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!

The Blue Seafrog

Maggie had been told - firmly, repeatedly - that there was no such thing as a seafrog. But here it was, on Brighton Beach.

It lay among the bladderwrack, a queer, knotted thing, its four long legs stretched as if it had been caught mid-leap and petrified. The tide had left it stranded among the glistening pebbles, tangled in seaweed that clung to it like old lace. She knelt down, brushing wet strands of kelp aside.

‘A seafrog,’ she whispered.

Behind her, Alfie was balancing a stick on his nose, utterly uninterested. ‘If it's a frog, it’ll be dead,’ he remarked, letting the stick fall and rolling his eyes skyward as if this conversation were a terrible burden.

 

[With a nod to ChatGPT, and apologies to Edith Nesbit (Five Children and It). See also The Red Spider and The Green Gecko.]

Maggie ignored him. She had read enough to know that creatures of the sea were never quite as they seemed. What if it was sleeping? What if, with just the right words, it might wake?

She prodded it. The blue skin was coarse like rope. There was a knot at its middle, a sort of cruel binding, as if some careless fisherman had captured it and then forgotten it here.

Alfie sighed. ‘It's a bit of old cord, Maggie.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘It’s got fraying at the ends!’

Maggie looked closer. The fraying did look suspiciously like threadbare rope rather than amphibian limbs. But something in the air - something in the hush of the retreating tide - made her doubt Alfie’s certainty.

‘You never believe in anything,’ she said crossly.

‘And you believe in everything,’ he replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets and scuffing his boot against the pebbles.

Maggie picked up the thing - dead frog or sea-rope or something else entirely - and carried it with great care toward the sandy pools under the pier by each of its support columns. The water was still, the sort of glassy stillness that made you feel as if something beneath was watching. She laid the thing down in the shallow water, and waited. Alfie joined her.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then, quite suddenly, Alfie shouted.

‘Maggie!’

They both jumped back. The thing in the water was moving. No - not moving. Unraveling. The knotted shape loosened, the ends wriggling like living limbs, stretching as if waking from a long, enchanted sleep. The pool darkened around it, the water began to swirl as though something larger was rising from the depths.

Alfie grabbed her hand. ‘Come away!’

But Maggie stayed, her breath caught in her throat. The thing - once cord, once lifeless - slipped silently beneath the surface and was gone.

Only the faintest ripple remained.

Alfie stared.

‘I told you,’ Maggie said softly.

For once, Alfie had nothing to say.

The tide crept in. The sea took its secrets. And the blue seafrog - if that’s what it had been - remained as much of a mystery to Maggie as it had ever been.

The Flintback Drifter

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

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

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

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

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

Cuttlefish and their bones

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brighton Beach Cowboy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With thanks to ChatGPT, and apologies to Elmer Kelton.

White arrows dropping from the sky

Found this morning on the pebbles in Hove - one bedraggled, dead northern gannet. Where did it come from, and how did it meet its final fate? One photographer has described these birds diving as ‘white arrows dropping from the sky’.  Unfortunately, not this one any longer,`

Northern gannets (Morus bassanus) are large, striking seabirds - with white body and black wingtips - which live in huge colonies on rocky cliffs and islands. Typically, they remain most of the year between late February and early October when they set out on a long journey to winter on the west coast of Africa. 

The northern gannets breed in their colonies between April and June, building nests from seaweed and other debris. The female lays a single egg, and both parents take turns incubating the egg for about 44 days. Once hatched, the chick is fed regurgitated fish by its parents; it fledges at around 10-12 weeks old. However, young gannets do not reach sexual maturity until reaching 4 or 5 when they join the breeding colonies and begin the cycle again. Average lifespan is 17 years, and their wingspan can reach 1.8 metres. They feed by circling high above the waves, before folding their wings back and make spectacular dives into the water headfirst to catch fish. They have special adaptations, such as air sacs in their chest and strong skulls, to withstand high impacts. 

The most significant colonies of northern gannets are located in Scotland. Bass Rock is the world’s largest: it had over 75,000 pairs (i.e. 150,000 individuals) as of about ten years ago. However, it was badly hit by Avian Flu, and the population was thought to have dropped 30% in 2023. Other larges colonies (over 10,000) also exist at St Kilda and Sula Sgeir (Outer Hebrides), and Ailsa Craig (Firth of Clyde). Elsewhere in the British Isles colonies are sited at Bempton Cliffs on the Yorkshire coast, Grassholm in Wales, and Little Skellig in Ireland (the latter with over 30,000 breeding pairs). 

Northern gannets are currently classified as ‘Least Concern’ by the International Union for Conservation of Nature, though they do face threats from climate change, pollution, and entanglement in fishing gear. Possible causes for the death of the gannet in these photos are: natural causes, i.e. old age, disease, or injury; exhaustion after severe winter storms; food shortages; pollution, which can weaken birds and make them more susceptible to disease; Avian Flu. More information can be found at Wikipedia and the Scottish Seabird Centre.

Richard Creagh’s website includes some spectacular photographs of northern gannets, as well as his own testimony of observing them (from 2017): ‘Gannets are the largest Irish seabird, with a wingspan just short of two metres. They are beautiful birds to watch, and what really sets them apart for me is their stunning dives. Ever since I first noticed them that afternoon in West Cork I’ve been drawn to those white arrows dropping from the sky in pursuit of fish. Diving from as high as forty metres gannets hit can hit the water at 60mph.’

Interestingly, there’s a comment on the same website from Stephen O’Melia who recalls watching northern gannets while swimming just along the coast from Brighton at Worthing: ‘It was around 3.00pm, about 90 minutes after high tide when a gannet approached a couple of women floating in the sea. It made an attempt to attack them but was eventually driven off by a third swimmer. But it circled round and attacked again. It later approached two other swimmers before flying off. This took place about 30 to 50 feet from the shore. I have never seen a gannet in Worthing before, and none of the other swimmers had either. No one was hurt but it was the persistency in the bird's approach which was surprising. We wondered whether it was unwell.’

Underwater fairy lights?

Found on Brighton Beach: a golden spray of tinsel? gossamer seaweed? washed up underwater fairy lights? botanical jewellery? 

None of the above. This is actually the fine, branched stems of a species of marine hydroid called Amphisbetia operculata. Hydroids are part of a larger group of animals called Hydrozoa (within the phylum Cnidaria which also includes jellyfish and corals).

Hydroids exist in a colonial polyp form. Colonies can be a few centimeters in length, but individual polyps are much smaller. Unlike many hydrozoans that alternate between polyp and medusa stages, Amphisbetia operculata does not have a medusa stage. Instead, it reproduces by releasing planula larvae, which swim for a short time before settling and growing into new colonies.

Like other hydrozoans, it is a filter feeder, relying on cnidocytes (stinging cells) for prey capture. Though they can be found in freshwater, they mostly live in shallow sea waters, attached to rocks, shells, seaweed, or other underwater surfaces. See more about Amphisbetia operculata at Aphotomarine.

Cool facts. While Amphisbetia operculata might be considered a rather lovely but otherwise benign and uninteresting sea creature, some species of hydroids have a little more pizazz about them. For example, Turritopsis dohrnii is sometimes called the ‘immortal jellyfish’. It has the unique ability to reverse its aging process - instead of dying, it can revert to an earlier life stage and start over, meaning it could, in theory, live forever under the right conditions. 

Certain hydroids, like those in the genus Aglaophenia, can grow on discarded fishing nets, ropes, or other debris, creating ghostly underwater structures that float in the currents.

And, finally, there are some hydroids that form colonies in which different polyps specialise in different tasks (some feed, some reproduce, and some defend the colony with stinging tentacles) - making for a superorganism!

The Green Gecko

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

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

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

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

The gecko-alien eyed it warily.

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

There was a long pause.

The gecko wiggled.

The Thing tightened its grip.

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

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

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

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

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

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