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.

Here, once, long ago . . .

Here is the third 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 one depicts a coastal scene with sandy beach, a patchwork blue sea, and white chalk cliffs topped with green hills - reminiscent of the iconic Seven Sisters near Eastbourne. A seagull soars in the turquoise sky.

Limerick starter

By the cliffs where the wild seagulls glide,

And the waves kiss the shore in their stride,

Stands a view bathed in light,

Stained in blue, gold, and white,

A bright window where memories still hide.

Here, once, long ago . . . (in the style of Virginia Woolf)

The sea, endless, undulating, the light on it like fragments of glass scattered, shifting, uncatchable. She stood on the cliff’s edge, the air thick with salt and memory. Here, once, long ago - or was it only yesterday? - she had stood with her mother, small hand in the larger, fingers pressed into the cool linen of her dress.

‘The tide,’ her mother had said, ‘comes and goes. Just like us.’

Now the tide was low, revealing sandbars slick and golden, the blue water folding over them in sheets of silk. The white bird, fixed in its motion, rose, dipped, hovered - no, not the bird, the light. Or was it her thought, circling, returning, never quite alighting?

She had left. The city had swallowed her, the rhythm of trains and traffic erasing the lulling hush of waves. And yet, here, in this moment, the sea reclaimed her, drew her back into itself, as if she had never been gone at all. The sky stretched, the cliffs stood, the bird soared, unchanging. Only she, trembling, felt the passage of time, the slow etching of years upon the mind like wind upon the chalk-white stone.

She stepped forward, down the winding path that led to the shore, her boots slipping slightly on the damp earth. The wind pressed against her, urging her on, carrying with it the scent of seaweed and brine. She remembered running down this path as a child, feet bare, pebbles sharp beneath her soles, her mother’s voice calling her name, half warning, half laughter.

At the water’s edge, she bent, fingers skimming the foam as a wave retreated. The cold shocked her skin. A piece of sea glass, smoothed and pale, lay half-buried in the sand. She picked it up, held it to the light. Blue, like the window in the old chapel on the hill. Like the sky before a storm.

Footsteps behind her. A voice - soft, familiar.

‘You always did love the sea.’

She turned. And for a moment, the years dissolved like the foam at her feet.

Brighton Beach Cowboy

The tide had pulled back, leaving a scatter of pebbles and seaweed tangled like a woman’s uncombed hair. Jeb Coulter stood at the water’s edge, boot heels digging into the wet sand, staring down at the thing half-buried beneath the wrack. It was a revolver, or at least the ghost of one, its shape worn smooth by salt and time. He bent down and picked it up, turning it in his hand. The weight was gone, its cylinder fused, the barrel plastic. Still, the sight of it sent a shiver down his spine.

It had been years since Jeb last held a gun. Years since the night he rode out of Abilene with his brother’s blood on his hands and a Cherokee war party at his heels. He had made it to the coast, crossed the ocean to escape his past, and found a different kind of frontier along these windswept shores. But some things, it seemed, could never be outrun.

He turned at the sound of footsteps crunching over stone. A man in a long coat approached, the collar pulled up high against the wind. Jeb recognised the stride before he saw the face.

‘Figured you might turn up sooner or later,’ Jeb muttered, slipping the ruined gun into his coat pocket.

The man stopped a few paces away, close enough for Jeb to see the jagged scar along his cheek. ‘You know why I’m here.’

Jeb nodded. He had known for a long time that his past would come calling. He had betrayed the Comanche chief who took him in as a boy, abandoned his tribe when the Army came, and left his own blood to die on the plains. The man standing before him was proof that debts were never truly settled.

‘I ain’t the same man I was back then,’ Jeb said. ‘And that thing ain’t a gun anymore.’

The man smiled grimly. ‘Don’t matter. You know what’s gotta be done.’

Jeb sighed, his breath misting in the cold air. He looked past the man, out to where the waves rolled against the shore, dark and endless. He could run again. Try to disappear into the mist. Or he could face what was coming, the way a man ought to.

His hand fingered the ghostly revolver in his pocket. Useless. Just like trying to change the past.

The wind howled, carrying the cries of gulls and ghosts alike. Jeb squared his shoulders.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s finish this.’

With thanks to ChatGPT, and apologies to Elmer Kelton.

Operation Brushstroke on Glass

Here is the second of 25 stained glass window designs on the Palace Pier which AI & I are using as inspiration for some of these BrightonBeach365 daily posts - see Stained glass window 1 for background.

This one is a vibrant tableau of mid-century joie de vivre. A ruby-red convertible bursts forth from its circular frame, promising adventure on sun-drenched boulevards and Brighton Beach beyond. At the wheel sits a debonair driver, sporting a jaunty cap, while his companion, draped in emerald green, gestures with carefree abandon towards the azure sky. 

Limerick starter

Two travellers sped down the lane,

In a car that was red as a flame.

With a cheer and a shout,

They were zipping about,

On a Brighton trip wild and insane!

Operation Brushstroke on Glass (in the style of James Bond)

James Bond and Veronica Steele were speeding down Marine Parade in a cherry-red convertible. Veronica’s scarf whipped behind her as she raised her arm to secure her hair against the wind.

‘You do realise this car is about as subtle as fireworks on New Year’s Eve?’ she quipped.

‘Subtlety is overrated,’ Bond replied, shifting gears as they approached the pier. ‘Besides, it’s Brighton. We’ll blend right in.’

As they reached the pier entrance, Bond parked with deliberate carelessness, drawing more than a few curious glances. The pair strolled onto the wooden planks, their eyes darting between the garish carnival games and food stalls. The salty air mingled with the scent of fried fish and seaweed. As they entered the Winter Garden, the sun poured through the stained glass dome, casting a kaleidoscope of colours. 

James Bond leaned casually against a bar, ordered a martini, and let his sharp blue eyes scan the bustling crowd. The image above him - a vibrant depiction of a man and woman in a red convertible - seemed almost prophetic.

‘Careful, Bond,’ said Veronica Steele, appearing at his side. She wore a green silk dress that matched her piercing gaze. ‘You’re staring at that stained glass as if it’s going to offer you answers.’

‘Art has a way of speaking to us,’ Bond replied with a smirk. ‘And this one seems to be saying “trouble ahead.” ’

Trouble wasn’t far off. Somewhere among the revellers was Emil Kovacs, an art smuggler turned arms dealer who had stolen a priceless microfilm encoded with nuclear launch codes. MI6 had intel that Kovacs planned to hand it off tonight on the iconic Palace Pier.

No sooner had his martini arrived than Veronica whispered ‘there’, nodding toward a small group just beyond the exit, outside, with Kovacs at its centre.’

‘Stay close,’ Bond murmured.

They approached casually, blending into the crowd until they were within earshot. Kovacs handed over a small package wrapped in brown paper just as Veronica stepped forward.

‘Excuse me,’ she said sweetly, ‘but I believe you’ve dropped something.’

Kovacs turned, startled, but before he could react, Bond had him pinned against a carousel’s painted horses.

‘Let’s not make this difficult,’ Bond said coolly, relieving Kovacs of both his weapon and the package.

The man in the yellow jacket bolted toward the end of the pier, but Veronica was faster. She intercepted him with an elegant sweep of her leg, sending him sprawling onto the wooden planks.

‘Well done,’ Bond said as he cuffed Kovacs with a set of MI6-issued restraints. ‘You’re proving quite useful.’

‘I aim to please,’ Veronica replied with a sly smile.

As they walked back toward their car with Kovacs in tow, Bond glanced up at the stained glass dome glowing faintly in the distance.

‘Art does imitate life,’ he mused.

‘And life with you is never dull,’ Veronica added.

The night air carried their laughter as they disappeared into Brighton’s neon-lit streets - a red convertible gliding through chaos like a brushstroke on glass.

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

The Green Gecko

The alien, who had chosen to disguise itself as a small green gecko, was experiencing some serious second thoughts. It had picked the shape after extensive research into Earth life forms (which largely consisted of an out-of-date wildlife documentary narrated by a man who sounded like he personally disapproved of evolution). The gecko, it had concluded, was small, unassuming, and possessed the ability to stick to surfaces. What it had failed to account for, however, was Brighton Beach. 

[With a nod to ChatGPT, and apologies to Terry (Pratchett). See also The Red Spider.]

Instead of warm, welcoming jungle, the alien had landed amongst an inhospitable terrain of sharp pebbles, aggressive seaweed, and something that looked suspiciously like an old shoelace with ideas above its station. Worse, a blustery wind kept trying to dislodge it, sending it skittering across the stones like a very confused lizard-based pinball.

Its mission was simple: assess Earth for potential invasion. But already, the gecko-alien suspected it would have to file a very different report than planned. The locals - seagulls, mostly - were vicious, psychotic creatures with a talent for aerial bombardment. The sea was clearly attempting to eat the land, and what little it had not consumed was covered in bizarrely shaped pebbles that, if you squinted just right, looked disturbingly like screaming faces. The crowning glory of the place, however, was the Great Knotted Thing.

The gecko-alien eyed it warily.

A mass of black seaweed, dried kelp, and an alarming amount of turquoise string had somehow assembled itself into a tangled, eldritch horror nestled between the stones. A strand of something - possibly rope, possibly something worse - twitched ominously in the wind. The alien extended a cautious claw to poke it and immediately regretted the decision as a strand of the Thing looped itself around its leg with unnatural enthusiasm.

There was a long pause.

The gecko wiggled.

The Thing tightened its grip.

On its home planet of Glorp Minor, where everything was logically structured and neatly categorised (right down to the appropriate screaming frequencies for different bureaucratic mishaps), this kind of unexpected development was unheard of. Here, however, the world seemed to be held together by inexplicable chaos and questionable knots. It was terrifying. And, in a small and entirely unwelcome way, a little thrilling.

The gecko-alien redoubled its efforts. It had faced the horrors of intergalactic space travel. It had spent three days trapped in a malfunctioning disguise generator and lived to tell the tale (although it now had a deep and lingering fear of being turned into a sentient teapot). It was not about to be bested by some uppity string.

After several frantic minutes, during which it somehow ended up even more entangled than before, the alien made a decision. It took a deep breath, deactivated the disguise, and stood up in its full tentacled, many-eyed glory. The Thing twitched once in defiance before wisely deciding to let go.

The alien sighed, turned on its communicator, and made its report.

‘Mission assessment: negative. This planet is a health hazard. Also, the local flora appears to be sapient, aggressive, and organised. Recommend immediate evacuation and strong intergalactic warning signs.’

With that, it activated its emergency teleport, leaving behind nothing but an untied knot, a very confused seagull, and a Brighton Beach that was none the wiser about its close brush with conquest.

Stained glass window 1

In the beginning, piers were built as landing stages for boats, though they evolved into promenades where people could enjoy the sea and the sea air without getting wet. However, there is another way of looking at piers: as the elongation of beaches. In this, I am with Rachel Carson who wrote, in her 1955 book The Edge of the Sea: ‘A pier is but a pathway for those who wish to walk where the land meets the sea, a man-made extension of the beach’s timeless conversation with the tide.’

Thus, just as I have defined the limits east and west for BrightonBeach356 - see How long is Brighton Beach? - I am now stating my intention to consider the piers as part of Brighton Beach, a la Carson!

Moreover, I am also revealing an intention to run a series of posts inspired by the much over-looked stained glass windows in the Palace of Fun building on Brighton Pier. There are 45 windows, though two have slats rather than glass, and there are 24 designs in two sizes. Most designs appear twice, and the duplicates are sometimes reversed or with a slight detail change. 

These beautiful and characterful stained glass designs seem to have been cheapened by their amusement arcade surrounds, and forgotten over time - I can find no evidence of them being designed or installed, I will, however, have more to say forthwith about these windows. Meanwhile, over the 365 days of 2025, AI and I will endeavour to let each one inspire their own daily post. 

A limerick starter

Two windmills stood high on the hill,

Turning round with a whistling thrill.

They spun day and night,

With the sea in their sight,

And they never, not once, stood still!

The Windmills and the Sea (in the style of D. H. Lawrence)

The wind rushed over the rolling hills, bending the grasses with its force, carrying the scent of the distant sea. Mary stood at the crest of the land, watching the twin windmills turning - slow, steady, relentless. They had always been there, just as her father had always been at sea, just as her mother had always stood at this same window, waiting.

Below, the land curved in smooth undulations of green and brown, reaching towards the edge where the cliffs met the vast expanse of blue-grey water. The tide was coming in, waves curling against the rocks with a kind of eternal purpose, much like the windmills.

She had grown up in their shadow, listening to their groaning creak as they spun in the wind, their movements as inevitable as the cycle of seasons. They stood like sentinels, watching over the land and the sea alike. But today, Mary felt a change. There was something different in the air, a charge beneath the steady rhythm of the blades slicing through the sky.

A figure moved near the base of the western mill - Samuel. His presence always unsettled her, a shadow in the otherwise predictable landscape. He was a man of the land, thick-shouldered, hands rough from work, and yet his eyes carried something deeper, something searching.

‘You’re watching the sea again,’ he said as he came closer, wiping sweat from his brow.

She did not turn. ‘The tide’s changing.’

He followed her gaze. ‘It always does.’

She wanted to tell him about the feeling in her chest, the stirring that had begun to take root ever since she had received word of her father’s ship - lost. Not wrecked, not sunk, just. . . missing. Somewhere beyond the horizon. She wanted to tell him that she felt as if the windmills, steady and ceaseless, were whispering something new today.

But instead, she said, ‘One day, I will leave.’

Samuel’s hands tensed at his sides. ‘And where would you go?’

She exhaled, watching the windmills, the sea, the endless sky. ‘Anywhere the wind takes me.’

A gust of wind rushed over them, and the great wooden blades groaned, turning, turning - just as they always had, just as they always would.

And yet, for the first time, Mary felt something shift.

The Red Spider

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a pebble-strewn beach, particularly one as lively as Brighton’s, must conceal treasures of singular peculiarity. It was on a brisk and clear morning, with the waves curling gently against the shore, that Miss Cordelia Calder - an accomplished young lady of both artistic disposition and sensible manners - happened upon an object so extraordinary as to defy reason.

There, amidst the dulcet tones of the sea and the chatter of Brighton’s fashionable promenaders, lay a red spider, crafted not of flesh and limb, but of knotted cord. Its crude appearance might, to an untrained eye, have been dismissed as flotsam, but to Miss Calder, it bespoke a story yet untold. With a sense of gentle curiosity, she stooped to retrieve the curious artefact, feeling a slight but distinct chill as her fingers closed around its threads.

It was not long before she perceived that the beach itself seemed altered. The ordinary murmur of the waves grew distant, replaced by an eerie stillness. The pebbles at her feet glimmered faintly, and the horizon shimmered as though the veil of reality had been lifted. Miss Calder, though accustomed to the occasional oddities of seaside leisure, could not but feel a tremor of unease. Yet her natural composure prevailed, and she continued to examine the spider with interest.

Presently, she was startled by the appearance of a figure - an elderly gentleman of dignified yet sea-weathered countenance, his coat stitched with patches that seemed to glisten like the scales of a fish. He regarded Miss Calder with an air of benevolent authority.

‘Madam,’ he began, in a voice that seemed to echo with the cadence of the tide, ‘you have stumbled upon the Red Spider, a keeper of dreams and a weaver of destiny. It is no small thing to hold, for its threads bind those who encounter it to the whims of the sea.’

Miss Calder, though perplexed, replied with characteristic civility. ‘Indeed, sir, I find myself most intrigued by your account. Yet I am at a loss to comprehend how so small and unassuming an object could wield such extraordinary influence.’

The gentleman inclined his head. ‘It is the nature of the sea, Miss Calder, to conceal its grandeur in humble forms. The Spider has lain here for many an age, awaiting one with the vision to perceive its worth. It offers a choice: to remain in your present life, unaltered, or to embrace its power and embark upon a journey of imagination and consequence, one that will forever alter the course of your days.’

Miss Calder, though possessing a practical mind, was not insensible to the allure of adventure. She considered the gentleman’s words with due deliberation, her artist’s soul stirred by the prospect of a destiny intertwined with the fantastical. At length, she spoke.

‘Sir, I am grateful for your counsel, and I confess my heart is moved by the promise of such a journey. Yet I would not take this path without the means to share its wonders with others, for it is my belief that art and imagination must be devoted to the enrichment of society.’

The gentleman’s weathered features softened into a smile. ‘Your wish is wise, and it shall be granted. Take the Spider and, with it, the gift to weave the dreams of the sea into your art. Use it well, and the world shall be all the richer for your vision.’

With a bow, the gentleman vanished, leaving Miss Calder alone once more on the beach. The Red Spider lay in her hand, its cords warm now, as if infused with life. Though she returned to her lodgings that day with no outward sign of adventure, her subsequent works - a series of paintings and tales suffused with the ethereal beauty of the sea - captivated all who beheld them, securing her place among the foremost artists and authors of her time.

And the Red Spider? It remained with her, a silent guardian of a dream once dreamed and a secret now held.

With a nod to ChatGPT, and apologies to Jane.