terrain.

These additions sit alongside the longstanding croquet lawn and a few traditional green bowls facilities that remain in place. However, the croquet and bowls areas, still carefully maintained and signed, now form part of the broader sequence of structured recreation.

The expansion of sport along this western end resonates with developments noted further toward the lagoon, where watersports culture has been gaining momentum. Windsurfing, paddleboarding and other lagoon activities have drawn new users to the Hove shore, reinforcing a shift in how the coast is used: not just for walking or passive viewing, but for sustained physical engagement.

Taken together, the new courts and the increased watersports activity paint a coherent picture of Brighton Beach as a multi-faceted sporting landscape. From the padel and tennis courts immediately west of the King Alfred, along to the sands and open water at the lagoon, organised sport now chains these spaces in a way that is bringing a new character to the Hove end of Brighton Beach - an increasingly active seafront where fixed facilities and waterborne pursuits bookend a continuous corridor of play.

See also: Sand between their toes; Hove Beach Park opens; Not the Mary Clarke Park; Hove Lagoon watersports.

Innocent circle?

Here is the 23rd 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 a circular scene of rolling countryside rendered in bold, simplified shapes. Sweeping green hills overlap in layered bands, with deeper greens suggesting shaded folds in the land. Brighter yellow paths or fields cut diagonally through the slopes, adding movement and contrast. Above the landscape, large billowing clouds stretch across a clear, bright sky, their rounded forms outlined in dark contours. The whole composition has a stylised, almost mosaic-like quality giving the landscape a rhythmic, patterned feel.

A limerick starter

A rambler set out with great pride

Across hills rolling green, far and wide;

But each curving bright track

Led him cleanly off track -

Now he’s still in those fields, trying to decide.

Innocent circle? (after Thomas Pynchon)

On a Tuesday of no particular consequence - though the gulls claimed otherwise - Vasco found a circular picture half-buried in Brighton’s shingle, its colours too bright for English weather, its hills too neatly curved to be trusted. The thing gave off the faint chemical optimism of a 1970s educational poster, the sort issued by governments hoping children might one day become engineers instead of anarchists.

He picked it up. Warm. Suspiciously warm.

A woman in an orange raincoat, passing at speed as if pursued by minor debts, shouted, Don’t look at it directly! Then she vanished behind a windbreak plastered with QR codes and promotional offers which, if decoded, might or might not summon a free ice cream. Farther along the beach, a group of students were conducting what they called ‘an unauthorised topographical intervention’, which mostly involved pointing surveyor rods at the Palace Pier and arguing about the metaphysics of load-bearing structures.

Vasco had the distinct impression that the picture in his hand - this innocent circle of rolling hills and friendly clouds - was part of a much larger operation, though whether artistic, military, or merely bureaucratic he couldn’t yet tell. Brighton had always been like this: sunlit afternoons perforated by intrigue. Even the pebbles seemed to be signalling to one another, clicking out messages in some forgotten coastal Morse.

He turned the picture over. Nothing on the back but a faint smell of ozone and custard cream. Classic misdirection.

Somewhere beyond the West Pier’s skeletal remains, a low hum gathered - something between distant surf and an idling generator. Vasco couldn’t be sure, but it seemed the landscape in the picture was beginning, imperceptibly, to move.

When the big wave came

When the big wave came
I thought I was lost, I thought I was
No way to turn, neither this nor that
Lost in the ruptures of current
Lost in the labyrinth of seas

When the big wave came
I thought I was engulfed, I thought I was
For ever down, and further down
Engulfed in the foaming surge,
Engulfed by the choking of brine

When the big wave came
I thought it was a deluge, I thought it was
Poseidon calling, or was it Neptune
A deluge, yes, from the gods
A deluge more than biblical 

When the big wave came
I thought I was drowned, I thought I was
All that choking, all that despair
Drowned in the crashing of ocean
Drowned in the havoc of tidal roar

Yet here I am, wondering
Who to blame
Who to thank