Charting the elsewhere

Found on Brighton Beach: It lay on the pebbles as if dropped or blown ashore. The tide did not seem to have expelled it in a tangle of kelp; there was no fraying, no evidence of long immersion. Its weave was tight, its colours - burgundy, ochre, olive - arranged in intricate, purposeful shapes. 

If you examined it closely, you might think of Kashan or Samarkand, the way the patterns interlocked like conversations in a crowded tea house. Yet the dyes were wrong for Persia, the silk too fine for Turkestan. I brought a friend of mine - a textile historian from the university - to examine it. She knelt on the pebbles, and did something unusual: she sniffed it. She said she had caught the faintest trace of myrrh and woodsmoke, and beneath that, the sharper scent of a salt that does not belong to any sea in Europe. She suspected the carpet had crossed more than geography - that it had come from a coast where the tides are measured in centuries.

By the third day, I noticed it was moving very slowly - not dragged or blown - a measured distance westward, towards the West Pier’s blackened skeleton, aligning itself, pattern-wise, with the central ruin. I continued to observe, day by day. No one touched it. No gull tugged at its fringe. Yet, I was sure, the carpet was creeping, pebble by pebble, as if drawn to the pier’s iron bones.

I say no one touched it, but I was not a lone observer, A wizened old soul, clearly more at home on the pebbles than at home, had begun to use the textile as a kind of marker for taking photographs. Several times a day he would approach the textile very gingerly, never stepping on it, but aligning his tripod according to its position - seemingly to photograph across the sea to the horizon. 

One evening, it was dusk, I asked him what he was seeing, what he was photographing. He showed me on the camera’s display: faint, translucent outlines above the waterline, shapes like hulls or wings. The textile, he claimed, was a magic carpet, a base from which the invisible could be photographed - vessels, for example, from elsewhere.

‘What do you mean, ‘elsewhere’, I asked a little too sharply. His only reply was to look westward into the sky, where Venus was shining in brightness.

I returned at dawn the next day, and at dusk, and then again the day after, but the old soul was gone, and the weaving too. I stood for a while each time, scanning the sea and sky. Once, I fancied I saw the faintest glimmers just above the horizon - a shimmer too steady for cloud, too high for a sail - but I’m sure that was my imagination.

Perhaps, I thought, the carpet’s origin lay not in any country but in the seam between countries, woven from places that exist only in the moments they are crossed. Its destination was always the next seam, wherever that might appear. And its purpose on Brighton Beach had simply been to open, for a brief span, a doorway into the atmosphere - one the old man had managed to capture with his camera.

For those few days, Brighton Beach and its piers had been a port again, as in days of old - not for excursion steamers or motor launches, but for travellers charting the elsewhere.

Piper Tri‑Pacer test flight

Found on the beach: Piper Tri‑Pacer. Not the real thing! but a foam glider from a familiar seaside toy set, labelled ‘Jet Fighters’. Though this packaging suggests a focus on military jets, the set often include a mix of fighter planes, vintage propeller aircraft, and general aviation types like the Tri‑Pacer.

Still in a sealed package, I felt this find was an invitation to make and test fly the model. The design is No. 12 in a series of twelve collectible aircraft designs. The Piper Tri‑Pacer itself was a four-seat, high-wing monoplane produced in the United States from 1950 to 1964, known for its tricycle undercarriage and popularity among postwar civilian pilots.

Often manufactured in Asia and sold under various generic brands, the toys are part of a long tradition of inexpensive, throwaway beach items. But their materials - non-biodegradable plastics and foams - have made them a target of environmental concern.

The toy glider, likely made of polystyrene foam with a plastic nose cap, would have been sold for very little from a beachfront kiosk or souvenir shop. These lightweight, slot-together models have been a fixture of seaside holidays since at least the 1970s.

And yet, they are poorly made, too light to cope with even the mildest of sea breezes (despite the evidence of these photographs!), so they duck and dive barely able to stay airborne before crashing into the pebbles. 

Time for one last staged photograph before flying off to a waste bin.

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!

A truck in thought

This photo shows a Davis Trackhire truck, equipped with a hydraulic crane, unloading or positioning a large stack of heavy-duty panels - temporary ground protection or trackway, designed to create stable surfaces for vehicles and crowds on uneven or soft ground. In the background, you can see the calm turquoise sea with the silhouettes of the Rampion wind farm turbines on the horizon, under a clear blue sky. What is the truck thinking?

‘How curious it is, to pause amid the salt-kissed air, steel sinews humming with potential, beneath the ever-watchful sun. They call me Davis - a name painted boldly upon my flanks, though what is a name to a mind busy with purpose and observation? Here, perched between shingle and surf, I contemplate more than just my cargo.

I have journeyed on many roads: winding motorways by dawn, city grids pulsing with restless ambition, and now the still calm of the coast. Each mile of my travel has etched stories into my chassis - patience when the world is slow, resilience when the elements test me, satisfaction upon completing my duty.

Today I am burdened, yet unbowed; my payload stacked with the meticulous care of intent and design. My mechanical arm curves with the choreography of industry, a testament to human ingenuity and my own quiet resolve. I find purpose in service, pride in precision. My mission is as clear as the horizon: to deliver, to build, to form the bedrock upon which progress is staged.

Yet I am not without wonder. As I gaze seaward, turbines spin far off, guardians of a future knit with wind and light. I marvel at what I carry, but also at what carries me - the systems and hands, decisions and designs, that coalesce in a moment like this.

I am more than machinery, more than fuel and metal. I am a witness to endeavour, a bearer of burdens, a contemplative spirit at the margin of earth and water. My wheels may rest, but my mind, galvanised by quiet reflection, wanders still.

So let it be written: I am truck, yet thinker; labourer, yet philosopher. On this stony edge, I am at once at home and ever in motion, ever turning ideas as surely as I turn my wheels.’

Lens or no lens

The tortoiseshell glasses lie crooked on Brighton’s pebbles, one lens popped clean out, the other clouded by salt and tiny scratches. A careless loss, perhaps, or a deliberate abandonment. But pick them up, put them on, close one eye, and what do you see?

Close your right eye first, and your left eye is looking through the lens, a single murky pane. Brighton dissolves. The horizon bleeds into sea into sky, a soft bruise of grey and lavender. Pebbles lose their edges, merging into a gentle shingle fog. People drift past like half-remembered stories, voices muffled by distance or time. The gulls are mere pale smudges, their cries dulled to far-off keening. Somewhere, laughter unspools, slow and echoing, as though the beach is remembering a day long gone - a day of dancing on warm stones, of salt-sticky kisses under the boards of the pier. Colours fade into a tender hush. The world is no longer urgent; it sighs, lingers, closes its heavy eyes. Brighton becomes a place not quite here, not quite then - a beach caught halfway between waking and a kind, salt-scented sleep.

Close your left eye, and your right eye is looking through no lens. The beach glares up at you, alive and unashamed. Each pebble is distinct - ochre, slate, coral pink - jostling for its moment in the sun. Gulls wheel overhead, white knives against a cobalt sky, their cries cutting clean through the warm hum of voices. Chips wrapped in paper steam on picnic rugs, vinegar spitting under bright fingers. A child’s shriek rings out, pure and startled, as a wave snaps at his ankles. The pier stretches out brazenly, strutting on iron legs, hung with lights like careless jewellery. Everything is immediate, urgent, shouting to be noticed: the salt on your lips, the warmth seeping into your soles, the wide-open promise of the afternoon. Brighton is a riot of small perfections, each clamouring for your eye - and nothing is softened, nothing spared.

Tomorrow? The history of sunglasses!

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.

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.

Monster moaning

Oh, sure - laugh it up. Take your selfies, poke my chest, comment on my ‘classic look’. I’ve stood here on this splintered pier through wind, rain, stag dos, hen parties, and the occasional rogue seagull attack, and not once has anyone thought to ask how I feel. I’m Frankenstein’s MONSTER, damn it. Not a prop. Not a photo op. A BEING stitched from human remains and existential dread - and yet somehow, I’ve become a mascot for your wretched seaside giddiness.

Every day, thousands of you shuffle past, sticky with candy floss, reeking of sunblock and regret, funnelling into the haunted house behind me like sheep queueing for a predictable fright. ‘Ooh, spooky!’ you say. Is it? Is it really? I’ve seen scarier things in your pop culture. You’ve got real monsters now - algorithmic surveillance, climate collapse, influencers. But no, you want a 1950s rubber mask and a few jump-scares. That’s enough horror for your Instagram.

And don’t get me started on the paint. Who keeps giving me these slapdash touch-ups? I look like someone tried to fix a Renaissance fresco with emulsion and a plastic spoon. My hands are scuffed, my bolts are rusted, and my suit - my suit - was once the pinnacle of stitched-together sophistication. Now I look like a bouncer at a discount Halloween disco.

I hear your conversations. I do. ‘Look, it’s Frankenstein!’ No. Wrong. Frankenstein was the doctor. I am the nameless creation, the wretched patchwork soul who wandered the Alps questioning the morality of man. But go ahead - reduce me to a misunderstood Halloween cliché, why don’t you?

And what is this cursed playlist on the pier? I’ve listened to ‘Agadoo’ more times than I’ve contemplated mortality. Which is saying something. You think eternal life is glamorous? Try standing motionless next to a coin-operated skeleton that laughs every time a child screams. I once pondered the ethics of divine creation. Now I know the true abyss: karaoke night on a bank holiday Monday.

Do I get a break? A moment of stillness? No. Just endless photos, drunks trying to grope me for laughs, and the seagulls - God, the seagulls. I was struck by lightning to be brought to life, and now I live in constant fear of bird droppings and chip theft.

So yes, I’m angry. I deserve better. I deserve a gallery, a plinth, a plaque explaining my tragic origins. Not this rotting boardwalk of flashing lights and bubblegum detritus. Well, fine. Take your photo, but just so you know, my true creator, Mary Shelley, is turning, eternally, agonisingly in her grave.

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.

World Exclusive - neural sedimentary formations

It can now be revealed, publicly for the first time, that a remarkable discovery on Brighton Beach six months ago sparked an unprecedented global scientific investigation into what researchers are calling ‘neural sedimentary formations’ - naturally occurring stones displaying complex branching patterns that appear to encode structured information. The initial specimen, designated BRS-001 (Brighton Research Sample 001), was recovered from the characteristic flint pebble deposits that define this stretch of the English coastline.

The discovery - last December - occurred during routine geological surveys of Brighton’s distinctive pebble formations. Unlike typical flint deposits released from adjacent chalk cliffs through natural erosion, specimen BRS-001 exhibited unprecedented dendritic patterns resembling neural networks or vascular systems. The stone’s surface displayed intricate branching formations with mathematical precision suggesting fractal geometry, similar to patterns observed in natural phenomena such as Lichtenberg figures and biological structures.

Dr. Sarah K. Morrison, lead researcher at the Institute for Anomalous Geology, noted that while fractal patterns occur naturally in various forms - from plant leaf veins to coastal lines - the regularity and apparent information density of BRS-001’s patterns exceeded all known natural formations. Preliminary electromagnetic analysis revealed unusual crystalline matrices within the stone’s flint composition, suggesting possible piezoelectric properties that could theoretically store and transmit data.

Sophisticated imaging techniques revealed that the branching patterns extend throughout the stone’s interior in three-dimensional networks. Unlike surface Lichtenberg figures that form during electrical discharge events, these formations appear to be integral to the stone’s formation process. Spectroscopic analysis identified trace elements not typically found in Brighton’s geological composition, including rare earth metals arranged in geometrically precise configurations.

The breakthrough came when researchers applied quantum resonance scanning to the specimen. The branching patterns began exhibiting coherent electromagnetic signatures, suggesting active information processing capabilities. Computer modelling indicated that the stone’s internal structure could theoretically store approximately 2.3 petabytes of data - far exceeding current human storage technologies.

Following private publication of preliminary findings, the Global Anomalous Materials Consortium launched Operation Neural Stone, a worldwide search for similar specimens. Research teams were deployed to coastal regions across six continents, focusing on areas with comparable geological characteristics to Brighton Beach’s flint-chalk formations.

Within the last six months, thirty-seven similar specimens have been recovered from locations including the Normandy coast, Tasmania’s eastern shores, and Nova Scotia’s Bay of Fundy. Each stone displayed unique branching patterns while maintaining consistent internal crystalline structures, suggesting a common formation mechanism operating across geological timescales.

The discovery has revolutionised understanding of natural information storage systems and raised profound questions about the origins of complex pattern formation in geological processes. Current research focuses on determining whether these formations represent an unknown natural phenomenon or evidence of technological intervention by unknown entities.

The scientific community remains divided on the stones’ origins, but all agree that it is time to reveal the astounding discoveries to the general public: BRS-001 and its global counterparts represent one of the most significant geological discoveries of the modern era, potentially reshaping our understanding of information theory, crystalline physics, and planetary formation processes.

The eye as old as time

Found just east of the Palace Pier, half-submerged in the pebbles and facing out to sea, a strange piece of driftwood has captured the imagination of beachgoers. At first glance, it’s a gnarled, salt-bleached log - but closer inspection reveals something far more curious. Weathered hollows and ancient cracks form what many claim resembles a vast, watching eye.

Locals have taken to calling it ‘the eye as old as time’, and the name has stuck, partly for its poetic ring, partly because the formation feels oddly deliberate. Smooth rings surround a deep hollow, like iris and pupil, worn not by carving tools but by tide, time, and wind. The shape is uncanny, as though the beach itself is peering out from beneath the stones.

One long since retired fisherman - Silas Finn - recalls a local legend claiming that whenever such an eye appears on Brighton Beach, change is coming. He remembers a similar shape washed ashore in October 1973 - just before the terrible barge accident that destroyed the pier theatre - and another just before the Great Storm of 1987.

In the past, most have dismissed the legends but others have theorised ‘the eye as old as time’ is part of a vast, submerged creature of folklore, returning infrequently and briefly to survey the coast. Others consider it marks a shift in the beach itself - that Brighton’s shoreline, long tamed by groynes and breakwaters, may be awakening to older rhythms.

As of this afternoon, the driftlog still lies where it landed, above the tideline, unclaimed. Children poke at it, walkers sit for a moment, dogs - alas - pee on it, but more than one wizened old soul is sure to hold its gaze, and read into the future.

My daughter’s prayer mat

Found on the beach today: a cardboard packaging band labelled MY DAUGHTER’S PRAYER MAT. This type of band is typically used to wrap around a rolled-up prayer mat, serving both as branding and as a means of keeping the product neatly packaged for retail display or gifting. The colour scheme - pink with gold decorative motifs - suggests it is specifically marketed towards young girls, often as a gift to encourage them to participate in Islamic prayer. Such products are commonly sold in Islamic shops, online marketplaces, and gift stores, especially around religious holidays and celebrations.

Prayer mats designed for children frequently feature bright colours and engaging designs to make the practice of prayer more appealing and accessible. The MY DAUGHTER’S PRAYER MAT brand or product line is part of a growing market for faith-based educational products aimed at young Muslims. These mats may come with additional items such as digital counters or prayer beads, and are often presented in attractive packaging to make them suitable for gifting.

The provenance of this particular packaging band is most likely linked to a recent purchase or gifting event. It may have been brought to Brighton beach by a family or individual who had acquired the mat for a child, perhaps to facilitate prayer during a day out or as part of a celebratory outing. The band was likely removed from the mat either at the beach or en route, and subsequently left behind, either by accident or through careless disposal. This item can, in fact, be found for sale on the Little Thinker website (Abu Dhabi).

As someone who visits the beach very often - daily in the summer months - I can testify that, in general, the pebbles are kept remarkably clear and free of a litter. This is largely down to Brighton & Hove City Council, I believe, which - among other initiatives - supports beach clean-up efforts through partnerships with local community groups, environmental organisations, and corporate volunteer programs. Walking on a quiet part of the beach (east of the pier) this afternoon for 20 minutes or so, the MY DAUGHTER’S PRAYER MAT wrapper was almost the only item of litter I came across.

Homo sapiens fumator

Discovery of a Petrified Tobacco-Based Implement on Brighton Beach: Implications for the Temporal Origins of Homo sapiens sapiens - Dr. Emeric Holloway, F.R.A.S. (Brighton Institute for Speculative Paleohistory).

Abstract: In February 2025, a cylindrical, fibrous-appearing lithic specimen (designated Artifact 42-BRN.CIG01 - see photographs) was recovered from the mid-tide strandline of Brighton Beach. Morphologically consistent with mid-20th-century cigar butts and exhibiting signs of deep mineralisation, the object offers compelling evidence for the existence of modern humans - or culturally equivalent hominins - as far back as the Lower Cretaceous (around 145 million years ago). We posit that this is the earliest known example of recreational inhalation culture, predating even the earliest cave paintings by over 140 million years.

Introduction: While previous discoveries have repeatedly pushed back the timeline of human emergence, none has challenged the basic framework of anthropogenesis - until now. The fossilised specimen in question, exhibiting uniform cylindrical compression, charred end compression (consistent with combustion), and apparent tobacco matrix, suggests the presence of sophisticated social rituals at a time when most paleontologists still believed mammals were no larger than shrews.

Methods: The object was discovered by happenstance during a low-light peripatetic survey (aka a morning stroll) and was immediately subjected to visual stratigraphic analysis (i.e., placed on a table under a lamp). Microscopic examination (hand lens, ×2.5 magnification) confirmed a fibrous structure within a hardened matrix resembling carbonised plant matter. Isotopic dating was unfortunately inconclusive due to the total absence of isotopes typically used in radiometric dating. However, the patination and mineral crust suggest an age “significantly older than expected for any post-industrial detritus” (Holloway, pers. obs.).

Results and Discussion: The external sheen and internal cavity suggest both combustion and puffing activity. The concentric compression rings strongly resemble bite marks of a well-toothed adult hominin. The presence of vitrified silica on one end supports the hypothesis of fire use. Most significantly, the object’s weight and density far exceed modern cigars, suggesting replacement of organic content with minerals over deep time. Comparison with existing fossil records has yielded no plausible natural analogue. Moreover, modern cigars are not naturally occurring. Therefore, the only reasonable conclusion is that this is an artefact of human or proto-human manufacture. Given this evidence, we propose the existence of a new subspecies: Homo sapiens fumator, who emerged not from Africa but from what is now the pebbled coastline of East Sussex.

Conclusion: The implications are seismic. If Brighton Beach has yielded a fossilised cigar of such antiquity, we must reconsider the entire timeline of human evolution. Perhaps, as the sea itself whispers to us, the past is far more deeply buried beneath the shingles than previously believed. Further fieldwork will include metal detection in search of prehistoric Zippo lighters and attempts to carbon date any recovered fossilised ashtrays.

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. 

Deck chair history!

For how long have there been deck chairs on Palace Pier and Brighton Beach, or anywhere for that matter? Although folding chairs have ancient origins - they were known to have been used by Roman magistrates and to have been found in Egyptian tombs - the deck chair we know and love today only goes back to around the turn of the 19th/20th centuries - see Wikipedia. The earliest photograph/image I can find online dates back only to 1901.

Before then, the deck chair traces its origins to campaign furniture - i.e. portable, collapsible furniture used by military officers in the 18th and 19th centuries. These early designs were lightweight and designed for travel, often featuring wooden frames and fabric or leather seats. By the mid-19th century, shipbuilders adapted the concept for ocean liners and naval vessels, creating a sturdy yet collapsible wooden chair with a fabric sling. These chairs were used on the decks of passenger ships, hence the name ‘deck chair’. They allowed travellers to recline comfortably while enjoying the sea breeze.

But, it was the British inventor John Thomas Moore who, in 1886, patented an adjustable and portable folding chair and began producing them in Macclesfield from 1887. Photographs of Brighton Beach (as this one) from 1880-1890 (found in Victorian and Edwardian Brighton from old photographs by John Betjeman and J. S. Gray) show ordinary house chairs on the beach (rentable for 1p) but no sign of deck chairs. Indeed, the earliest photograph I can find online with deck chairs on a beach is at the Francis Frith website (a 1901 postcard of Filey sands and another from 1906 of Margate).

By this period, deck chairs were becoming a staple of leisure culture, not only on beaches but also in parks, gardens, and cruise ships. The famous Titanic had deck chairs available for first-class passengers. The striped fabric commonly associated with deck chairs became fashionable during this time. With the rise of plastic furniture in the 1960s and 70s, though, the traditional wooden deck chair saw a decline. However, in the late 20th and early 21st centuries, there was a revival of vintage seaside aesthetics, bringing back classic deck chairs to beaches, festivals, and garden settings. Today, deck chairs are not just nostalgic beach accessories but are also popular for outdoor events, garden furniture, and even art installations.

Although deck chairs on Brighton’s pebbles have long cost an arm and a leg to rent (look at today’s prices!), they have been free to use on Palace Pier for a long time, since 1984 in fact, when the pier was bought by the Noble Organisation. Under the then new management, entry fees to the pier were abolished, and complimentary deckchairs were introduced to encourage visitors.

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!

 

Brighton waves, Brighton raves!

A sea of enthusiasm for BrightonBeach365

100th post, 265 to go!

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!