Huddlestone’s Brighton Story

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

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

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

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

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

Patcham Arts on the seafront

Brighton’s Fishing Quarter Gallery has been home this week to a lively and heartfelt group show titled ‘Brighton Beautiful and Beyond’, showcasing a broad range of work by members of Patcham Arts (see also their Facebook page). With its seafront location and unpretentious style, the gallery offers the perfect setting for this grassroots exhibition, which closes on Sunday. Among the standout contributions are seafront paintings by Judy Alexander and Julia Ann Field, two artists whose work captures not just the visual richness of Brighton but also something of its underlying energy and rhythm.

Judy Alexander brings to the exhibition a subtle painterly style that favours shifting colour fields and atmospheric light. Her seafront paintings are at once recognisable and elusive, rendering the coast in gently abstracted forms that evoke memory and mood rather than precise location. Now based in Brighton, Alexander studied fine art in her youth but returned to painting later in life, after a career in education. She is an active member of the Patcham Arts group and has exhibited widely in community venues across East Sussex. Her work often responds to the changing seasons and skies above the shoreline, combining a personal sense of place with a quiet, meditative sensibility.

Julia Ann Field, by contrast, works in bolder gestures and saturated colours. Her paintings of the Brighton seafront are expressive and dynamic, frequently incorporating broad brushwork and unconventional perspectives. In this exhibition, her use of strong reds and blues recalls the carnival palette of beach huts, deckchairs and festival crowds, yet is underpinned by careful composition and technical control. Field trained in design and textile arts before moving into painting, and her background remains visible in the structural layering of her work. She maintains a studio practice in Brighton and has shown in various local exhibitions, including the Artists Open Houses. Her paintings often seek to distil the atmosphere of a moment - a gust of sea wind, a sudden cloudburst, a surge of movement on the promenade.

Constable on the beach

Two hundred years ago, one of England’s greatest painters - John Constable - could be found in Brighton, pacing the seafront with sketchbook in hand, observing the restless skies and the shifting sea. His time there would result in several vivid and atmospheric coastal paintings, not least this large painting of the Chain Pier (held by Tate Britain).

Constable was born in 1776 in the Suffolk village of East Bergholt. He trained at the Royal Academy Schools in London, and in 1816 he married Maria Bickknell. Unlike many of his contemporaries, he favoured the English countryside over historical or classical themes, gaining recognition for his sweeping views of the Stour Valley. His focus on expressive skies and changing light helped transform British landscape painting and paved the way for later movements such as Impressionism. 

In 1824 Constable moved his family to Brighton, hoping the sea air would improve Maria’s health - by this time she was suffering from tuberculosis. He divided his time between Charlotte Street in London and the south coast, but the change of scenery marked a shift in his work, as he turned from the wide river scenes of Suffolk to coastal subjects. Though he continued to paint on a grand scale, he was initially sceptical about Brighton’s artistic potential. Writing to his friend John Fisher in 1824, he remarked (see Royal Academy): ‘Brighton is the receptacle of the fashion and offscouring of London. The magnificence of the sea, and its (to use your own beautiful expression) everlasting voice is drowned in the din & lost in the tumult of stage coaches - gigs - “flys” etc - and the beach is only piccadilly . . . By the sea-side . . . in short there is nothing here for the painter but the breakers - & the sky - which have been lovely indeed and always [various].’ 

Despite such doubts,Constable went on to be inspired by Brighton Beach, producing some of his most direct and expressive studies. Chain Pier, Brighton was his only large-scale canvas based on the town, exhibited in 1827. Other works include Brighton Beach (1824, held at the V&A, above right bottom), Brighton Beach (1824-1826, held at the Dunedin Public Art Gallery, above left), and Brighton Beach, with colliers (1824, also at the V&A, above right top)

The Constables remained in Brighton for five years in the hope of aiding Maria’s health, but the move proved unsuccessful. After the birth of their seventh child in January 1828, the family returned to Hampstead, where Maria died later that year at the age of 41.

Double six every time

No one had asked for them. They weren’t on any plan, proposal, or procurement list. Yet there they were, two enormous red dice, half-buried in the shingle between the pier and the overflowing litter bin.

Councillor Denise Griggs first spotted them on her brisk morning walk. She frowned, took a photo, and sent it to Highways, assuming they were bollards gone rogue.

By lunchtime, a petition was circulating to keep them.

Locals swore blind they’d been consulted. ‘It was in the newsletter,’ said a man who had never read a newsletter in his life. ‘A playful intervention in public space,’ chirped an art student, taking selfies with them in six different outfits. ‘They soften the hardscape,’ said a yoga instructor who had just learned the word ‘hardscape’.

But others were less charmed. ‘We need benches,’ muttered June Tranter, aged 84, who sat on the dice because it was the only thing lower than her knees but higher than the ground. ‘And I slipped on one last night,’ said a man who had, in fairness, slipped on most things.

By Friday, the dice were on TripAdvisor. ‘WHIMSICAL INSTALLATION! So Brighton! 😍🎲🎲 #DiceLife’

‘Can’t tell if they’re art or bins. Love it.’

‘Would recommend for ten minutes.’

Then came the theories.

One woman claimed they were part of a secret casino testing public tolerance. A boy in Year 5 declared, with perfect sincerity, that if you rolled both sixes, the West Pier would regenerate like Doctor Who. A retired magician offered £500 to anyone who could make one disappear ‘properly’.

Denise Griggs, meanwhile, was deep in council minutes. There was no funding. No invoice. No artist named. A FOI request revealed only a baffling line item: ‘Urban Dice (2) - As per civic gamification strategy. Approved retroactively.’

Retroactively?!

At the next council meeting, the Leader, Julian Parkes, admitted - off the record - that the dice had been ordered by his predecessor during a failed - Playful Urbanism - initiative meant to make Brighton a finalist for the European City of the Unexpected. ‘There was a deckchair maze too, but it blew away,’ he mumbled. ‘And we think the dice were meant to be mobile.’

‘On wheels?’ Denise asked.

‘No. Metaphorically.’

Weeks passed. The dice stayed.

Teenagers lounged. Seagulls perched. A local poet declared the left die ‘a metaphor for uncertainty’ and the right ‘just another lie.’ Someone started leaving single dominoes around them. A TikTok trend briefly flourished: #DiceDance. Then vanished.

And every so often, late at night, under cover of darkness, the dice would jiggle themselves, just for a few seconds, smiling urbanely at each other, before re-settling - double six every time.

Cosmo Sarson, wasn’t it?

[Scene: Brighton Palace Pier. Two seagulls, Eric (taller, dafter) and Ernie (shorter, primmer), are sitting comfortably on large deckchairs near the funfair. With apologies again to Morecambe and Wise. See also Bring me . . . a sausage roll!]

Eric: You ever notice how humans scream before the rollercoaster even drops?

Ernie: [Laughs] Pre-emptive panic. Like you when someone sneezes near a pasty.

Eric: Hey - better startled than snatched. I’ve seen what toddlers do to feathers.

Ernie: [Laughing again] True. One of them tried to share their sausage roll with me once. By throwing it at me.

Eric: Ah, the Brighton welcome.

Ernie: Still, better than the ghost train. That thing rattles like a pigeon in a crisp tin.

Eric: And yet, it’s us who got painted, Ernie. Deckchairs, dignity… and just a hint of smug.

Ernie: Cosmo Sarson, wasn’t it?

Eric: Yep. Bold colours, big brushstrokes - a proper seaside tribute. They call it Laughing Seagulls.

Ernie: Well, we are hilarious. Especially you during bin collection.

Eric: It’s performance art. I’ve told you.

Ernie: Cosmo got the vibe, though. Two old birds watching the world flap by. Captured our best side - both of them.

Eric: He said it was about friendship, joy, resilience.

Ernie: And snacks, surely? 

Eric: Snacks are implied.

Ernie: You know, I’ve never actually sat in a deckchair before.

Eric: You are now. In glorious, fifteen-foot seaside Technicolor.

Ernie: Not bad for a couple of ferals, eh?

Eric: Not bad at all. Now - watch that one on the helter-skelter. He’s gonna lose his hat and his lunch.

[Both laugh]

The seafront, the seafront

Found yesterday on the seafront: the seafront! This Brighton Fibre van livery - by Chloe Studios - is surely the funnest in the city, and an eye-catching advertisement for a company that says it is ‘Doing Things Differently’. Broadband shouldn’t be complicated, it states: ‘We got rid of everything that nobody needed - no call centres, no datacentres, no contracts. Just fast, fair, and sustainable fibre.’

Brighton Fibre can be considered as a grassroots success story. During the first Covid lockdown, Mark Mason, a local AV/IT professional - began sharing a leased-line connection and a rooftop radio link with neighbours struggling to work from home. He teamed up with Leo Brown, a lifelong telecoms enthusiast who had built networks as a child. Together, they launched the company as a stealth‑mode ISP: a self-funded, locally grown initiative focused on sustainability, technical ingenuity, and community-first broadband.

From the outset, Brighton Fibre distinguished itself by building its own full-fibre network using existing infrastructure - repurposing old ducts, telegraph poles and even 1930s Rediffusion radio-relay channels. The network was designed to be energy efficient and environmentally conscious: nodes are powered by renewable energy and run on single-board computers like Raspberry Pis, consuming less power than boiling a kettle. The company explains that it rejected venture capital, choosing instead to build strategic, community-led partnerships and reinvest revenue back into network development and service quality.

Their rollout began in underserved neighbourhoods such as North Laine, Gardner Street, Moulsecoomb and Bevendean, and from just a few experimental connections, the network expanded rapidly and by early 2024 was servicing over 30,000 premises. Their main network hub sits in the Brighton Digital Exchange at New England House, a cooperative, carrier-neutral data centre established in 2015. While some connections still rely on Openreach duct access, the long-term plan is to shift all links to Brighton Fibre’s own infrastructure.

The brilliant livery on Brighton Fibre’s vans was designed by local illustrator Chloe Batchelor of Chloe Studios. The final wrap was printed and applied by Brighton-based signwriter Mister Phil.

By way of a summary, I asked ChatGPT what makes Brighton Fibre different. ‘It’s more than just technology. It’s the combination of self-built, eco-conscious infrastructure; a deep-rooted local ethos; and an engineering-led culture that prioritises quality over scale. In a world of national monopolies and corporate ISPs, Brighton Fibre is quietly proving that an independent network - powered by recycled cables, renewable energy and community trust - can thrive on the edge of the sea.’

Beside the Sea

Brighton’s 2025 Beside the Sea exhibition, running from May through September, features works by renowned photographers Martin Parr and JJ Waller, with a particular focus on Waller’s intimate and playful portrayal of Brighton Beach. The exhibition is presented in three distinct venues: the Hove Museum of Creativity, The Seafront Gallery, and, most strikingly, on the roofs of Brighton’s bus shelters (which, according to the organisers, is a world first).

JJ Waller, a British documentary photographer born and raised in Brighton, is well known locally for his portraits of people in Brighton and other coastal towns such as St Leonards-on-Sea and Blackpool. His images capture the spirit of Brighton Beach, a place celebrated for its freedom, eccentricity, and everyday spectacle. Waller’s photographs depict children with ice cream-smeared faces, sunbathers asleep on the pebbles, and the curious mix of visitors in various states of undress, all contributing to a rich visual record of seaside life. 

Drawing on his background in performance and theatre, Waller blends candid moments with a staged quality, highlighting the ritual and rhythm of the beach without losing sight of humour and humanity. His recent work, including widely praised Covid-19 lockdown portraits of Sussex residents taken through their windows, has brought him national recognition and was even edited into a collection by Martin Parr.

The Beside the Sea exhibition breaks new ground by presenting over 65 large-scale photographs some pasted flat onto the roofs of 30 bus shelters across Brighton, visible only from the top deck of a double-decker bus. This innovative approach transforms everyday journeys into art experiences, integrating photography into the city’s fabric and making the exhibition accessible to all with a bus ticket or pass. Waller, inspired by childhood memories of bus rides with his mother, sees this as a unique way to open up new exhibition spaces and reach audiences who might not typically visit galleries. He describes the collaboration with Parr, who is exhibiting in Brighton for the first time, as a dream come true, likening it to a young musician sharing a double album with legends like Bowie or McCartney.

In addition to the bus shelter installations, the exhibition is anchored at the Hove Museum of Creativity and The Seafront Gallery, where visitors can enjoy classic and rarely seen seaside photographs in more traditional gallery settings. The gallery, located on the lower esplanade by the West Pier spiral, offers an enhanced experience for those promenading along the beach, blending art with the everyday seaside environment. While Martin Parr’s contributions add national context and depth with images from his iconic Last Resort series and other archives, it is JJ Waller’s local focus and playful sensibility that give Beside the Sea its distinctly Brightonian flavour. 

Upside Down Houses on a roll

The Upside Down House on Brighton Beach stands out as a unique tourist attraction, thoughtfully designed and built as a temporary experience for visitors. This quirky structure was the brainchild of Tom Dirse, CEO of Upside Down House UK Ltd, who first introduced the concept in Bournemouth in 2018. Since then, the idea has expanded to six locations in the UK (with four more managed by a partner company). Indeed, the concept seems to be on a roll worldwide with topsy-turvy houses opening from the US to Thailand, Estonia to South Africa.

Brighton’s Upside Down House opened its doors in May 2019, perfectly positioned on the seafront between the i360 and the bandstand. Its vibrant turquoise exterior complements the iconic colours of the city’s coastline, making it a striking feature along the promenade. Inside, it features a variety of themed rooms - including a kitchen, dining room, bathroom, bedroom, music room, and vault room - all with furniture and décor attached to the ‘ceiling’ for surreal photographic opportunities. The interior design is said to draw on Brighton’s diverse cultural, music, and arts scene, with elements such as a bespoke gaming area, a jukebox, a vintage bicycle, and a replica Mona Lisa.

The attraction appears to be part of a global trend of topsy-turvy constructions, with similar installations found across Europe, North America, Asia, and beyond, often as standalone tourist sites or within amusement parks and museums. Apart from at least ten in the UK there are certainly 20 more well-known ones worldwide (though the actual number is likely to be higher).

My own (un-modified) upside down photograph of Brighton’s Upside Down House inspired me to collage together a few photos found online of other similar attractions. I’ve modified those pictures by rotating them through 180 degrees, and then slightly cropping/straightening the results. Locations:  Orlando, USA (top right), Broederstroom, South Africa (bottom right), Szymbark, Poland (top left), Tartu, Estonia (bottom left). Incidentally, the original Upside Down House concept is credited to the one at Szymbark which opened in 2007 as a tourist attraction and a social commentary on the communist era.

Charles II and Pepys on the quarterdeck

23 May 1660: the day Brighton made its first appearance in a diary (albeit not by name), and not just any diary, but THE diary - the one kept by Samuel Pepys, the most famous diarist in the English language. That day, aboard a ship bringing Charles II back from exile to claim the throne, Pepys listened spellbound as the King paced the quarterdeck, recounting a harrowing escape that had taken him - nearly a decade earlier - through the Sussex coast and within a pebble’s toss of Brighton Beach.

Pepys’ journal entry for that day overflows with drama. The King and a retinue of royals had boarded the fleet in the Netherlands, greeted with ‘infinite shooting off of the guns.’ The King, rather than playing the aloof monarch, surprised Pepys by walking ‘up and down,’ full of energy, and launching into vivid stories of his flight from the Battle of Worcester in 1651.

After the Royalist defeat at Worcester, Charles II was a fugitive in his own country. Hiding in priest holes, haylofts, and famously in an oak tree at Boscobel, he eluded capture for six weeks. Travelling in disguise, he trudged through mud ‘with nothing but a green coat and a pair of country breeches,’ his feet rubbed raw by peasant shoes. His journey led him through Sussex, staying in Arundel and Beeding, and then - on 14 October - to ‘another place’. Although not named, the place was certainly Brighthelmstone, as Brighton was then called.

According to the King’s own account, recorded by Pepys in a later narrative, he met his escape vessel’s captain, Nicholas Tettersell, at an inn - most likely The George in Middle Street. The ship lay waiting at Shoreham. Although Tettersell recognised Charles immediately (‘he is the king, and I very well know him’), he agreed to help, later earning a royal pension and the honour of having his ship, Surprise, renamed The Royal Escape.

There, in that Brighton inn, surrounded by loyalists and strangers alike, Charles drank beer, smoked tobacco, and gambled that he could trust the landlord - who quietly knelt and kissed his hand. At 4 am, they rode to Shoreham and boarded the small vessel. As Charles later told it, he lay low in the cabin until the tide rose enough to carry them across the Channel to safety.

That same escape would later inspire two commemorations: the 615-mile Monarch’s Way long-distance footpath tracing his route from Worcester to Shoreham, and the annual Royal Escape Race - a modern yacht event retracing his dash to France.

So what of Pepys? His diary began on New Year’s Day 1660 and ran for nine momentous years. He was aboard the ship that day not just as a chronicler, but as part of the Admiralty team. That his journal should contain Brighton’s earliest known diary mention seems fitting, given his flair for blending personal anecdote with sweeping historical detail. He wrote of that 23 May - 365 years ago today - ‘The King . . . fell into discourse of his escape from Worcester . . . made me ready to weep to hear the stories that he told. . .’

[This article was largely sourced from my book Brighton in Diaries (History Press, 2011). The topmost picture was created using Bing, and the lower picture is a copy of a 1911 print - Samuel Pepys and King Charles II - by Robert Spence found on the website of The Australian National Gallery of Victoria.]

The Brighton Fixer

Here is the eight of 25 stained glass window designs on the Palace Pier which AI and I are using as inspiration for some of these BrightonBeach365 daily posts - see Stained Glass Window 1 for background. This image features two jockeys riding brown horses, both in racing posture. The jockey in the foreground is wearing a pink top and white pants, while the jockey behind is dressed in a red top and white pants with a yellow helmet. The background shows stylised green fields, a blue sky, and white clouds, with a prominent red circle in the sky, possibly representing the sun or a race marker. 

A limerick starter

Two jockeys sped off in a dash,

Each hoping to pocket the cash.

Their horses, inspired,

Look secretly wired -

Did someone spike oats with panache?

The Brighton Fixer (in the style of Dick Francis)

I saw it again this morning. The stained glass roundel above the old betting shop door on Brighton seafront. Two jockeys, mid-gallop, frozen in coloured glass - one in rose, one in red. Odd thing is, I know them both.

The one in rose? That’s Charlie Fielding. Dead two years now - trampled under six hooves at Plumpton. Officially an accident. Unofficially, I never bought it. And the other jockey? I’d bet my last losing slip it’s me.

I retired after Charlie’s death. Couldn’t ride without seeing him in my periphery. But I still walked the beach every morning, boots crunching shingle, past the piers and peeling Victorian arches. That’s when I noticed the stained glass, installed suddenly in the old Seagull Tote, long closed and boarded until recently. No artist’s name. No sign. Just that image - and the past, staring back at me.

That morning, a figure was watching from inside. A flicker behind the coloured panes. Curiosity overrode my better sense. I crossed the promenade and pushed through the warped wooden door. It creaked open.

Inside was dim, the salt air clinging to dusty formica. A single bulb buzzed above a folding table. And sitting at it, with a bookmaker’s ledger open in front of him, was Julian Kemp.

He’d trained both Charlie and me once. Slick, silver-haired, with a fondness for quiet threats and sudden debt. He didn’t look surprised to see me.

‘Thought the window might bring you in,’ he said, without looking up. ‘It’s good, isn’t it? Custom commission. Memory’s a powerful lure.’

I didn’t answer. My eyes scanned the room. Beneath the table: a floorboard pried loose. Inside, stacked neatly - old betting slips, laminated, coded. Duplicates of Charlie’s last race. And photos. Surveillance. One showed Charlie arguing with Kemp, another showed Kemp at a late-night meeting with a farrier who’d been banned from every course south of the M25.

Charlie had known something. Tried to back out. And now the glass showed him forever racing to a finish he never reached.

‘You killed him,’ I said quietly.

Kemp smiled like a man remembering a clever joke. ‘He wouldn’t play ball. But you? You stayed loyal. Fancy another ride, Ben?’

He nodded toward a fresh set of silks on a hook: rose pink, like Charlie’s.

I picked them up, felt the weight. Then turned, sharp and fast, and cracked the brass hook against Kemp’s temple. He crumpled silently.

I left him tied with his own power cable, his precious stained glass glowing behind me as the dawn caught the curve of the beach.

I’d call the police once I reached the pier. First, I stopped and looked out to sea.

This time, I wouldn’t be part of the finish line.

Flight of the Langoustine

Walk along the Hove promenade and you can’t miss the large sculptural work - Flight of the Langoustine - by Pierre Diamantopoulo. It’s situated on the Hove Plinth, the second commissioned work to be displayed there after the plinth was launched by Hove Civic Society to ‘bring exciting new public art to the city and showcase a changing programme of the best in modern day sculpture’. The first sculpture Constellation by Jonathan Wright was installed on the plinth in 2018 but now has a permanent home in the Hove Museum gardens.

The Flight of the Langoustine sculpture features four life-size bronze figures captured mid-leap through a broken steel ring, apparently symbolising a collective surge toward freedom. It weighs 2.2 tonnes, stands approximately 3.5 meters high, and cost in the region of £135,000. Diamantopoulo has said the piece was inspired by a mangled lobster pot he discovered on Brighton Beach.

Diamantopoulo says of his work: ‘These androgynous and anonymous figures are often seen flying in defiance or fleeing, challenged by their environment - a metaphor for a precarious state of living or existence. Truly transcending the confines of the ground, the figures are at once profound, frivolous and boisterous, occupying the air like a flock of birds and inspired by modern dance choreography.’ Further details are available online in the Sponsor Pack, a substantial document put together by Hove Civic Society when it first launched its appeal to fund the sculpture, and in the Brighton Journal. 

Diamantopoulo was born in 1952 in Cairo to a Greek father and French mother. His family relocated to England during the 1956 Suez Crisis. Initially pursuing a career in advertising, he worked as a copywriter from 1974 to 1989, directing campaigns which earned him international accolades. In 1989, he transitioned to fine art, establishing his first sculpture studio in East Sussex. In 2000, he was elected as a Member of the Royal Society of Sculptors. Notable projects include Kandi Sky (2008), a 22m-wide painted steel sculpture at Middlesbrough College.

The Flight of the Langoustine was installed on the Hove Plinth for a set two-year period, ending this coming September. However, to date, there has been no official announcement regarding what will happen to the sculpture thereafter, nor what might replace it. The full story of the Hove Plinth with pictures can be viewed here.

The Dome of Light

Here is the seventh of 25 stained glass window designs on the Palace Pier which AI and I are using as inspiration for some of these BrightonBeach365 daily posts - see Stained Glass Window 1 for background. This image depicts two large trees with brown trunks and green foliage, set against a sky-blue background. To the left, there is a stylised white architectural structure resembling an archway or pavilion, reminiscent of classical or Mughal architecture. The foreground is adorned with bold, colourful flowers-large red and white petals with dark centres-creating a lively and inviting atmosphere.

A limerick starter

In a garden where poppies convene,

With trees tall and temple pristine,

Said the daisy, ‘I vow,

I'm more sacred than thou!’

But the oak rolled its eyes at the scene.

The Dome of Light (in the style of William Wordsworth)

I.
There lies, not far from Brighton’s pebbled shore,
a quiet dome of softened light and stone,
where seagulls wheel and salt winds lightly roar,
and oft the thoughtful go to sit alone.
Upon its wall, in coloured pane confined,
a glass of wonder greets the roaming mind:
red poppies bow, and daisies wide and bright,
beneath tall trees and sky of ocean light.

II.
Young Thomas came, a boy of nine or so,
with sand-stung cheeks and shoes still full of brine.
He’d left the surf and Brighton’s bustling row,
drawn inwards by a hush near the Palace fine.
He climbed the steps, and in the silence deep,
he saw the glass, and there he stood in sleep -
that waking dream when hearts begin to stir,
and all the world grows soft and feels unsure.

III.
For in the glass he saw his mother’s hand,
once firm in his, now ashes by the sea.
She loved the Downs, the flowers, sky, and sand -
and made a garden by the old oak tree.
She’d told him once, ‘Where poppies ever grow,
you’ll find me there, beneath the evening’s glow.’
Now here they bloomed, in crimson glass agleam,
their black-eyed centres caught in ageless dream.

IV.
And there - a gate. No house stood near its path,
no road, no hedge, no stone, no sign of man.
Just open sky, and grass, and ocean’s wrath
tamed into lines of blue within a span.
He traced it with his eyes, this quiet place,
and knew it was not Brighton, yet its grace
felt of the town - of pebbles, gulls, and shore -
yet bore a silence Brighton never wore.

V.
He wept but once, then wiped his face and smiled.
A daisy turned toward him - glass beguiled -
and in that dome, beneath the window’s gaze,
he whispered thanks and walked into the haze.
Back down the steps, and past the salted air,
the beach still roared, the world went unaware.
But in his heart there bloomed a clearer sight:
Brighton, beneath a mother’s dome of light.

Fantasy, history and rhythm collide

Not that Brighton Beach needs much brightening up, but Dan Lish’s two murals do exactly that, one a whimsical hip-hop reimagining of Alice in Wonderland, and the other a wanderer’s dreamscape with floating turntables, cosmic clouds, and futuristic urban beats. Both murals fill up the frontage of Gallery 242, just west of the Palace Pier, and they can also be viewed online on the gallery’s website.

Lish describes himself as ‘a multi-disciplined artist . . . specialising in illustration, Video Game concept Art and Wall art’. Now living in Brighton, he spent seven years in New York City, freelancing as an illustrator and concept artist for clients including Sony, Lucas Arts and Rockstar Games. Within the video game industry he has been working on ‘numerous flagship titles for major developers’.

Lish also lists ‘comic and book illustrations, album cover art, and toy design’ among his artistic outputs. Through his celebrated Egostrip project, Lish says he has reimagined music legends like J Dilla, MF DOOM, and De La Soul ‘placing them in psychedelic, otherworldly settings where fantasy, history, and rhythm collide’. Egostrip Book 1 was published in 2020 and Egostrip Book 2 in 2023. See Lish’s Instagram account for more pics.

The humour of Ridgewell

Here is Brighton Beach a century ago as seen by William Leigh Ridgewell, a Brighton-born cartoonist and illustrator. The cartoon was published in The Strand Magazine in 1925, part of an article called The Humour of Ridgewell. Many of Ridgewell’s cartoons and illustrations appeared in Punch and can be said to define a vivid strand of early 20th-century visual humour. 

Ridgewell was born in Brighton in 1881, the son of a commercial traveller and talented amateur illustrator. He demonstrated an early aptitude for art and later honed his skills at the Brighton School of Art, an institution known for producing commercially successful illustrators during the Edwardian era. His career took a distinctive turn during the First World War. While serving in India, he applied his artistic talents to wartime propaganda, designing posters to support the Indian War Loan campaign. His contributions extended to local publications such as The Looker-On and Indian Ink, which featured his humorous takes on colonial life. It’s easy to imagine these early experiences shaped the gently satirical tone for which he would become well known.

Following the war, Ridgewell returned to England and began contributing to a range of popular periodicals. His work appeared in Tit-Bits, Bystander, and The Passing Show, but it was his regular contributions to Punch magazine from 1920 until his death in 1937 that cemented his reputation. Punch, at that time a leading authority in British satire and comic illustration, offered Ridgewell a platform to develop his signature style - wry observations of middle-class life, often presented with understated but precise wit.

Ridgewell’s cartoons typically captured the peculiarities of British domesticity, drawing on familiar suburban settings and characters. The humour in his illustrations was more observational than exaggerated, presenting a subtly critical yet affectionate portrait of interwar England. Ridgewell’s line work was considered clean and expressive, his compositions economical but rich with social commentary.

In addition to editorial work, Ridgewell was also active in commercial illustration. He produced advertisements for well-known brands such as Stone’s Ginger Wine and Pratt’s Petrol. These pieces, while promotional in intent, maintained his recognisable style and wit, bridging the worlds of commercial and editorial cartooning in an era before this crossover was commonplace. He remained active in his profession until his death in 1937.

The full article - The Humour of Ridgewell - with several more cartoons can be viewed in The Strand Magazine, issue 69 (1925), available online at Internet Archive.

The Crimson Banner

Here is the sixth of 25 stained glass window designs on the Palace Pier which AI and I are using as inspiration for some of these BrightonBeach365 daily posts - see Stained Glass Window 1 for background. This image shows a ship, a galleon perhaps, with large white sails, a bright yellow sail at the stern, and a deep red hull. The sea is rendered in shades of turquoise, teal, and white, representing waves. The sky features soft pastel clouds in pink, purple, and blue, with a crimson pennant flying at the top of the tallest mast. The overall style is vibrant and stylised, with bold black outlines separating the coloured glass segments.

A limerick starter

A vessel once sailed through the pane,

Though how it got in, none explain.

It’s stuck there in hues,

Of purples and blues,

Forever becalmed in a frame.

The Crimson Banner (in the style of Robert Louis Stevenson)

The wind had a salt tang to it that morning, and the gulls wheeled in lazy circles over Brighton Beach. I had gone down early, before the town was fully awake, drawn by a dream that had clung to my waking mind like seaweed on a boot. In the dream, I had seen a ship - not of this age, but one from tales of treasure and peril - its sails full-bellied and a crimson banner flying high.

To my astonishment, that very vision met me on the seafront, not in the sea but in glass. Set into the round window of a crumbling bathhouse on the Esplanade was a stained-glass panel of a proud galleon with billowed sails, riding a crest of jade-green waves, the red pennant aloft as in my dream. The window caught the morning sun like a gem, and I stood spellbound.

‘You’ve seen her too,’ came a voice, old as rope and salt.

I turned. A man sat hunched on a nearby bench, his beard tangled like kelp and his eyes sharp beneath bushy brows.

‘I - I don’t know what you mean,’ I said, though my heart beat strangely.

‘She was called The Mirabel,’ he said, nodding toward the window. ‘Built when pirates still thumbed their noses at the navy. She set sail from this very coast with treasure enough to buy all Brighton. Never returned.’

‘What happened?’ I asked, stepping closer.

‘Some say storm, some say mutiny. I say she still sails - beneath the waves, mind you. Waiting for the one who remembers.’

The man rose, reaching into his coat. He drew out something wrapped in oilskin - a compass, brassy and old, its needle spinning wild until it settled true north.

‘I’ve watched that window forty years. Every spring tide, I look for the sign. And now you dream of her, lad. The sea remembers.’

I took the compass. It felt alive in my hand, pulsing with the mystery of tides and stars. I didn’t protest when he pressed it into my palm. The man tipped his cap and walked away, limping up the stony beach and vanishing into the mist that had begun to gather.

I turned back to the glass ship. The sun had risen fully now, and in its blaze, the red banner in the window glowed like fire.

That evening, drawn by the whisper of gulls and something deeper, I followed the compass along the beach. At the edge of the water, as the tide pulled back with a sigh, something gleamed beneath the surf - a coil of rope, the curve of a mast, the barest suggestion of a deck.

And the banner. Red, like a blood memory, fluttered once - and vanished.

Some say Brighton’s just a place of deckchairs and chips, but I say look deeper. The sea holds its secrets. And sometimes, just sometimes, it offers them back.

The paths we walk today

It’s the closing day for an art exhibition entitled Matriarchs at the Fishing Quarter Gallery in which seven artists have come together to exhibit on the seafront. There is not much information on display about the artists but a brief rational for the exhibition can be found on the wall, as follows.

‘Through installation, photography, sculpture, drawing, and print, the works on display delve into the profound and lasting impact that matriarchs have on us as individuals, families, and our wider communities. The works examine how these central figures develop familial cultures, pass down stories, and impart wisdom. With each piece, the artists invite us to reflect on the core relationships that sustain us, shaping our histories and the paths we walk today. From the quiet moments of everyday life to the deep rituals of connection, the exhibition underscores the far-reaching influence of matriarchs, offering a space to honour and celebrate their legacies.’

There are several pieces by Reem Acason. She describes herself as ‘a multi-disciplinary artist whose work explores the complexities of cross-cultural identity’. This photograph of one Acason’s pieces includes: Bedtime (2025), ‘Oil and gesso on 1980’s duvet cover fragment’; Signs of Life VIII (2025), ‘Vintage crate, oyster shells, wild Sussex clay’; and Signs of Life II (2024), ‘Found bird’s nest, paperclay’.

‘I am interested, Acason says on her website, ‘in the relationship between the Middle Eastern region and Europe, and their respective intertwined social and cultural histories. I take inspiration from historic European portraiture, as well as motifs and symbols (both real and imagined) from the “Oriental” world.’

If you missed the exhibition here are the artists online.

@vix_koch
@devon_mcculloch_illustration
@debbieantonowicz]
@mindyheidi
@bethlucygibbons
@ellachandlerstudio
@reemacason

Happy birthday Passacaglia

Happy 27th birthday Passacaglia, the giant iron sculpture to be found on Brighton Beach not far from the old fishing quarter. Created by Charles Hadcock and installed on 17 March 1998, it has become an iconic part of the local landscape, inspiring photographers, climbing children and passersby. The sculpture is said to be in the shape of ‘a giant wave crashing on the beach’ - indeed, one could imagine the curved form having been inspired by Hokusai’s 200 year oil woodblock print The Great Wave. But no, it seem Passacaglia was directly inspired by a musical element from Peter Grimes. 

Hadcock was born in Derby, England, in 1965, and was educated at Ampleforth College Cheltenham College of Art, and the Royal College of Art. His sculptures, he says, reflect ‘an interest in geology, engineering and mathematics, and are enriched by references to music and poetry’. He established his first studio in 1989 in Bermondsey, London, where he worked until his practice outgrew the space. In 1999 he moved to Lancashire and established a large studio complex at Roach Bridge Mill ‘to facilitate the physical and conceptual space necessary to develop his sculpture’.

Throughout his career, Hadcock has gained recognition for large-scale sculptures. Passacaglia was constructed from recycled cast iron. The sculpture's surface is ‘a tapestry of tiles, some flat and others curved, creating a dynamic interplay of light and shadow’. Brighton & Hove Council’s text states: ‘The tiles have textured surfaces that resemble Yorkstone paving, some are curved and some flat which gives the sculpture the shape of a giant wave crashing on the beach. The reverse side of each tile reveals the nuts and bolts of the sculpture which was constructed by Hadcock on location in 1998.’ Only a few years later, in 2004, a crack appeared in the base tile, necessitating the work be dismantled - reinstallation took place in 2007.

Encounter gallery online has the typescript of a long interview with Hadcock which includes the information I’ve not found anywhere else - i.e. that Passacaglia ‘is directly inspired by the passacaglia in Peter Grimes by Benjamin Britten’. Britten’s most famous opera, Peter Grimes, is set in Aldeburgh which has a long pebble beach - not dissimilar to Brighton’s - and it tells the forlorn tale of an outcast fisherman’s trials at sea and in society. (NB: Passacaglia is defined as an instrumental musical composition consisting of variations usually on a ground bass in moderately slow triple time.)

Hadcock’s website provides stunning photographs of many of his other notable works, and Wikipedia gives more biographical details about the sculptor.

The Secrets of Silas Thorne

Here is the fourth of 25 stained glass window designs on the Palace Pier which AI and I are using as inspiration for some of these BrightonBeach365 daily posts - see Stained Glass Window 1 for background. This image depicts a lighthouse standing tall against a deep blue and red-toned sky, possibly representing dusk or dawn. A bright full moon is visible near the horizon, and the lighthouse’s beacon shines in a sweeping beam across the scene. Below, stylised waves and rocky shores complete the coastal imagery. 

Limerick starter

There once was a lighthouse so grand,

In a window, not out on the sand.

Though it shined with great might,

It had one major plight - 

No ship ever saw it firsthand!

The Secrets of Silas Thorne (in the style of John Buchan)

The salt-laden wind whipped at my tweed coat as I stood before the small, circular window in the vestry of St. Nicholas Church. It was a peculiar thing, a stained-glass lighthouse, nestled amongst the more traditional depictions of saints and biblical scenes. The colours, a swirling vortex of deep blues and fiery reds, held an almost unsettling energy, the lighthouse beam cutting through the glass like a celestial sword.

‘Odd, isn't it?’ A voice, dry as parchment, startled me. Reverend Ainsworth, a man whose face seemed etched with the same lines as the ancient stones of the church, stood beside me. ‘Not quite what one expects, is it?’

‘Indeed,’ I replied, my eyes fixed on the window. ‘Do you know its history?’

‘A tale best told in whispers,’ he said, his gaze flickering towards the shadowed corners of the vestry. ‘It was commissioned by a man named Silas Thorne, a notorious smuggler, some seventy years past. He’d made his fortune running brandy and silks along this very coast. But Thorne, you see, was a man haunted by the sea. He lost his son, swept away during a storm, and sought solace in this . . . peculiar offering.’

The Reverend paused, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. ‘They say Thorne believed the lighthouse in the glass was a beacon, a guide for his lost boy’s soul, trapped in the watery abyss. He’d sit for hours, gazing at it, convinced he could see his son’s face in the moonlight reflected off the glass.’

‘A tragic tale,’ I said, my fingers tracing the cold stone of the window frame.

‘Tragic, yes,’ Ainsworth agreed. ‘But there’s more. Thorne was a man of dark secrets. It was whispered he’d made pacts with . . . less than holy entities. The lighthouse, they say, isn’t just a symbol of hope, but a conduit.’

‘A conduit?’ I raised an eyebrow.

‘To something . . . other,’ he finished, his voice barely audible. ‘They say on nights of the full moon, when the tide is at its lowest, the lighthouse in the glass glows with an unnatural light. And if you listen closely, you can hear the faint sound of a boy’s laughter echoing from the depths of the sea.’

The Reverend’s words sent a shiver down my spine. I glanced at the window again. The moon, a pale disc in the stained glass, seemed to pulse with an eerie luminescence. I felt a strange pull, a sense of unease that settled deep in my bones.

That night, I found myself drawn back to the church, the moon casting long, skeletal shadows across the graveyard. The tide was out, the sea a dark, undulating expanse. I slipped into the vestry, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and incense.

The lighthouse window glowed with an unearthly light, the colours swirling and shifting. I pressed my ear to the glass. A faint sound, like the distant echo of laughter, drifted from the sea. It was a chilling sound, a sound that spoke of loss and longing, of something trapped between worlds.

Suddenly, the glass shimmered, the lighthouse beam intensifying. I recoiled, a sense of dread washing over me. The laughter grew louder, closer. I felt a coldness, a presence, pressing against me.

Then, just as suddenly, it was gone. The light faded, the laughter ceased. The window was still, silent. I stood there, my heart pounding, my breath catching in my throat.

I left the church, the salt wind biting at my face, the moon a silent witness to the night’s strange events. As I walked back towards the lights of Brighton, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had glimpsed something beyond the veil, something dark and ancient, stirred by the haunted lighthouse in the stained glass window. The secrets of Silas Thorne, it seemed, were still alive, waiting for the next full moon, the next low tide, to rise again from the depths.

Hamish Black’s Afloat

A little more than 25 years ago, a striking sculpture appeared on Brighton Beach, captivating the imagination of passersby with its unique form and thought-provoking concept. Hamish Black’s Afloat, a bronze work that reimagines the world as a floating torus, has stood the test of time, becoming an iconic landmark that continues to inspire locals and tourists alike.

Born in Braintree, Essex, in 1948, Black grew up assisting in his family’s blacksmith business. This youthful apprenticeship led to a deeper interest in making forms with metals. Aged 16, he began to study art, seven years in all - at Eastbourne School of Art, North East London Polytechnic, and the Slade School of Art. He preferred to sculpt in metal but also realised works in wood and ceramics, often using an additive process, a form of assemblage in three dimensions, as opposed to the reductive process of the stone or wood carver.

Throughout his career, Black was committed to art education, teaching at various institutions including Brighton Polytechnic, West Sussex College of Art, and Wimbledon School of Art. In the mid-1980s, he began a significant collaboration with renowned sculptor Sir Anthony Caro, which lasted for 25 years. He resides in East Sussex, but there is little sign in the media of any recent projects - his personal website has remained unaltered for some years.

Back in 1998, as part of his One World Series, Black created Afloat, commissioned by Brighton & Hove City Council and funded by the Arts Lottery. The work ingeniously transforms a traditional globe into a bronze torus, with continents drifting across its surface, allowing viewers to gaze through the world itself - both out to sea, and in towards man’s urban landscape. Afloat is 2.5 metres in diameter, weighs 2.2 tonnes, and was put in place on the seaward end of the East Street Groyne by a crane, with Black overseeing the installation. Just as the sculpture soon became known as The Donut, so, too, did the groyne become known as the Donut Groyne. 

Apart from Afloat, Black’s contributions to Brighton’s artistic landscape include works like Tree House, crafted from elms felled during the 1987 storm, and Brighton Light, a steel fabrication for the University of Brighton. 

Meanwhile, according to Brighton council, Afloat is now often the place for assignations, even proposals of marriage.

Cuttlefish and their bones

Walk along Brighton’s pebbles and you’ll soon find yourself kicking out at brilliant-white oval-shaped objects that seem to be littering the beach. If you pick one up, it feels unnaturally lightweight. These are cuttlebones, as everyone knows, the internal shells of cuttlefish. They are not the most useful or interesting of beach finds, though they can be ground into powder for polishing, and jewellers have made moulds for casting metals. Today, most commonly, they serve as dietary supplements for pet birds. However, A.Z.L, my 13-year old son, likes turning them into art! This is his Cuttlebone Helter Skelter. Other artists like to carve them into shapes and scenes.

Each spring and summer, common cuttlefish (Sepia officinalis) migrate to shallow waters to breed, leaving behind thousands of eggs hidden among rocks and seaweed. Shortly after spawning, the adults die, and their remains drift with the tides. Their soft bodies decompose quickly, but the cuttlebones - made of lightweight, porous calcium carbonate - float on the water’s surface before washing ashore.

The prevailing southwesterly winds push them toward shore, where they land on Brighton’s pebbles rather than sinking into sand. Unlike driftwood, which might get swept back out to sea, cuttlebones tend to linger, their ghostly forms drying in the sun. Sometimes, you’ll find them with strange marks - tiny holes left by hungry seagulls pecking at the last traces of flesh.

Cuttlefish are fascinating creatures, according to Wikipedia, sometimes called the ‘chameleons of the sea’ due to their incredible ability to change colour and texture in moments. They use this skill to mesmerise prey, communicate with each other, or simply disappear into their surroundings. Though they have eight arms like an octopus, they also have two longer tentacles that strike out to snatch fish, crabs, or shrimp. Despite their intelligence and complex behaviour, their lifespans are surprisingly short - most live only a year or two before nature takes its course - adding another cuttlebone to the Brighton shoreline.

Over time, these bones have found strange uses beyond the sea. For centuries, people have ground them into powder as a polishing agent, while jewellers have used them to make moulds for casting metals. Artists have used them to carve objects of beauty - see Stephen Hughes’ work in South Africa’s Highway Mail. Today, most commonly, they serve as dietary supplements for pet birds, providing much-needed calcium for beak and bone health. 

Cuttlefish, of course, also have ink stores used to deter predators, but they also have long served man for different purposes, as a dye (to make non-iridescent reds, blues, and greens) and for food (to darken and flavour rice and pasta).