A frilly crimson ruffle

Found on the beach: a frilly crimson tuft washed ashore, striking against the pebbles like a splash of paint. This is Chondrus crispus, better known as Irish moss or carrageen, one of the most distinctive of the red seaweeds. Its fronds are flat and forked, often 2-15 cm long, with tips that curl into a lacework of ruffles. The colour varies from greenish through deep red to purple, depending on age, light and water conditions. 

Like many algae, Chondrus has a complex life cycle that alternates between two diploid generations and a haploid gametophyte phase. Fertilised female fronds develop tiny cystocarps where spores form, and these are carried back into the sea to grow into new plants. This alternation of generations, shared across the red algae, means the seaweed thrives in different conditions and ensures its persistence around the rocky Atlantic coasts of Europe and North America.

Though small, Chondrus crispus has long had a large presence in coastal life. In Ireland it was gathered and boiled in milk to make a sweet blancmange, while in the 19th century it was sold as a remedy for coughs and chest ailments. Its processed extract - carrageenan - is now a global commodity, valued for its ability to gel and thicken. 

Food scientists prize the seaweed’s stabilising properties, and it turns up in ice cream, custard, yoghurt, beer, toothpaste and even some cosmetics. Dried and rehydrated, it can still be cooked into traditional puddings or soups; eaten raw, it carries the taste of the tide. Foragers warn that it should only be taken from clean waters and not picked from beach wrack,

Traditionally, Irish moss is hand-raked or gathered by hand at low tide from rocky intertidal zones. In some places, small boats were used to drag rakes or nets over the seaweed beds. Harvesting is usually concentrated in late spring and summer when growth is fastest. Collectors often follow local licensing or community rules to avoid damaging the beds. Once gathered, the seaweed is washed in seawater to remove sand and shells, then spread out on beaches or fields to dry in the sun. This drying both preserves the seaweed and enhances the gel strength of carrageenan.

For further information see the Marine Life Information Network, the UN Food and Agriculture Organization and Totally Wild UK (our main goal is to excite people with the amazing flavours to be found in the wild).

Juvenile herring gull

Found on Brighton Beach: a boldly barred feather from a young herring gull, and, nearby, the bird itself resting among the shingle. Juvenile herring gulls are clad in mottled brown plumage that provides camouflage against pebbles and sand, with dark bills and pale streaked heads. They will not gain the crisp grey-and-white adult plumage until their fourth year, passing through several transitional stages. The feather on the beach is part of this annual cycle, dropped as the bird grows and moults, each stage revealing a closer resemblance to the adults wheeling above the seafront.

Herring gulls (Larus argentatus) are common residents of the Sussex coast but their numbers in natural colonies have declined sharply, leading to a Red List status despite their success in towns and on rooftops. They begin breeding at about four years old, laying two or three eggs in late spring, with both parents sharing incubation and feeding. The chicks fledge after five to six weeks but remain dependent for a while, learning to forage on intertidal invertebrates, fish, carrion and discarded food. A bird that survives its first winters may live for decades, and ringed individuals have been recorded at over 30 years old.

The multitude of gulls seen loafing on Brighton’s pebbles are rarely nesting on the shore itself. Instead, most come from colonies established on rooftops throughout the city. Since the 1970s herring gulls and lesser black-backed gulls have increasingly used chimneys, ledges and flat roofs as substitutes for cliffs, taking advantage of the protection from predators and the ready supply of food in urban areas. Thousands of pairs now breed across Brighton and Hove, while natural cliff colonies remain further along the coast at Newhaven, Seaford Head and Beachy Head. The young birds you see on the beach may have been raised only a few hundred metres inland, above hotels, flats and shops lining the promenade.

The juvenile on the pebbles is one of many dispersing from nests this season, leaving behind patterned feathers as evidence of their growth. Those fragments are reminders that the familiar gulls of Brighton, noisy and opportunistic, carry complex life cycles bound to the changing fortunes of the sea and the town.

For more information see the RSPB and BTO BirdFacts.

A monstrous tuna

On this day, nearly 250 years ago, an anonymous visitor to Brighthelmstone stood on the shingle and noted in his diary a ‘monstrous fish, called a Tunie,’ hauled ashore to the profit of curious onlookers. Those pages were later mislabelled as ‘Mr Bew’s diary,’ but the writer was in fact Peregrine Phillips, a solicitor from London whose 1778-1779 journal is among the earliest substantial first-person accounts of Brighton.

3 September 1778: ‘On the beach: A monstrous fish, called a Tunie, but not much unlike a shark, lays on the shore, wearing two double rows of large masticators: it has broke the net, and, towards mending same, the fishermen collect money of the curious. But is not this impolite, especially as such exhibitions happen very frequent? for might not such a voracious monster come, or be toss’d nearer in, and fish in its turn for human white-bait? Ask a fisherman about this, who, with an arch leer, assures me they are forbid coming nearer in shore than six or seven miles, which, without doubt, I swallow implicitly, “Mark, how the toe of the peasant doth kibe the heel - (I was going to say) of the courtier.” ’ The image here was made by ChatGPT.

Phillips was an eighteenth-century London solicitor with Whig sympathies whose name now rides on one of Brighton’s earliest printed first-person accounts. Contemporary catalogues attribute to him A Sentimental Diary, kept in an Excursion to Little Hampton, near Arundel and Brighthelmstone (London, 1778), a lively narrative (affected, perhaps, by Laurence Sterne’s digressive style) that opens with the editor’s conceit of ‘found papers’ in a coffee-house and then settles into day-by-day observations of Littlehampton, Arundel, and Brighthelmstone in the season. 

Two years later the material was reissued and expanded (with an alternative spelling!), as A Diary kept in an Excursion to Littlehampton, near Arundel and Brighthelmston in 1778; and also to the latter place in 1779 (London, 1780), in two volumes ‘printed for the author,’ recording a return visit the following year. Phillips writes as a sociable observer - curious about bathing machines and beach music, keen on playbills and libraries - so his Brighton pages preserve small but telling particulars of the Steine, the North Street theatre, raffles and ‘trinket auctions’, and the tempo of a growing resort. Beyond authorship he surfaces in theatre circles through his daughter, the celebrated Drury Lane singer Anna Maria Crouch (née Phillips), which helps explain his ear for stage life and his informed remarks on the Brighton companies. Read together, the 1778 and 1779 sequences form the oldest published diary-length account of real substance devoted to Brighton.

Victorian writers muddied the waters by calling it ‘Mr Bew’s diary’. This seems to have been because the 1780 edition was sold by the London bookseller J. Bew. John Ackerson Erredge, for example, mined the original diary for his History of Brighthelmston (1862), only he identified (wrongly again) a different Mr Bew! - a dentist and occasional theatre lessee. In summary: the diarist was Phillips; Bew sold the book; the dentist came later. 

A year after witnessing the tuna, Phillips was again on Brighton Beach (for this extract I have modernised the language)..  

20 September 1779: ‘On the Sands: I have been haggling over some fish and talking to two men by the seaside, whose boat the breakers have just thrown ashore. They say they dare not sell their fish on the beach. One of the poor men is deaf; and no wonder, considering the high winds, which blow for more than half the year almost incessantly. He says his partner, who is in the boat - poor man! - is lame, a perfect cripple: that they were, God help them, beneath the notice of the press-gang. I muttered, in a low tone, my indignation against the late midnight act, which took away the fishermen’s statute-right of exemption from the impress; when the deaf man, suddenly turning round, much to my surprise, thanked me for being the poor man’s friend, and bawled to his partner, the perfect cripple, to jump out of the boat and bring the fish ashore. “The gentleman was a gentleman, and should have his choice, God bless him, of the whole parcel.” At the same instant he fixed a quid of tobacco in his mouth, winked with his right eye, and told his comrade to “jaw no more; there was no danger.” The poor fellows are obliged to use a little craft; and who can blame them?’

Little ol’ me

Hmm… these green buses aren’t very tasty. All showy paint, no chips inside. Crunchy, yes, but not the good kind. Not like a battered sausage. Or even one of those flapjack cubes from the café with the seafront awning. I miss those. Oh crumbs, literal crumbs - I miss crumbs. These days, crumbs wouldn’t keep me alive for five minutes, not since I’ve grown to the size of an SUV.

People screaming. I don’t want to hurt them. I thought maybe this time one of them would drop something hot and greasy and perfect. I don’t want phones; they taste almost as bad as beach pebbles.

Why did I peck the bus? Why do I keep pecking buses?

Oh no . . . someone’s filming again. Look at them, tiny hands raised like they’re trying to tame me. I’m not a monster. I’m just big. And starving.

That mixer thing, ahead of the green buses. It smells odd. Kind of like eggs? Hot pavement? A building site in summer? Maybe it’s got gravy inside. Maybe it’s a giant sausage roll for machines. Maybe - just one peck. One nibble. Ugh.

I didn’t ask to grow this big. One minute I’m arguing over a churro with Kevin, the next I’ve outgrown the bandstand and I’m scaring toddlers, and their parents are calling 999. I don’t even fit under the pier anymore. I used to roost there. It was cosy. It was safe. Now all I want is food.

There’s another bus. I’m getting a sense that I need to do more, work a bit harder to feed myself . . . The people inside, they’re looking very tasty. Oh look, some of them are getting off at the bus stop. I’ve grown too hungry to control myself, now I see the answer perfectly: this may be a bus stop for people, but it’s a food stop for little ol’ me.

Where the sea has no memory

Here is the 14th 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 coastal landscape. In the foreground, rounded white shapes suggest foamy waves breaking onto the shore, with different shades of blue indicating the sea. To the right, green and yellow forms rise upward like a cliff or headland. Above, a large pale cloud dominates the sky, with smaller purple-tinged clouds drifting across. Cutting through the centre is a brown bird in flight, wings outstretched against the sky.

A limerick starter

Clouds of pale lavender hue,

A bird split the turquoise in two.

Where emerald cliffs lean,

On the foam’s shifting green,

The sky wrote its story in blue.

Where the sea has no memory (with apologies to Cormac McCarthy)

The sky above Brighton was broken with cloud. A bird cut through the wind and went on across the water, dark against the pale. The sea was restless. White spume drifted over the stones like smoke and the tide ran its slow iron rhythm, pushing the shingle, pulling it back.

A man stood at the rail of the pier. His coat was buttoned but the wind got in all the same and pressed the cloth against his body. He watched the bird, the curve of its wing, the small correction of its flight. He thought of how the sea had no memory and how the gull had no home but the wind. Behind him came the sound of coin machines, the bark of a stallholder, the scream of a ride, all faint in the distance like echoes in a dream.

He turned from the pier and went down to the beach. The stones rolled under his boots. He stooped and picked one up, dark and wet, and he held it in his hand. It was cold. He turned it over and over, looking at the way the water had smoothed it, how it had come to be like this from years beyond counting. He thought of his father and the silence of him. He thought of his mother’s warnings about the sea and how she feared it though she could not stay away from it.

He walked to the edge where the water reached. The foam curled white around his feet. The gull cried and turned inland. He looked at the horizon where the sea and sky were one. The thought came to him that a man could walk straight into that line and never come back and the world would not change for it.

A child’s voice rose up behind him and he turned. A boy was running along the beach, chasing another, both laughing. Their shouts carried in the wind. The man watched until they were gone. He dropped the stone and it fell among the others and vanished from him.

The sea kept on. The pier stood in its shadow of iron and wood. The bird wheeled once more above the headland, and then it too was gone. The man put his hands in his pockets and began to walk.

A roker’s tail

Found on the beach: all that’s left of a thornback ray (Raja clavata) - its distinctive tail.

The thornback ray, or ‘roker’ as it is often called in the UK, is a familiar and charismatic resident of British coastal waters, including the shores around Brighton. Its name comes from the distinctive thorn-like spines that stud its back and tail - these are actually modified skin teeth, giving the ray a rough, almost armored appearance. With its broad, diamond-shaped body and short snout, the thornback ray glides over sandy and muddy seabeds, its mottled brown-grey upper surface dappled with yellowish patches and dark spots, blending perfectly with the sea floor.

Unlike most true rays, thornback rays are technically skates, and they lay eggs rather than giving birth to live young. Each spring and summer, females deposit tough, rectangular egg cases - known to beachcombers as ‘mermaid’s purses’ - in sheltered areas on the seabed (see also A catshark that is a dogfish.) Inside each case, a single embryo develops, feeding on a yolk sac for four to five months before hatching as a miniature ray, already equipped with the beginnings of its signature thorns. Juveniles spend their early months in shallow nursery grounds, gradually venturing into deeper waters as they grow. Males reach maturity at around seven years old, females at about nine, and some individuals may live for over two decades.

Thornback rays are opportunistic predators, feeding on a variety of crustaceans and small fish. Juveniles prefer shrimps and small crabs, while adults tackle larger crustaceans and fish, using their powerful jaws to crush shells. The thornback’s rough skin and formidable thorns provide some defense against predators, and these features become more pronounced with age, especially in females, who develop a line of large thorns along their backs.

There is often confusion between skates and rays, but the differences are subtle yet significant. Skates like the thornback lay eggs, while most true rays bear live young. Skates have stockier tails without venomous spines and tend to have more pronounced dorsal fins, whereas rays often have slender, whip-like tails and, in some species, venomous stings. In the UK, the term ‘ray’ is often used for both, adding to the muddle, especially at fishmongers where ‘skate wings’ are a common offering.

Around Brighton, the thornback ray is a familiar catch for anglers and is sometimes landed by commercial fisheries. Conservation groups in Sussex have launched campaigns to monitor ray populations and promote sustainable fishing practices, though the thornback ray is currently listed as Least Concern on the IUCN Red List.

Other rays share these waters, including the undulate ray with its wavy markings, the blonde ray, and the once-abundant but now critically endangered common skate. The fate of these species is intertwined with that of the thornback, as they are often caught together in mixed fisheries. The challenge is compounded by the difficulty in identifying species once they are skinned and sold as generic ‘skate’ wings. See Wikipedia for more on the roker!

Sea spaghetti for tea?

Found on the beach: spaghetti! Himanthalia elongata, more commonly known as thongweed or sea spaghetti, is a remarkable brown seaweed that often surprises beachcombers with its long, noodle-like fronds. This species is native to the rocky shores of the northeast Atlantic, from Scandinavia to Portugal, and is especially common around the coasts of Britain and Ireland. It can also be eaten raw or cooked, and is rich in dietary fibre and essential vitamins.

The life-cycle of Himanthalia elongata is both unique and fascinating. It begins as a tiny, olive-green button attached firmly to a rock. This button, only a few centimetres wide, is the vegetative stage and can persist for two to three years. In autumn or winter, the button produces one or more long, strap-like reproductive fronds, which can grow rapidly and reach up to two meters in length by the following summer. These straps, or receptacles, are where reproduction takes place. When mature, the straps become mottled with brown spots, each marking the opening to a reproductive chamber. Gametes are released from June through winter, and after this single reproductive event, the plant dies - a lifecycle known as semelparity or ‘big bang’ reproduction.

The zygotes of Himanthalia elongata are unusually large and heavy for seaweeds, measuring about 0.2 mm across. This size helps them settle quickly onto the substrate, but it also means they are less likely to disperse far from the parent plant. After fertilisation, there is a delay of several days before the young plant develops anchoring structures, and the presence of adult plants nearby can help protect these vulnerable germlings from harsh environmental conditions. For more on this unique seaweed see Wikipedia or The Marine Life Information Network (which is also the source of the photograph below by Paul Newland).

Himanthalia elongata is not just a curiosity for naturalists - it has a range of uses, both traditional and modern. The fronds are edible and have a mild flavour, making them popular in coastal cuisines. They can be eaten raw in salads, boiled, steamed, or even deep-fried, and are sometimes used as a grain-free alternative to pasta. In addition to their culinary uses, the fronds can be dried and powdered to thicken soups and stews, or marinated for use in various dishes.

Nutritionally, sea spaghetti is rich in dietary fibre, antioxidants, vitamins, minerals, and bioactive compounds such as phlorotannins and carotenoids. It has been shown to lower sodium content and improve the nutritional profile of meat products, and is being studied for its potential health benefits, including anti-hyperglycaemic and neuroprotective effects. For more information on this see The National Library of Medicine.

There are several unusual aspects to Himanthalia elongata. For one, it invests almost all its biomass in reproduction, with up to 98 percent of its tissue dedicated to the long, strap-like fronds. The species is also the only member of its genus and family, making it a true oddity among seaweeds. Its large, heavy zygotes are adapted to settle quickly, but this limits their ability to colonise new areas, so populations tend to be quite localised. The fronds can grow at rates of up to 16 mm per day in optimal spring conditions, and the plant’s lifecycle is so tightly linked to environmental cues that the timing of reproduction can vary significantly from place to place.

Guest: Brighton Beach, North Vancouver

Brighton Beach, tucked discreetly along the rugged western shore of Indian Arm in North Vancouver (Canada), is a boat-access-only enclave that feels worlds removed from the nearby city. This Brighton Beach bears no connection to the old Brighton Hotel or the Hastings Townsite that gave rise to Vancouver’s New Brighton Park. Instead, it is a small, secluded stretch of waterfront lots where dense forest tumbles down to rocky shores, and the only way home is by skiff or water taxi. Here, the community of roughly two dozen properties thrives on the very isolation that would deter most - a haven for those drawn to tranquillity, self-reliance, and the daily rhythms of tide and weather.

Residents who live haul groceries and supplies by boat, navigate steep woodland paths to reach their cabins, and rely on solar panels, rain barrels, and wood stoves. Real estate listings lean into this rugged romance, appealing to artists and adventurous spirits who crave an off-grid life with views of shimmering waters and distant snow-dusted peaks. One cottage, with its modest footprint and sweeping decks, was recently described as perfect for ‘a creative who needs a quiet retreat,’ the sort of place where inspiration might arrive with the morning mist.

Yet the tranquillity here is punctuated by episodes that underscore both the vulnerability and the tenacity of this community. In July 2016, Brighton Beach faced a dramatic trial when a fire broke out, consuming a cottage and a neighbouring home under construction. Firefighters had to be ferried in aboard a Vancouver fire boat, pumping ocean water at astonishing rates while a helicopter hovered overhead, dropping water to stop the flames from reaching the slopes of Mount Seymour. By some miracle and much effort, the fire was contained before it could leap into the forested backbone of the North Shore (see Castanet).

Quirky tales also ripple through Brighton Beach’s recent history. Paddleboarders and kayakers have recounted close encounters with seals and otters, but in 2023, local waters played host to a far grander visitor. A lone orca, soon affectionately nicknamed ‘Indy,’ spent time exploring the entrance to nearby Howe Sound and Indian Arm, thrilling residents who watched from weathered docks and bobbing dinghies. One paddleboarder even found himself eye-to-eye with the orca. (See North Shore News.)

Today, Brighton Beach continues to embody a certain coastal eccentricity. It is a place where stories are exchanged over driftwood railings, where grocery trips are dictated by the tide, and where the vastness of nature presses close on all sides. Unlike its namesake to the south - born of colonial nostalgia for British seaside resorts - this Brighton Beach writes its own narrative, one shaped by cedar, salt air, and the enduring allure of a life perched at the edge of wilderness.

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]

Yellow horned-poppy

Found on the beach: the yellow horned-poppy (Glaucium flavum), a distinctive coastal plant, easily recognised by its vivid yellow flowers and long, curved seed pods. Native to the shores of Europe, North Africa, and western Asia, it thrives in some of the most inhospitable environments nature provides. Found on shingle beaches, sand dunes, and windswept cliffs, it is adapted to survive where few other species can. Its blue-green, deeply lobed leaves are coated with a waxy layer that helps reduce moisture loss and protect against salt spray, allowing the plant to withstand intense sun, saline winds, and poor, shifting soils.

Flowering from June to September, the yellow horned-poppy produces four-petalled blooms that stand out brightly against its muted foliage. These are followed by the plant’s most unusual feature: long, slender seed pods that resemble horns and can reach up to 30 centimetres in length. When mature, these pods split open forcefully, scattering seeds across the surrounding ground - an effective strategy for colonising mobile shingle and sand.

First formally described in the 18th century, the plant’s Latin name reflects its characteristics: Glaucium refers to its glaucous, or bluish-green, leaves, while flavum simply means yellow. Though less celebrated than the red field poppy, the yellow horned-poppy has appeared in folklore and poetry, often associated with themes of resilience and solitude. In some coastal traditions, picking the plant was considered unlucky and thought to bring storms or bad fortune to sailors.

Despite being toxic in all parts, the plant has a long history of medicinal and practical use. It contains the alkaloid glaucine, responsible for the yellow latex it exudes when cut. This compound, while potentially harmful, has been used as a non-opioid cough suppressant and bronchodilator, particularly in Eastern Europe, where glaucine salts were once prescribed for respiratory conditions. In English folk medicine, the root was sometimes used in poultices to treat bruises and pains. Historically, oil pressed from its seeds served as an ingredient in soap-making and as lamp fuel, although these uses have declined in modern times.

The yellow horned-poppy remains almost entirely coastal in its distribution, rarely found inland except as a garden escape or in areas where ancient shorelines once lay. Its ability to tolerate drought, salt, and wind makes it valuable in stabilising loose beach sediments and supporting fragile coastal ecosystems. The plant’s yellow sap can stain skin and was occasionally used as a dye. Gardeners sometimes cultivate it for its unusual appearance and resilience, particularly in gravel or seaside-themed gardens. It is unpalatable to deer, largely pest-free, and its bright blooms are attractive to bees. However, due to its toxicity, it should be handled with care, especially in gardens frequented by children or pets. Further information is available from The Wildlife Trusts and Wikipedia.

It is worth noting that as part of the council’s Black Rock Rejuvenation Project, the yellow horned-poppy is among 1,000 young plants now settling into specially designed shingle beds at the eastern end of Brighton Beach. These yellow horned-poppies were propagated by horticulturalists at Kew’s renowned Millennium Seed Bank at Wakehurst, using cuttings collected from existing beach populations by the Black Rock Project Team in collaboration with Kew experts. After being carefully nurtured and grown from both cuttings and seed, the yellow horned-poppies have been replanted in innovative ‘wave’ design beds that help shield them from the challenging coastal environment. See also Vegetated shingle.

Bring me . . . a sausage roll

[Scene: Brighton Beach. Two seagulls, Eric (taller, dafter) and Ernie (shorter, primmer), are perched near the ruins of the West Pier. With apologies to Morecambe and Wise.]

Eric: [pacing like a detective] I smell something, Ern. It’s in the air. The scent of danger. The perfume of peril. The unmistakable aroma . . . of pastry.

Ernie: Oh no. Not again. Last time you followed your beak, we ended up dive-bombing a hen party from Essex. I still have glitter in places no bird should sparkle.

Eric: I’ve refined my technique! Watch closely - I’ve developed a glide approach known only to the gulls of Monte Carlo.

Ernie: Monte Carlo? You’ve never even made it past Worthing.

Eric: I’ve got continental instincts, Ern. I’m like the James Bond of birds.

Ernie: You look more like the pigeon off the end of the pier.

Eric: That's rich, coming from a gull who’s scared of crisp packets.

Ernie: They rustle, Eric. They rustle menacingly.

[A tourist drops a sausage roll on the promenade. Both freeze.]

Eric: Did you see that?

Ernie: I’m not blind. Unlike your landing skills.

Eric: Right! Formation Gull Delta. You go left, I go elegant.

Ernie: Eric, no. We agreed - no more ‘interpretive flying’.

Eric: It’s not interpretive! It’s graceful. Like a feathered Bolshoi.

[Eric attempts a flamboyant leap off the wall, flaps wildly, and crashes into a deckchair.]

Ernie: Very Bolshoi, that. Nearly took out a pensioner.

Eric: It's all part of the act, Ern. People come to Brighton for entertainment.

Ernie: They don’t come for you flattening their nans!

[They both spot a child waving the sausage roll like a beacon.]

Eric: Right. This is it. All or nothing. If we time it just right . . .

Ernie: Eric?

Eric: Yes, Ern?

Ernie: The kid’s eaten it.

[Both birds stare mournfully at the now-empty wrapper.]

Eric: I blame the economy.

Ernie: I blame you.

[Cue them waddling off into the sunset, wings round each other, humming ‘Bring Me Sunshine . . .’]

The scuttle and the shuffle

LOBSTER: [snapping claws, looking out to sea]

Ah, the tang of salt in the air! The world is a buffet, and yet-so many pebbles, so little seaweed.

GORILLA: [rumbling voice, scratching belly]

You complain of pebbles? Try finding a banana among these stones. My kingdom for a palm tree.

LOBSTER: [clicking claws, sidling closer]

You land-dwellers never appreciate the subtlety of the tide. Each wave brings a new adventure! Or at least a lost chip wrapper.

GORILLA: [laughs, deep and rolling]

Adventure? I see only humans, ice cream, and the occasional stray dog. Where’s the thrill in that?

LOBSTER: [raising one claw, grandly]

Have you ever danced sideways under the moonlight, dodging buckets and spades? The thrill is in the scuttle, my friend.

GORILLA: [leans forward, curious]

Teach me your dance, Lobster. My feet are made for pounding, not prancing.

LOBSTER: 

With pleasure! But beware, the sideways shuffle is not for the faint of heart - or the heavy of foot.

GORILLA: [grins, attempts a sideways shuffle, pebbles flying]

How’s this for a gorilla groove?

LOBSTER: [applauds with claws]

Magnificent! You move like a tidal wave - unstoppable, slightly alarming.

GORILLA: 

And you, Lobster, are as nimble as a pebble in a storm. Perhaps we are both out of place here, yet perfectly at home.

LOBSTER: 

On Brighton Beach, everyone is a little out of place. That’s the magic.

GORILLA: [leans back, content]

Let’s watch the tide together. Maybe it will bring bananas. Or seaweed. Or something entirely unexpected.

LOBSTER:

Whatever comes, we’ll face it - with a scuttle and a shuffle.

Dusty miller - friend or foe?

Found on Brighton Beach: silver ragwort (Jacobaea maritima), sometimes known as Dusty Miller, but is it friend or foe? This is a bushy, evergreen subshrub (a type of plant that combines features of both herbaceous and woody plants) recognised for its striking silvery-white foliage. The leaves are finely divided, deeply lobed, and covered with dense, felt-like, woolly hairs, which give the plant its characteristic silvery or grey-white appearance. The shrub is remarkably tolerant of salt spray, strong winds, and poor soils, making it well adapted for shingle beach environments.

Typically grown as an annual or biennial, Jacobaea maritima can sometimes behave as a short-lived perennial in milder climates. It begins from seed, germinating in well-drained soil, and quickly establishes its signature silvery foliage. In its first year, the plant focuses on vegetative growth, creating a dense, bushy form. The following year, it sends up tall flower stalks adorned with bright yellow, daisy-like flowers, blooming from summer to autumn. After flowering, it produces seeds, completing its life cycle.

The distinctive white, felt-like, tomentose (densely hairy) leaves give the plant a silvery, dusty appearance, evoking an image of a person covered in dust - hence the name ‘Dusty Miller’. Historically, it has been used in traditional medicine for its anti-inflammatory properties, though modern use is limited.

On Brighton Beach, silver ragwort thrives along the vegetated shingle habitat - a rare and internationally important ecosystem composed of pebbles and stones with pockets of sand and soil. It is often found alongside other hardy coastal species such as sea kale, yellow horned-poppy, and sea thrift, all of which are similarly adapted to the harsh, nutrient-poor conditions of shingle beaches. 

The Brighton & Hove Local Biodiversity Action Plan, adopted in 2012, briefly mentions silver ragwort as a ’non-native plant species of concern along the Volks Railway’, where ‘garden escapes now form a significant component of the flora’. And while there have also been concerns that in some areas, around the Black Rock site and along the Volks Railway, for example, about it being invasive, it is also recognised that silver ragwort can help stabilise shingle and offer ground cover.

It is worth noting that in the early 2000s, the species was reclassified from Senecio cineraria to Jacobaea maritima because of advancements in molecular phylogenetics and a better understanding of the plant’s genetic relationships.

The Turquoise Basket Star

In the twilight world between Brighton’s pebbles and the sea, where the water folds its breath in whispers, there lived a creature of delicate chaos - Gorgonocephalus turquoise. The Turquoise Basket Star.  [With thanks to ChatGPT, and apologies to Jacques Cousteau.]

On our recent trip to Britain’s south coast, we first encountered her beneath the soft veil of the outgoing tide, tangled like a myth among the roots of drifting weed and net remnants. To the untrained eye, she looked no different from debris, a tangle of line left by careless hands. But ah, when she moved. . . 

In the quiet nights, she would unfurl her arms like the lace of a deep-sea dancer, catching plankton on the wing, filtering the moonlight for flavour. Each limb, a miracle of evolution, split and split again - five arms becoming fifty, weaving an invisible net of hunger and grace.

By day, she curled into herself, hiding among rocks and kelp along the Marina sea wall, a recluse of the reef. The turquoise hue was not a warning, not a cry for attention, but the hue of calm itself - like ancient glacial melt or the eyes of a dreaming dolphin. In that colour lived serenity, and in her slow movements, patience.

She did not swim. She did not chase. She waited. The current was her companion. The tide, her twin.

But life near the shore is not so simple. Ropes come drifting in with their own stories. Some are pulled by boats. Some are abandoned by men who no longer remember the creatures they might ensnare. One day, the rope came for her. It embraced her not as a fellow tendril, but as a noose.

She did not struggle. She only curled tighter, as if tucking herself into a last sleep.

And there she remains now, on the low tide sands of Brighton Beach. Not gone, not forgotten. Her arms, still flung wide, hold a memory of the sea. A tale of gentleness. Of hunger fed only on light.

She reminds us that in the tangled ruins of our world, there still lies beauty. And in every knot of line, there may once have been a life as delicate as breath itself.

The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever. Adieu!

 

Well, it is a hard life!

Brighton Beach is not a place to go crabbing, generally there’s no rocks or rock pools, moreover any kind of fishing from the pier has been forbidden for decades. Nevertheless, of course, there’s crabs out there, in the sea, lurking. Here’s the evidence of one that got into trouble, lost a claw. Oh dear! 

Given the size and shape of the claw, ChatGPT tells me, it could have belonged to a Velvet Swimming Crab (Necora puber) or to an Edible Crab (Cancer pagurus). However, the former has blue-tinged claws with pronounced ‘hair’ on the body and claws; and the latter has thick, heavier pincers with black tips. 

No, this claw most likely came from a European Green Crab (Carcinus maenas). Although native to Europe it is one of the world’s most invasive marine species, having spread to North America, Australia, South Africa, and beyond, where it outcompetes native species and devastates shellfish stocks.

European Green Crabs (Wikipedia image here) are ubiquitous across Europe’s rocky shores, estuaries, harbours, and tidal pools, burying themselves in sand or sheltering under rocks at low tide. They eat molluscs, worms, algae, detritus, and sometimes smaller crabs. They’re also aggressive and territorial, especially during mating season. Moulting is common as they grow, so they shed claws and exoskeleton fragments often wash ashore.

Despite the name, European Green Crabs are not always green, rather they come in a range of colours, olive green, brown, even reddish. Claws tend to be mottled with a granular texture and sometimes tinged with blue or green hues. They are uneven in size with the larger ones used for crushing prey, and smaller ones for more dexterous handling. The inner edges are serrated and used for gripping prey.

The photographed claw (on a piece of nearby driftwood) probably came from a crab about the size of a human hand. It was most likely lost in one of four ways: fighting other crabs (they are very territorial creatures ), autotomy (self-amputation), predation (by birds or larger fish), or moulting mishaps (claws getting stuck between rocks). Well, it is a hard life!

Guest: Brighton Beach, Possession Bay, South Georgia

Brighton Beach, the fourth of this column’s guest beaches, is an outlier in every sense. It is situated along the north coast of South Georgia, a remote island in the southern Atlantic Ocean some 900 miles east of the Falkland Islands. Discovered by Europeans in 1675, the island had no indigenous population due to its harsh climate and remoteness. Captain James Cook in HMS Resolution made the first landing, survey and mapping of the island, and on 17 January 1775, he claimed it as a British possession, naming it Isle of Georgia after King George III.

Throughout its history, South Georgia has served as a whaling and seal hunting base, with intermittent population scattered in several whaling bases, the most important historically being Grytviken. The main settlement and the capital today is King Edward Point near Grytviken, a British Antarctic Survey research station, with a population of about 20 people.

However, I doubt they head to Brighton Beach at the weekend! This lies between Zero and Adventure Points in Possession Bay, on the north coast of South Georgia. The name first appeared on a chart showing the results of a survey by Discovery Investigations personnel in 1926-30 - the Discovery Investigations were a series of scientific cruises and shore-based investigations into the biology of whales in the Southern Ocean, funded by the British Colonial Office and organised by the Discovery Committee in London.

South Georgia is renowned for its rugged landscapes and abundant wildlife, including vast colonies of penguins and seals, making it a significant location for ecological studies and wildlife observation. Indeed, Brighton Beach was so named to reflect the abundance of fauna, as also found on our own Brighton Beach (when the sun shines!). Access to Brighton Beach and other areas on the island is regulated to preserve its delicate environment: the Government of South Georgia & the South Sandwich Islands has designated specific visitor sites (with some locations closed due to environmental concerns). ​The outline map here shows the government’s designated visitor points, each one with a code number. The code for Brighton Beach (POS01) can be found in the partial data box, and with that it’s possible to identify where the beach is located on Google’s satellite map - should you wish to visit.

Bark Europa, a tall ship adventure vessel out of Holland, has visited Brighton Beach at least twice. The expedition leader Jordi Plana Morales wrote an entry in his logbook for 4 March 2019 with this title: Possession Bay - Prince Olav Harbour and holding anchor on a blustery afternoon at Brighton Beach. His record of the trip is detailed (and is illustrated with a photograph, as above). Here’s an extract from the log.

‘Winds varying from 20 to 45 kn and snowfall made for a quiet few hours indoors, while the Europa hold her ground at anchor in front of the so-called Brighton beach. To arrive here we had to sail over a shallow reef that crosses the whole bay, that nevertheless helps dumping down the swell that enters Possession Bay. From time to time a clear area between the low clouds let us have a glimpse of the beach and the surrounding glaciers.’

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.’