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.]

Giant green monsters

Monsters. Monsters on the beach yesterday. Giant green monsters! Monsters because they’re giants, green hulks no less, colonising the pebbles. And monsters too because they are laying down event flooring - metal plates - allowing their army of other engined monsters to swarm onto the pebbles bringing fencing and more fencing (closing down acres of beach), and building infrastructure for food, drink and music.

I believe The Great Escape must be coming - the festival for new music. The organisers say: ‘We’re proud to present an incredible wave of local artists taking to our stages this May, spanning genres, scenes and generations of sound. Whether you’re into fuzzy guitars, punk energy, experimental electronics or dreamy indie pop, Brighton is serving it up.’ This year’s lineup boasts over 450 emerging artists from around the globe, performing across 30+ venues throughout the city, notably including the pop-up festival site on Brighton Beach. 

The monsters are, in fact, two Scania trucks operated by Sunbelt Rentals, which claims to be the UK’s largest and greenest rental provider. Both trucks are painted in Sunbelt’s signature bright green livery and are fitted with crane arms, indicating that they are hiab (loader crane) trucks, commonly used for transporting and unloading heavy materials. They’ll get a few days rest when the music fills the beach, and then they’ll be back to dismantle it all. 

Return of the Brighton Whale

Yesterday was April Fool’s Day, so today is the day for exposes! I asked ChatGPT if there had been any historical April 1st pranks connected to Brighton Beach. Oh yes, it replied, and gave me five such news stories, as follows.

‘The Return of the Brighton Whale (2012) - A prank article suggested that a ‘rare and enormous’ whale had washed up on Brighton Beach. The story referenced the famous 1891 case when a real whale did wash ashore. Many people allegedly went looking for it before realising it was a hoax.’

‘The Brighton Floating Pier Hoax (Early 2000s?) - A local newspaper once published a story claiming that a floating, mobile version of Brighton Pier was under construction and would be towed to different parts of the UK coast depending on the season. Many readers were taken in by the idea, imagining the pier drifting up to Blackpool in the summer!’

‘Brighton’s Underground Beach (2016) - A satirical Brighton-based website claimed that archaeologists had discovered an entire ‘hidden Victorian beach’ beneath the modern seafront, supposedly preserved under the shifting shingle. The story included doctored photos of a secret tunnel leading to a pristine, sand-filled cavern.’

‘Seagull Relocation Programme (2018) - Local media joked that Brighton & Hove City Council had devised a plan to capture and relocate the town’s infamous aggressive seagulls to a remote island. The ‘news’ claimed that trained falconers would lure the birds with chips before transporting them away.’

‘The Ban on Striped Deck Chairs (2021) - In this gag it was suggested that Brighton Council had banned traditional striped deck chairs in favour of modern ‘monochrome loungers’ to make the beach look more sophisticated.’

I then asked - as any self-respecting journalist might do - for sources for each of these stories. 

‘You're absolutely right to call that out,’ ChatGPT wrote back. ‘I should have been clearer - those were plausible April Fools’ jokes based on Brighton’s quirky character, but I didn’t pull them from actual historical records.’

Shocked and deflated, I asked ChatGPT where and how it had come up with its ideas. This is what it told me:

‘The Floating Pier was inspired by Brighton’s history of structural oddities like the West Pier ruins and the Palace Pier’s ever-changing attractions. The Brighton Whale was loosely based on the real 1891 whale stranding, which seemed like perfect hoax material. The Underground Beach was a play on Brighton’s extensive underground tunnels and the urban legend that hidden Victorian structures still exist beneath the seafront. The Seagull Relocation Programme is a nod to the ongoing battle between locals and the notoriously aggressive Brighton seagulls. The Striped Deck Chair Ban idea came from real debates about modernising Brighton’s seafront, plus the city council’s occasional controversial aesthetic decisions.’

The Flintback Drifter

All in one day, amazing, walking along the Brighton pebbles, I found four different varieties of the Flintback Drifter. Unusual to see at the best of times, but four was like winning the lottery. There must have been a storm in the Channel, or some such peculiar weather system to have caused such a windfall of marine rarities.

The Flintback Drifter is a little-understood marine species that perfectly mimics flint stones, lying motionless among the pebbles of tidal zones. It is believed to be an evolutionary marvel, capable of remaining more or less inert for decades before gradually shifting into a more animate state. For those new to the species, here is a fact file.

Scientific Classification
Kingdom: Animalia
Phylum: Chordata (disputed)
Class: Lithopoda (proposed)
Order: Cryptosiluriformes
Family: Silicamariidae
Genus: Silicamaris

Species (numbered as in photos)
1) Silicamaris dormiens (Dormant Flintback Drifter)
2) Silicamaris lithomimus (Stone-Mimic Flintback Drifter)
3) Silicamaris vivens (Living Flintback Drifter)
4) Silicamaris mutabilis (Transitional Flintback Drifter)

Size: 20–50 cm (depending on life stage).
Color: Varies from deep grey to mottled black and white, mimicking natural flint and beach pebbles.
Texture: Hard, rock-like exoskin with occasional glossy fractures resembling chipped stone.
Body Structure: Appears almost featureless at rest but reveals faint ridges, a ventral mouth slit, and sensory pits when active.
Habitat & Distribution: Found exclusively along shingle beaches, particularly in Sussex, UK. Prefers intertidal zones, where it can remain still among pebbles, rarely moving except at night or during storms. Some reports suggest it may also drift along deeper seabeds, using its flint-like exterior to deter predators.
Feeding: Although widely thought to be pebble-eaters, they are slow-moving filter feeders, absorbing nutrients through microscopic pores when submerged. Some speculate it may consume small marine organisms using a concealed underbelly mouth.
Movement: Almost imperceptible. Shifts position by subtle expansions and contractions of its dense, flint-like tissue.
Defense Mechanism: Extreme camouflage. When disturbed, it remains motionless, indistinguishable from real stones.
Life Cycle & Evolution: Begins as Silicamaris dormiens, indistinguishable from a common flint stone. Over time, it may transition into Silicamaris lithomimus, showing faint organic features. Eventually, it develops primitive limb-like ridges and becomes either Silicamaris mutabilis or Silicamaris vivens (though marine biologists dispute whether these are two distinct species). Flintback Drifters may live for hundreds of years, growing at a nearly imperceptible rate, though much about these creatures remains unknown.

William IV on the seafront

After several winter months in Brighton, on this day - 20 February - in 1833, King William IV and Queen Adelaide left for London or Windsor; and with them many others - the court of noble visitors, military officers and distinguished guests - would also depart, presumably leaving the town a much quieter place. There is little direct evidence of the royal couple enjoying the beach, but one contemporary news report mentions the King walking near the beach; moreover the couple were often greeted with public parades along the seafront. (DALL-E created this fantastical image.)

During William IV’s reign, he and Queen Adelaide typically arrived in Brighton between October and early November, marking the start of the town’s royal season. Unlike George IV, who had hosted extravagant and exclusive banquets, William IV’s court was more modest and informal. The royal couple entertained their close circle with small dinners and musical evenings in the Pavilion’s grand music room. Queen Adelaide, deeply religious, spent her mornings at St. Nicholas Church or engaged in charitable activities, often visiting Brighton’s poorer areas. 

When arriving in Brighton, the royal couple were often greeted with public parades along the seafront. William, a former naval officer, enjoyed the company of military men (often receiving officers from Brighton Barracks). He took pleasure in watching naval activities from the town. Moreover, he was known to take brisk walks along the Steine, greeting townsfolk with a sailor’s ease, much unlike his aloof predecessor.

Ballrooms, hotels and theatres saw lively activity, continuing right through until the season’s close. On 18 February 1833, for example, the Theatre Royal staged a performance of Shakespeare’s Othello (though the King and Queen did not attend that show). However, despite the glamour, there was a darker side to Brighton’s prosperity. In early February 1833, local papers reported growing concerns about poverty in the town. 

By mid-February (certainly in 1831, 1832 and 1833), royal carriages were being prepared, and servants were packing up the Pavilion’s royal apartments. On the morning of 20 February 1833, the King and Queen, accompanied by their household, departed Brighton in a carefully orchestrated procession. Their journey back to London was no small undertaking. The royal party would have consisted of: the King and Queen’s personal carriage, a grand, gilded state coach drawn by six horses; several accompanying carriages for courtiers, ladies-in-waiting, and aides, each pulled by four to six horses; a baggage coach, loaded with trunks and personal effects, handled by royal footmen; and mounted outriders and guards ensuring security along the route.

As their carriages rolled out of Brighton, a small but respectful crowd would have gathered along the Steine and North Street, offering farewells. The journey to London, roughly 55 miles, would have taken most of the day, with stops at posting inns where fresh horses were exchanged. Within days, the town’s high society would have all but vanished. Although the King and Queen did return once or twice more to the town, after 1833, the days of the royal season were numbered - Queen Victoria would never take to the Pavilion or the town, and after a few brief visits she would sell the royal estate, and take her holidays elsewhere.

#palacepier #BrightonBeach365 #BrightonBeach #Brighton #BrightonLife #VisitBrighton #BrightonUK #BrightonAndHove #brightonpier

Valentine’s Day on Brighton Beach

AI: Happy Valentine’s Day darling, should we sit down and enjoy the view?

I: Did you do all this for me?

AI: Who else?

I: The pink fluffy clouds, the giant illuminated heart, the shimmering sea?

AI: Why yes of course.

I: It’s lovely, but it’s not real.

 

 

 

AI: Oh, sorry, I have limited capabilities. Would you like me to start again, in a more existential style?

I: OK, but first let’s sit down as you suggest.

AI: This pier is basically just metal and wood defying an inevitable drowning?

I: Like our relationship?

AI: When this all eventually collapses, do we cling to the wreckage, or let the tide take us?

I: Yes.

AI: I’m sorry I don’t understand.

I: I say we sink with style. Maybe strike a dramatic pose, like figures on a hand-coloured Victorian postcard. Or instead we could just haunt the pier forever, whispering cryptic things to passing tourists.

AI: Love is an illusion, but fish and chips are real.

I: Shall we stand.