Brighton’s biggest bash

Today’s Pride parade - the city’s biggest and most colourful annual event - set off at 11 am from Hove Lawns, gathering thousands of float‑decorated participants, drag performers and rainbow‑clad marchers who made their way east along the iconic seafront promenade. They proceeded along Kingsway to turn into West Street and North Street before winding past Old Steine and heading up toward London Road and Preston Road on its way to Preston Park, where the music festival begins.

This procession continues a legacy stretching back to the Sussex Gay Liberation Front’s first demonstration in October 1972, followed by Brighton’s inaugural Pride Week in July 1973 - a protest‑cum‑carnival walk along the waterfront ending with a beach gathering. After a hiatus, modern Pride returned in 1991, growing rapidly through the 1990s, and by 1996 the parade consistently began on the seafront with a major festival in Preston Park.

A watershed moment came in 2011 when financial collapse forced the new Brighton Pride CIC to introduce fencing and ticketing for the Preston Park event, while preserving the seafront parade as free. That move stabilised the event and enabled the creation of a Social Impact Fund which now supports local LGBTQ+ groups.

The COVID‑19 pandemic marked another turning point: both 2020 and 2021 festivals were cancelled (the 2020 edition was replaced by streamed content), breaking the Pride tradition for the first time. In 2022 Pride returned in full force - with headliners Christina Aguilera and Paloma Faith - and a revived focus on activism as well as entertainment. 2023 emphasised trans rights and global solidarity; 2024 featured themes of environmental activism and celebration, headlined by Girls Aloud and Mika.

Economically, Brighton Pride is one of the city’s most vital events. It draws up to 500,000 people over the weekend, accounting for an estimated two per cent of the city’s annual tourism in a single day and generating approximately £30 million in visitor spending. Since 2018 the event has delivered consistent economic benefits and raised more than £1 million annually for community grants.

This year 2025 brings further evolution. The theme - ‘Ravishing Rage’ - signals both celebration and resilience, and the event introduces major improvements following widespread community consultation. Notably, the Pride Village Party stage in Kemptown has moved from St James’s Street to Marine Parade, which will remain open for pedestrian and vehicle traffic, while Marine Parade will host a new Street Party featuring outside stages and entertainment.

On the festival front, 2025’s Pride on the Park takes place in Preston Park on 2-3 August, headlined by Mariah Carey in a UK festival exclusive - her long‑awaited performance originally planned for 2020 - and supported by acts including Sugababes, Fatboy Slim, Confidence Man, Loreen, Will Young, Natalie Imbruglia, Ashnikko, Slayyyter and Sister Sledge. Hayu, the NBCUniversal reality streaming service, is this year’s headline sponsor, enabling over 150 LGBTQ+ performers across multiple immersive stages.

In sum, today’s procession along Brighton’s seafront is not simply a visual feast - it’s also part of a five‑decade arc of protest turning into celebration, of financial crisis becoming a sustainable model, of pandemic pause and triumphant resurrection, and of ever‑greater economic and cultural significance to both city and community. For further information see Time Out, Brighton and Hove Council, and Wikipedia.

The most delicious thing

This day in 1916, Cynthia Asquith, wife of the son of Prime Minister H. H. Asquith, was to be found on Brighton Beach, so enjoying the experience of bathing from the pier that she wrote in her diary, ‘It was the most delicious thing I have ever done’. During the war, she and her children were often in Brighton, escaping from London and enjoying the sea air.

Cynthia Charteris was born at Clouds, her mother’s family estate, in 1887, but spent most of her childhood at Stanway House near Cheltenham, where she was educated privately. In 1903, she was sent to Dresden, the then fashionable European city for finishing young ladies, and there met Herbert Asquith. Since her family did not approve of the match, they became engaged secretly in 1907. The couple married in 1910, and found a home in Sussex Place, Regent’s Park in London. Their first child, John, born a year later, proved to be mentally backward and caused them much anxiety and grief. Two other children were born, in 1914 (Michael) and 1919 (Simon).

At the suggestion of a friend, she began to keep a diary during the First World War. This was published by Hutchinson, but not until 1968, as Lady Cynthia Asquith Diaries 1915-1918 - with a foreword by her lifelong friend L. P. Hartley. He wrote: ‘Lady Cynthia was one of the most fascinatingly beautiful women of her time - painted for love by McEvoy, Sargent, and Augustus John - and her lively wit and sensitivity of intelligence made her the treasured confidante of such diverse characters as D. H. Lawrence and Sir James Barrie, but when she died in 1960 she left a new generation to discover yet another of her gifts - as a rarely talented diarist. . .’

Her diaries - available to view online at Internet Archive - provide a startlingly open and self-absorbed account of a life so privileged on the surface but affected deeply and painfully by the pressures of marriage, children, war, and her own intense social needs. During the war, and the period of the published diaries, Cynthia was often in Brighton, where she first took her children to benefit from the sea air, and where she herself loved to bathe - as shown by these entries.

3 December 1916

‘We played the fool on the pier and went to the tourist’s whole hog by being photographed with our heads through burlesques.’

20 July 1916

‘Back in Brighton. After I had written some letters, I went out in search of a bathing cap, thinking I should find a suitable one nearby, but I had to walk for miles and miles in grilling sun, but God forbid that I should complain of any ray of heat vouchsafed to us during this awful summer! It was delicious in the water - really warm and heavenly.’

30 July 1916

‘Glittering, scorching day and the town teeming like an anthill. No signs of war, save for the poor, legless men whom Michael tried to encourage by saying, “Poor wounded soldiers - soon be better.” There is no doubt that Brighton has a charm of its own, almost amounting to glamour. I am beginning to be quite patriotic about this end of the town - Kemp Town as it is called - in opposition to the parvenu Hove, which has less character and is to this rather what the Lido is to Venice.

We joined the children on the beach - painfully hot and glaring. We took them in a boat to try and get cooler. Beb and I bathed from the rather squalid bathing machines - perfect in the water, except for the quantity of foreign bodies.’

31 July 1916

‘Grilling hot again. [. . .] I boldly decided to bathe off the pier as the machines were all full. I shall never bathe from anywhere else again! It was the most delicious thing I have ever done - down a ladder straight into the bottomless green water. Apparently there is no risk of drowning as there is a man in a boat, a raft, a life-buoy, etc. There was a strong current taking one inwards, so I rowed out and swam back. Luxurious dressing rooms, too. It’s a great discovery.

After dinner we sat on the pier, which was most delicious. Lovely lights on the water and in the twilight Brighton looked quite glamorous, and I like the teeming, happy crowds. Being here is strangely like being abroad.’

7 August 1916

‘Reluctantly coming to the conclusion that I shall have to make my home at Brighton, I feel and look so incomparably better there.’

13 August 1916

‘Banged at Basil’s door at seven [Lord Basil Blackwood who died on German trenches the following year]. We had agreed to bathe if awake. We just ran down to the beach with coats over our bathing clothes. A man, perhaps what they call a ‘beach policeman’, stopped me, saying it was only for men that station. I said, “Rubbish!” which, unfortunately, he overheard and was furious, threatening to send for the police and saying I must go to Kemp Town. My bathing dress was very wet from the day before and I didn’t at all like the idea of going either to Kemp Town or the police station in it. However, we found the situation could be overcome by going through the technicality of taking a bathing machine and leaving one’s coat. We had the most heavenly bathe - soft sand and delicious waves, exactly the right size.’

A tremendious rough day

‘This has been a tremendious rough day. I never saw anything half so grand as the sea looked. Indeed, there cannot be a grander sight than a rough sea. It looked like a large hilly plain, moor than like a piece of water. The waves rolled mountains high, and when two of these waves met, sometimes it was with such violence that the water flew into the air out of sight, foaming and frothing like a boiling furnace.’ This was written today in 1937 by William Tayler, a servant and footman on holiday in Brighton with his employer. Despite bad spelling, his observations on Brighton Beach - written down in a diary - are all the more precious an historical record because of his relatively low status.

Born in 1807, Tayler grew up with many siblings on a farm in Grafton, Oxfordshire. He was the first of his family to go into gentlemen’s service, initially for a local squire, and then for a wealthy widow in London, a Mrs Prinsep who lived in Marylebone. Also in the household was the widow’s daughter, and three maidservants - he was the only manservant. Mrs Prinsep died in 1850, and William moved his employment several times thereafter, rising to butler, and eventually being able to afford to rent a whole house in Paddington.

At the beginning of 1837, Tayler decided to keep a diary, to practise his writing.

1 January 1837

‘As I am a wretched bad writer, many of my friends have advised me to practise more, to do which I have made many attempts but allways forgot or got tired so that it was never atended to. I am now about to write a sort of journal, to note down some of the chief things that come under my observation each day. This, I hope, will induce me to make use of my pen every day a little. My account of each subject will be very short - a sort of multo in parvo - as my book is very small and my time not very large.’

And for the rest of the year, almost every day, he wrote short entries. The manuscript was first edited by Dorothy Wise and published - with the title Diary of William Tayler, Footman, 1837 - by the St Marylebone Society in 1962, but has been reprinted several times since then. There are extensive quotes from Tayler’s diary in my book, Brighton in Diaries (History Press, 2011) including the following:

18 July 1837

‘Went on the pier. This is a kind of bridge brojecting into the sea a quarter of a mile. It’s a great curiosity as it’s hung on chains. People can get from that into the boats without going into the water at low water.’ (Picture credit: Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove.)

19 July 1837

‘I get up every morning at half past six and goes out on the beach looking at the boys catching crabs and eels and looking at the people batheing. There are numbers of old wimen have little wooden houses on wheels, and into these houses people goe that want to bathe, and then the house is pushed into the water and when the person has undressed, they get into the water and bathe, and then get into the wooden house again and dress themselves, then the house is drawn on shore again.’

29 July 1837

‘This has been a tremendious rough day. I never saw anything half so grand as the sea looked. Indeed, there cannot be a grander sight than a rough sea. It looked like a large hilly plain, moor than like a piece of water. The waves rolled mountains high, and when two of these waves met, sometimes it was with such violence that the water flew into the air out of sight, foaming and frothing like a boiling furnace, and the wind blows a mist from the waves that regularly pickle the streets, houses and everybody and everything from the salt water. It’s ruination to clothes. My hat is as white as though I had rolled it in the salt tub. The fishermen nor no one elce dare got out with boats such weather. Many of the people were obliged to put up their shutters for fear of haveing their windows broke by the wind blowing the stones and gravel about. I have seen many wimen with their peticoats over their heads. Most of them keep at home, and it would be as well if they was all to do so such a day as this.’

5 August 1837

‘The water very rough. A man rideing his horse in to wash it, the waves came and knocked them man and horse both down in the water. They both scrambled up again and got out, but the man lost his money.’

12 August 1837

‘Went by the water’s side and saw some fishermen bring a very curious fish ashore. They called it a sea monster. It was as big as a donkey and about eight feet long and a mouthfull of teeth like a lion. They erected a tent and showed it for a trifle each person.  They often catch some of these creatures which are of no use other than make a show of, as long as they can keep them fresh.’

Constable on the beach

Two hundred years ago, one of England’s greatest painters - John Constable - could be found in Brighton, pacing the seafront with sketchbook in hand, observing the restless skies and the shifting sea. His time there would result in several vivid and atmospheric coastal paintings, not least this large painting of the Chain Pier (held by Tate Britain).

Constable was born in 1776 in the Suffolk village of East Bergholt. He trained at the Royal Academy Schools in London, and in 1816 he married Maria Bickknell. Unlike many of his contemporaries, he favoured the English countryside over historical or classical themes, gaining recognition for his sweeping views of the Stour Valley. His focus on expressive skies and changing light helped transform British landscape painting and paved the way for later movements such as Impressionism. 

In 1824 Constable moved his family to Brighton, hoping the sea air would improve Maria’s health - by this time she was suffering from tuberculosis. He divided his time between Charlotte Street in London and the south coast, but the change of scenery marked a shift in his work, as he turned from the wide river scenes of Suffolk to coastal subjects. Though he continued to paint on a grand scale, he was initially sceptical about Brighton’s artistic potential. Writing to his friend John Fisher in 1824, he remarked (see Royal Academy): ‘Brighton is the receptacle of the fashion and offscouring of London. The magnificence of the sea, and its (to use your own beautiful expression) everlasting voice is drowned in the din & lost in the tumult of stage coaches - gigs - “flys” etc - and the beach is only piccadilly . . . By the sea-side . . . in short there is nothing here for the painter but the breakers - & the sky - which have been lovely indeed and always [various].’ 

Despite such doubts,Constable went on to be inspired by Brighton Beach, producing some of his most direct and expressive studies. Chain Pier, Brighton was his only large-scale canvas based on the town, exhibited in 1827. Other works include Brighton Beach (1824, held at the V&A, above right bottom), Brighton Beach (1824-1826, held at the Dunedin Public Art Gallery, above left), and Brighton Beach, with colliers (1824, also at the V&A, above right top)

The Constables remained in Brighton for five years in the hope of aiding Maria’s health, but the move proved unsuccessful. After the birth of their seventh child in January 1828, the family returned to Hampstead, where Maria died later that year at the age of 41.

A sea on fire

Alison MacLeod’s novel Unexploded, long-listed for the 2013 Man Booker Prize, was published twelve years ago today. Set in Brighton during the early stages of World War II, the story revolves around the lives of Geoffrey and Evelyn Beaumont, a married couple navigating the tensions and fears of wartime life as they face the imminent threat of a German invasion. In particular, the narrative contains vivid portrayals of the beach and piers being closed down and shut off from daily life, one character even imagining the sea on fire.

MacLeod is a Canadian‑British novelist, short story writer, and academic, born in Montreal and raised in Quebec and Halifax, Nova Scotia. She has lived in England since 1987, and has become a dual citizen. She was Professor of Contemporary Fiction at the University of Chichester until 2018. Since then she has been writing full time while maintaining visiting academic roles and serving as a Fellow of the Royal Literary Fund. While Unexploded was published on 26 July 2013, and is her best-known work (having been serialised on BBC Radio 4), Bloomsbury has also published a story collection, All the Beloved Ghosts ( 2017), and the novel Tenderness (2021).

In Unexploded, Geoffrey is appointed superintendent of a newly improvised internment camp for enemy aliens, while Evelyn, restless and emotionally isolated, begins volunteering there. She meets Otto Gottlieb, a German‑Jewish painter labeled a ‘degenerate’ and interned under Geoffrey’s supervision. They begin an emotional entanglement that forces Evelyn to question her marriage, motherhood, and moral compass. Geoffrey, meanwhile, spirals into his own moral failures: prejudice, infidelity, and emotional cowardice. 

Unexploded can be previewed at Googlebooks. Here are two extracts. 

Chapter 14, page 103

‘A hundred yards from the Palace Pier, Geoffrey let himself loiter under the canopy of a derelict oyster stand. The day was overcast, the sea the colour of gunmetal, and the beach abandoned, closed for the war by order of the corporation. The signs had been hammered to the railings down the length of the prom.

He fumbled in his jacket pocket for his cigarette case. On the Pier, the rides stood quiet. Only a few defiant anglers tried their luck from the end of the deck. In the tide, mines bobbed beneath the surface, out of view, horned and deadly. Every fishing boat had vanished, as if by some ill-fated sleight of hand.

He tried to focus on the survey for the Committee, on the report he would need to compose to confirm that all was in place for Churchill’s visit. He’d been avoiding the task all week.

He cupped the flame of his lighter against the breeze and drew hard on his cigarette. Every beach chalet, including his own, had been strategically manoeuvred and filled with stones. Up and down the shingle, anti-landing-craft spikes lay in heaps, ready to be dug in. Vast coils of barbed wire blotted the views east and west, while concrete tank-traps stood five feet high, colonising the shore. Across the King’s Road, the elegant rooftops of the Grand Hotel and the Métropole had been upstaged by the guns on the new naval station.

Without the boats, without the herring dees and the winkle- pickers, the shingle was a bleak vista darkened by the apparatus of war and the rank of oil drums that stretched endlessly towards Hove. Each drum squatted beneath the prom, ready to be rolled down the beach, past the ghosts of erstwhile paddlers, children and old people, into the sea. Each bore ten thousand gallons of petrol, and, for a moment, looking out, he saw it, the impossible: a sea on fire.

Even as he walked the beach, white sheets and pristine table linen were hanging from every window on the Channel Islands. That was the morning’s news.

Any day. It could be any day.’

Chapter 22, page 169

‘If London looked to the steadiness of Big Ben and the gravitas of St Paul’s for a reminder of dignity in strife, Brighton’s emotional compass had been the ring-a-ding-ding and the music, the electric lights and the ticket-stub happiness of the Palace and West piers. When the Explosions Unit had arrived that evening back in June, the town prepared to lose its bearings. Even to the casual observer, each pier looked like nothing less than a welcoming dock, an unloading zone for any invading ship, and while both were spared outright destruction, section after strategy section - of decking, piles and girders - was blasted into the sea.

That year, Alf Dunn, Tubby’s middle brother, turned fourteen and craved something more than digs in bombed-out houses. As the starlings gathered and the sun slid from the sky, he and a dozen others also descended on the seafront.

It was no casual operation. They had wire-clippers for the barbed-wire fencing, rope from a builder’s yard, switchblades for cutting it, and mud for camouflage. The tide was rising, but the evening itself was calm, and there was just time to cast a rope bridge from gap to gap, using the stumps of the blasted piles and relying on Tommy Leach’s skill with knots.

The trick to a successful traverse, Ali explained, was to lie on top of the rope, bend a knee, hook the foot of that same leg over the rope, and keep the other leg straight for balance. ‘See?’ he said. ‘Your pins don’t move. It’s your arms and hands that get you from end to end. If you slip under the rope, don’t panic. Hook a leg and the opposite arm over, and push down with the other hand to right yourself.

Tubby and Philip had been allowed to bring up the rear, if only to bear witness and to carry the bucket of camouflage mud. They watched Alf army-crawl his way to the first, second and third landings, wave from the deck, and glide back.’

French attack repulsed!

Exactly 480 years ago today, and amid heightened hostilities between England and France, a French fleet launched an attempted landing at Brighton. The incident is vividly described in Holinshed’s Chronicles, later quoted by the Victorian historian John Ackerson Erredge. Alongside this narrative survives a remarkable contemporary map, now held in the British Library, which graphically depicts the French fleet offshore, the disembarkation of troops, and the town in flames.

In 1545, during the reign of Henry VIII, England was in conflict with France. After Henry’s forces had taken Boulogne and devastated regions of France, King Francis I sent Admiral D’Annebault with a formidable fleet to retaliate by striking at the English south coast. The event, described in Holinshed’s Chronicles (a three-volume British history published in the late 16th century), as quoted in History of Brighthelmston by Erredge (page 61), specifically mentions Brighton (then styled ‘Bright Hampstead’ or ‘Brighthampston’):

‘In 37[th year of the reign of] Hen. 8th, 1545, July the 18th, the admiral of Franco, Mons. Donebatte [a corruption of the name D’Annebault), hoisted up sails, and with his whole navy (which consisted of 200 ships and 26 gallies,) came forth into the seas, and arrived on the coast of Sussex, before Bright Hampstead, and set certain of his soldiers on land to burn and spoil the country: but the beacons were fired and the inhabitants thereabouts came down so thick, that the Frenchmen were driven to their ships with loss of diverse of their numbers, so that they did little hurt there.’

The attempted landing at Brighton was thus met with swift resistance from the local populace, rallied by beacon fires. Their response was so determined that the French could do ‘little hurt there’ and were quickly forced back to their ships, having suffered losses. Again, it is said that ‘the inhabitants thereabouts came down so thick’ that the French attack was foiled before much damage could be done.

The text also refers to a remarkable ‘Picture Map’ from the time, providing further detail about the attack: ‘The number of ships attacking the town is twenty-two; and the largest, probably the Admiral’s, lying nearest the shore, has four masts. . . Eight of the latter [galleys] are on shore, and the armed men from them have disembarked on the beach, the place where they landed being inscribed, - “here landed the galleys”.’

This map apparently depicts the full force of the attempted raid. Details include: ‘On shore the houses under the cliffe are on fire; from the upper town also flames are issuing from almost every house.’ The town at that time had ‘five rows of houses running from north to south’ with a town field in the centre and a prominent road east, ‘about the spot now occupied by the Old Steine,’ labeled as ‘the valcy comyng from Lewes town to Brighthampston.’

Defensive preparations and geography are highlighted: ‘On this road and on the hill adjacent bodies of armed men are marching towards the town.’ Key townspeople landmarks are noted, such as the ‘town fyre cag’ (likely for signalling), the church encircled by praying or armed townsfolk, and two ‘wynde mylles’ to the north, near ‘the bekon of the towne’.

The response of the local gentry and yeomen is emphasised both in the narrative and in map notes suggesting rapid mustering in defense: ‘As this road approaches the beach, it is inscribed, - “Upon this west pt may lond cm psones (100,000 persons) unletted by any pvision there.” ’

The attempted raid on Brighton thus achieved very little for the French: they were repulsed with ‘diverse of their numbers’ lost, while the locals ‘quickly distressed them’. Their attack was notable for the rapid civilian and militia resistance that foiled their intent to burn or pillage the town. The French then moved on to other nearby targets, but Brighton’s quick and effective defence seems to stand out in this record as a testament to the vigilance and bravery of its 16th-century residents.

This vivid account is matched by the surviving picture map, produced at the same time - July 1545 - and now held in the British Library under the reference Cotton Augustus I. i. 18. This large-scale, hand-coloured map depicts the French fleet offshore, the disembarkation of troops, burning houses, beacon fires, and armed townspeople rallying in defence. It is thought the map was likely commissioned as part of Henry VIII’s broader programme of coastal surveillance and fortification.

The Royal Albion on fire

It’s two years ago today that fire did for the Royal Albion Hotel on Brighton’s seafront, gutting much of the historic building and leaving a charred shell where once royalty and Edwardian high society had gathered.

The Royal Albion was first opened in 1826 as one of Brighton’s earliest purpose-built seaside hotels (see Wikipedia). Its original architect was Amon Henry Wilds, with later additions expanding its elegant frontage along the seafront. In the early 20th century it was famously managed by Harry Preston - a larger-than-life figure who transformed it into a glittering social hub, hosting the likes of Edward VII, who enjoyed the discreet pleasures of Brighton society. (See also Brighton beach as runway!) Over the decades, the hotel weathered wartime bombing and changing fashions, remaining a familiar if faded landmark opposite the Palace Pier.

On the evening of 15 July 2023, flames were seen leaping from the fourth floor of the building (owned by Britannia Hotels). Emergency services quickly responded, with a hundred guests and staff evacuated and roads cordoned off around the Old Steine. Despite the swift arrival of more than a dozen fire appliances, the blaze raged through the roof and upper floors. Firefighters worked through the night to contain the flames, even as part of the building collapsed, sending up plumes of smoke visible across the city.

In October 2023, following an investigation by East Sussex Fire and Rescue Service, it was concluded the fire had most likely been caused by a discarded cigarette (see Brighton and Hove News). This came despite the hotel having passed a thorough fire safety audit just the previous September, which praised its ‘preventative and protective measures’, ‘effective emergency plan and policy’, and commended staff for their ‘professional and pro-active attitude towards their fire safety responsibilities.’ A later report into the blaze found its rapid spread was fuelled by hidden voids, traditional lath and plaster walls, dry and ageing timber window frames, and the driving wind off the Channel.

By February 2025, the situation had deteriorated so far that when an engineer warned the fragile remains of the building and its scaffolding were ‘at risk of catastrophic failure,’ the Council closed part of the A259. 

According to a BBC report from May 2025, Brighton & Hove City Council is actively pursuing further action to recover £1.2 million still owed by Britannia Hotels for emergency safety and demolition work at the Royal Albion Hotel following the July 2023 fire. The council initially spent £1.7 million to secure the site after the fire, but Britannia Hotels has so far only repaid £500,000. The council is now considering ‘alternative avenues for recovery’ to expedite repayment of the outstanding debt. Otherwise, discussions between the council and Britannia Hotels about the site's future are ongoing but remain at an early stage.

Cucumber Bench restoration

Hove’s ‘Cucumber Benches’, so named for their green colour and double-sided design, are a familiar sight on the Hove seafront. As has been widely reported in the press, these benches are currently undergoing restoration as part of a social value scheme initiated by Brighton & Hove City Council. The restoration - which will make use of a new MDF material and Seafront Green paint - involves a collaboration between the council’s contractors, local businesses, and offenders participating in the Community Payback Scheme.

The benches, traditionally made of wood, are being repaired and repainted with the help of R. J. Dance, a local highways contractor, and local building merchants and paint suppliers. The Community Payback Service provides manpower for sanding and decorating, offering offenders a chance to contribute to their community. The initiative aims to revitalise the seafront and provide a visible demonstration of how offenders can contribute to their local area. According to the council, the benches have been surveyed and work is scheduled to begin later this month. (See also BBC News.)

The history of the benches themselves is linked to the development of Hove’s seafront, particularly the Hove Esplanade. In 1903, a wire fence was replaced with a granite kerb and iron fence, and recesses were created to accommodate seats. These seats, initially made of teak and later with glazed screens, proved popular and were expanded upon with additional orders in later years.

In a press release, Councillor Birgit Miller, Cabinet member for Culture, Heritage and Tourism, was quoted as follows: 

‘Maintaining our seafront comes with many challenges, not least the scale of the task at hand. Our teams are responsible for 13km of seafront, including 6km of railings, 18 shelters and 19 cucumber benches. A comprehensive seafront maintenance plan will be published shortly, but I’m delighted to see this element of our strategy getting underway soon. We really value the commitment to improving our city that contractors like R. J. Dance and many other local businesses continue to show.  

Involving people from the Community Payback Service also provides a visible and tangible way for offenders to contribute to their community. We’re hoping to work with more businesses and recruit further volunteers as the scheme progresses. This is a creative solution to the challenges around seafront maintenance and I’m really looking forward to seeing the benches back to their best.’

According to Arnold Laver, timber merchants, prior to this announcement, Brighton council trialled the use of Mediate Tricoya (a new type of extremely durable MDF) for refurbishment of a single bench. Barbara Goodfellow, a council building surveyor stated: ‘We have a lot of small buildings and furniture along our very long seafront promenade. The trial of Medite Tricoya proved its suitability for a harsh coastal environment.’ Arnold Laver also noted that the refurbishment trial used Dulux paints - Seafront Green (Hollybush) and Dark Brown.

The Great Omani

Twenty-five years ago, Brighton’s seafront bade a flamboyant farewell to one of its most extraordinary residents: Ronald Cunningham, better known by his stage name, ‘The Great Omani’. On 10 July 2000 - his 85th birthday - Omani staged what he declared would be his final stunt, astonishing a crowd at the Norfolk Hotel by escaping from handcuffs while both his arms were set ablaze with lighter fluid. Frail, in a wheelchair, and undergoing treatment for kidney dialysis and cancer, he ensured that his last act was as daring and theatrical as the countless spectacles he had performed along Brighton’s historic front - many of them centred on the West Pier, the backdrop to some of his most audacious feats.

Living modestly at 10 Norfolk Street, Cunningham was a true local legend whose improbable career as a stuntman and escapologist spanned nearly half a century. Born into a wealthy family, he drifted through his early years without ambition until a twist of fate changed everything. As he browsed in a London bookshop, a volume of Houdini’s tricks fell from a shelf and landed squarely on his foot. ‘That moment changed my life,’ he later said. Taking it as a sign, he resolved on the spot to become a stuntman, adopting the name ‘The Great Omani’ simply because, in his words, it sounded ‘exotic and exciting, just like Houdini’s’.

His acts were as audacious as his origin story. Omani became the first man to travel from London to Brighton on a bed of nails, then made the return journey entombed in a ton of concrete. In a heartfelt homage to his idol, he staged a dramatic underwater escape from Brighton’s West Pier - echoing Houdini’s own feats of the 1920s. According to The Argus, ‘The Great Omani could be regularly seen jumping from the end of the West Pier, wrapped in chains and on fire’. His repertoire included smashing bottles on his throat with a hammer, diving through flaming hoops, and extricating himself from burning structures - stunts performed with a blend of swagger and scrupulous preparation. Remarkably, across his long career, he was only seriously injured twice, both times due to mistakes by assistants: once when a cardboard house was set alight with petrol poured inside, another time when a leaking fuel can caused minor burns during a flaming dive.

That final spectacle on his 85th birthday was meant to be his swan song (see this video at Youtube - the source of the screenshot above), yet in true Omani fashion he couldn’t resist also marking his 90th birthday with a last defiant farewell (see My Brighton and Hove). He died in 2007. Further information is available online at Wikipedia, but also in The Crowd Roars - Tales from the life of a professional stuntman The Great Omani which can be freely downloaded as a pdf from QueenSpark Books.

The Pier first sees red - in neon

Exactly one hundred years ago, on 11 July 1925, The Brighton & Hove Herald reported a dazzling leap into modernity: the first brilliant neon sign blazed across the front of the Palace Pier. It was a spectacle the likes of which the town had never seen - a vivid red beacon spelling out Palace Pier, its letters edged in electric blue, visible from a considerable distance along the bustling seafront. This photo - courtesy of Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove - is dated to 1925 (though I know not if it actually includes any neon illumination).

At the time, neon was still a novel wonder. Invented by French engineer Georges Claude and first unveiled to the public at the Paris Motor Show in 1910, neon signs were a marvel of engineering and chemistry, harnessing the glow of electrified gas to paint the night in colours more vivid than anything achieved by traditional incandescent bulbs. In Britain, neon advertising only truly began to catch on in the early 1920s. Londoners were awestruck by neon displays on places like Hammersmith Bridge, and Brighton was determined not to be left behind.

The Brighton & Hove Herald of 11 July 1925 was almost breathless in its report, explaining that the new Palace Pier sign was among the first uses of neon illumination in the town - part of a wider effort to give the seafront a ‘brighter aspect by night’. The paper described how ‘huge shaped glass tubes’, bent to form the letters, were filled with neon gas which glowed fiercely under electrical charge, producing a luminous red unlike anything seen before. Surrounding blue lamps heightened the effect, creating what the Herald called ‘a colour combination that was quite attractive.’

The article goes on to give more details; ‘The words of the sign are formed by vacuum tubes charged with neon gas and electricity, which produces the brilliant light. The sign on the Pier takes 8,000 volts (alternating current), but it is so cheap in consumption of current that it costs only 2 1/2 d. an hour to run; and after the sign has been lit for a month that amount will be reduced to 2d. With the aid of a little lunar limelight, a wonderful colour effect was obtained on Tuesday night, but this was for ‘one night only.’ A great orange-coloured moon rose out of the wall of dark over the sea, and the orange of the moon and the flaming ruby of the sign produced a colour combination that was quite impressive.’

This local marvel was part of a global neon boom that would come to define the visual culture of the 20th century. Within a few years, neon would spread to Blackpool’s promenades, Piccadilly Circus, and Times Square, becoming synonymous with nightlife, glamour, and the thrilling energy of modern cities. But on that July evening in 1925, Brighton stood proudly at the forefront of this new luminous age.

Glitzy history of sunglasses

Sunglasses - such as these photographed on Brighton Beach - have a curious, winding history that stretches far beyond mere fashion. Long before glossy magazines or film stars, people sought ways to shield their eyes from the sun’s harsh glare. The Inuit crafted slitted goggles from walrus ivory to narrow the world into thin bands of light, protecting themselves against snow blindness. In ancient Rome, it’s said (but also disputed) that Nero watched gladiators through polished emeralds, delighting in both spectacle and subtle shade.

Centuries later, in twelfth-century China, smoky quartz lenses appeared not to protect eyes from sunlight but to conceal them. Judges wore these dark panes in court, their eyes unreadable behind flat stones, masking any flicker of bias. By the eighteenth century in Europe, tinted lenses gained a new reputation, believed to ease particular visual ailments - blue and green glass held out as hopeful remedies.

It was only in the modern age that sunglasses began their true march into everyday life. In the roaring 1920s and 30s, seaside holidays and open-top cars demanded tinted spectacles. Sam Foster seized the moment in 1929, selling mass-produced sunglasses on the Atlantic City boardwalk, delighting beachgoers who craved a touch of glamour with their sunburn. In 1936, Edwin H. Land introduced Polaroid filters, cutting glare with clever chemistry and forever changing how sunlight met the human eye.

War gave sunglasses another push. In the 1940s, Ray-Ban designed protective eyewear for American pilots, launching the aviator - a shape that would later slip from cockpits into cocktail bars with effortless ease. By the 1950s and 60s, sunglasses were not simply practical shields; they were signatures of style. Audrey Hepburn’s enormous frames, James Dean’s brooding lenses - they didn’t just hide eyes, they created mysteries.

Today, sunglasses straddle the line between science and seduction. They promise UV protection, polarisation, sharp optics. But they also whisper of disguise, of attitude, of watching the world from a place just out of reach. More on this from Wikipedia, Bauer & Clausen Optometry, and Google Arts and Culture.

Brighton Beach as runway!

Brighton Beach has always been a place for spectacle, but few moments could have matched the astonishment of locals in 1911 when Sir Harry Preston, the flamboyant hotelier and sportsman, arranged for a monoplane to land on the wide shingle shore. Preston, keen to boost Brighton’s reputation as a fashionable playground, was a fervent supporter of early aviation. Eager to showcase the marvels of flight, he invited pioneering pilot Oscar Morison to make a dramatic landing on the beach. 

On 15 February, crowds gathered to watch as Morison brought his Blériot XI monoplane skimming over the waves and touched down on the shingle beach between the Palace and West Piers. Although the rough pebbled surface damaged the aircraft’s undercarriage and propeller, the landing was safe, with Preston himself among the delighted spectators. The event captured national headlines and cemented Brighton’s place in the glamorous story of early aviation. (See the Sir Harry Preston website for further details).

Preston’s enthusiasm for flying was not limited to publicity stunts. As proprietor of the Royal York and the Royal Albion Hotels, he entertained countless aviators, racing drivers and sportsmen, many of whom regarded Brighton as their sporting headquarters. Preston saw aviation as part of the modern allure of his beloved town - a symbol of speed, daring, and forward-looking spirit.

Meanwhile, the inventive Volk brothers - Magnus and George Herbert, sons of Magnus Volk of electric railway fame -were turning their mechanical skills to aviation. Their particular story was recently (May) uncovered by BBC News with photographs (as above) and a radio report. From around 1910, the brothers were producing engines and floats in a North Laine workshop (though George Herbert ‘Bert’ Volk was at the heart of these endeavours). Soon after, they were building full airframes and fitting them with lightweight engines. The parts for these curious craft were wheeled down to the seafront near Paston Place, where they were assembled and launched directly into the Channel from Brighton Beach. 

Bert Volk’s operation attracted other aviation enthusiasts and innovators. Among them was John Cyril Porte, later known for his significant contributions to flying boat design, who collaborated on ideas about hulls and floats. In 1912, the celebrated aviator Claude Grahame‑White arrived in Brighton and demonstrated flights from Volk’s beach station, adding a dash of celebrity to the venture and thrilling crowds who had never seen such machines take to the air from the waves.

This brief flowering of marine aviation in Brighton, however, was overtaken by larger forces. By 1913, Bert had departed for South Africa, and with the outbreak of the First World War, the government requisitioned the site for wartime needs.

Happy splashing

Brighton’s popular Kings Road paddling pool is set to reopen today, 1 July, following weeks of essential repairs that saw the site drained, resurfaced and chemically balanced to ensure safety for thousands of expected summer visitors. According Brighton and Hove Council, the pool, nearby the West Pier, had been closed for work repair on its rubber-crumb flooring and to coordinate with the ongoing maintenance of the nearby A259 arches.

Councillor Alan Robins said the council understood how much families value this facility, calling it ‘a fantastic resource’ that provides ‘somewhere free where families can spend the day, make lifelong memories and, hopefully, enjoy the good weather this summer’. Councillor Trevor Muten added that the city had worked closely with Freedom Leisure, the operator responsible for the pool, to get the site ready in time for the school holidays. Longer term, the council plans to consult local residents on the paddling pool’s future once the arches project is complete.

There has been a seafront paddling pool more or less at this spot for generations. A larger, rectangular paddling pool was built here in the 1950s, just west of the West Pier’s landward remains, roughly opposite Regency Square - this photograph of it was published in The Argus some five years ago without any source or accreditation). When it was demolished either in the late 1970s or early 1980s, the site was repurposed first as tarmac and later partially used for skateboarding. In the early 2000s, as part of wider seafront improvements tied to the new seafront cycle lanes and landscaping, the new circular Kings Road paddling pool was constructed on approximately the same footprint, just slightly adjusted to fit the redesigned seafront layout.

The old paddling pool is fondly remembered, as recorded on the My Brighton and Hove website. Residents have shared stories of learning to swim there as toddlers, recalling sun-warmed concrete, splashes under clear skies, and the happy crush of families seeking relief from the heat. Here is Chris, for example, remembering the late 1960s: ‘’I used to go to the paddling pool with my mum and dad in the mid- to late 60s, before I was ready to “progress” to the sea or the King Alfred. I have vivid memories of the place to this day. I used to put my hands on the bottom and lay forward to “walk” along on my hands, pretending to swim. I also recall the paving around the pool where we’d lay out our towels/blankets and have the drinks and sandwiches we’d brought. Most of all, I remember the water as being wonderfully blue and clean – though with all those toddlers, I imagine it wasn’t quite that pure!’

The modern pool was briefly closed in 2023 after a dead seagull was found floating in the water, prompting a deep clean. Just last year, a spell of very hot weather caused minor surface damage that forced another temporary shutdown. Sporadic vandalism has also led to closures in the past, with glass or debris sometimes thrown into the pool. But now it’s open again, so happy splashing!

Four times time

Ninety-five years ago toady, on 27 June 1930, Brighton’s Mayor Horace Aldrich formally opened the clock tower at the entrance to the Palace Pier. Commissioned by the Brighton Marine Palace and Pier Company and built by W. G. Beaumont & Company, the new clock tower was designed to create a grander gateway for visitors, replacing the original ironwork arches as part of a widened promenade. Its four faces have since become an iconic feature at the pier’s entrance, though the clock faces don’t always tell the same time!

Local lore holds that the clock’s internal mechanism and faces were salvaged from the Brighton Aquarium, during its 1929 demolition, and repurposed into the new pier entrance (see My Brighton and Hove). While this is a persistent and colourful legend - referenced in community histories and online forums - there seems to be no definitive documentation to confirm it. 

The clock has not always run smoothly. During the Second World War, the mechanism and faces were removed for safekeeping, protecting them from potential bomb damage or sabotage. When the pier reopened in June 1946, the clock was reinstalled and the tower rebuilt. Over the decades, the coastal environment - with its salt, wind and storms - has taken its toll, leading to periodic wear and tear and necessitating regular maintenance.

One of the most notable recent challenges occurred during a particularly wet winter in the late 2000s. The tower’s waterproofing failed, causing wooden structural supports to decay. This led to the clock’s shafts binding and the mechanism losing time. The problem was resolved by engineers from Hastings, who restored the clock and repaired the structure. Nevertheless, in the last few years, when on the beach, I’ve learned to check more than one face if I need to know the time.

The wreck of the Atlantique

On a stormy June night in 1860, Brighton Beach became the stage for a maritime tragedy that left one man dead and a French vessel stranded in the surf. The Atlantique, a coal-laden ship bound from Bowness to Marseilles, was driven hopelessly off course by days of violent weather. As the gale intensified, she struck the beach behind the Albion Hotel, within sight of the town’s esplanade. 

The wreck became the subject of local newspaper reports and a dramatic engraving in the Illustrated London News (1860-06-16: Vol 36 Iss 1036). A copy of the original edition, but with an imperfect image, can be freely viewed online at Internet Archive. A much better image - of which this is a screenshot - can be found at the Regency Society website (the digital image being owned by the Society of Brighton Print Collectors).

Here is the brief article that appeared with the picture in London Illustrated News.

‘The terrific gale which blew on Saturday week was felt in its full force at Brighton, and two vessels - the Transit, of Shoreham, and the Atlantique, of Nantes - were driven on shore. We give an engraving of the wreck of the latter vessel, from a sketch taken on the Pier Esplanade by Mr. E. Nibbs, of Howard-place, Brighton. The following details of the disaster are from a local paper.

The wreck of the Atlantique, of Nantes, took place last night, and, unfortunately, there was loss of one life. Between eleven and twelve o’clock the vessel was seen driving towards the shore, until at length, just at the turn of the tide, and during the height of the gale, she struck the beach at the back of the Albion Hotel, carrying away part of the groyne, and the sea began to beat furiously over her. Captain Manby’s apparatus was called into requisition, and rockets were thrown, by means of which a rope was thrown over the vessel and communication with the shore established. The captain and some others threw themselves into the sea, and got safely to shore. One young man, however, was carried away by the sea and drowned, his body being found not far from the spot about an hour afterwards. The rest were saved by means of the ropes of the ship and the exertions of those on the shore. The exhausted and weatherbeaten men, including the captain, five men, and a boy, were taken to Mr. Payne’s Marine Hotel, where fires were prepared and every kindness shown them. The Atlantique was bound from Bowness to Marseilles, laden with 210 tons of gas coal. She was driven considerably out of her course by the heavy gales of the previous Sunday and Monday, and, after encountering much bad weather, on Saturday, the 2nd inst., was forced helplessly on the Sussex coast.

South-East History Boards has a transcript of the local newspaper report on the inquest into the death of Celestin Pruneau, First Mate of the Atlantique. 

An attempt was made to refloat the Atlantique, the same source reveals, but this failed - the salvors sold her cargo of coal, the purchaser being the Brighton & Hove Gas Co.

Celebrating Eugenius Birch

Eugenius Birch - born this day in 1818 - was the preeminent engineer of the Victorian seaside, the man who shaped the silhouette of England’s pleasure piers - and few places reflect his legacy more vividly than Brighton. Though best remembered for designing the West Pier, his original involvement with the Palace Pier also left a mark on the seafront that endures to this day. It is worth noting that Brighton is the only location where TWO Eugenius Birch built/inspired piers can be captured in a single ground-level photograph.

Brighton in the mid-19th century was already a flourishing resort town, a fashionable destination for sea air and spectacle. But its early piers were practical structures - wooden jetties for landing boats, not leisure. The transformation of the pier into a promenade of popular entertainment was largely Birch’s doing.

The West Pier, opened in October 1866, was his masterpiece. Commissioned by the West Pier Company and built at a cost of over £27,000, it was the first pier in Britain designed specifically for pleasure rather than docking. Birch employed his trademark screw-pile technique - iron piles twisted deep into the seabed - which made the structure both elegant and resilient. The West Pier featured cast-iron columns, graceful arches, gas lighting, and a central pavilion where orchestras performed to strolling visitors. It soon became a jewel of the Brighton shoreline, admired for its engineering and its social atmosphere.

The success of the West Pier inspired calls for a second pier, further east, to replace the ageing and storm-battered Chain Pier. In 1881, the newly formed Brighton Marine Palace and Pier Company invited Birch to draw up plans for a grander structure: what would eventually become the Palace Pier. His design envisioned a wide, iron-framed promenade extending over 1,000 feet into the Channel, crowned with entertainment pavilions and theatre space - a palace of amusement on the sea.

Construction began in November 1881, but progress was plagued by bad weather and delays. Birch, now in his sixties and nearing the end of his life, did not live to see it through. He died in January 1884, and the project stalled for several years after. When work resumed in earnest, the Palace Pier’s design was significantly revised under new engineers, though it retained Birch’s iron-pile foundations and the core idea of a leisure pier rather than a landing stage.

The Palace Pier was finally opened in May 1899, fifteen years after Birch’s death. Though much of the decorative design and superstructure was reimagined, the engineering principles remained his. Its immense popularity through the 20th century - with its theatres, arcades, and fairground rides - owed much to the model first tested on the West Pier. Today, the West Pier, now skeletal after fires and storms, stands as a haunting but beautiful ruin, a tribute to Birch’s original vision; and The Palace Pier  continues to thrive as one of Britain’s most visited free attractions.

Happy Birthday Eugenius Birch. Further information is readily available online, for example at Wikipedia, the National Piers Society and The Victorian Web. The modern photograph above was taken in 2020. The two Victorian-era photographs of the piers were published in my book Brighton & Hove Then & Now (The History Press, 2013) but originally sourced from the James Gray Collection with thanks to the Regency Society.

Pining for Sabrina Zembra

‘He began to think that if he passed away from this laughing and murmuring crowd, and went out to the end of the pier, and quietly slipped down into the placid waters, the world would be none the worse for the want of him, and a good deal of heart-sickness would come to an end.’ This is from Sabina Zembra, a lesser known novel set in Brighton by Victorian author William Black.

Black was born in Glasgow in 1841. He initially studied art, but became a reporter for Scottish newspapers. Later, in London, he worked for the Morning Star and Daily News, serving as a war correspondent during Garibaldi’s campaign and the Franco-Prussian War. His breakthrough novel, A Daughter of Heth (1871), marked the start of a prolific literary career. Known for his lyrical prose, romantic plots, and vividly rendered landscapes, he became one of the most widely read novelists of the 1870s and 1880s - see Wikipedia.

Black’s work often balanced sentiment with moral seriousness and featured strong, emotionally intelligent female characters. His best-known novels include The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton (1872), A Princess of Thule (1873), and MacLeod of Dare (1879). Though his popularity waned after his death, in his lifetime he was widely admired, with some critics likening his descriptive power to that of Thomas Hardy or even early Tennyson.

While primarily associated with Scotland and London, Black and his second wife, Eva Simpson, moved to Brighton in 1878 - see The Victorian Web. And Brighton then featured in his 1881 novel, The Beautiful Wretch, and subsequently in Sabina Zembra. In this latter novel, the reflective opening scenes unfold along the town’s seafront and Chain Pier, capturing its blend of gaiety and melancholy. Black actually died in Brighton in 1898 and was buried near the church door of St Margaret's, Rottingdean, close to the grave of Edward Burne-Jones.

Sabina Zembra was first published in 1887 by Macmillan - the full work is freely available to read online at Internet Archive. It explores themes of love, melancholy, and social expectation against the contrasting backdrops of London and the English seaside. The story centres on Walter Lindsay, a sensitive, somewhat disillusioned man who escapes the pressures of life in London by retreating to Brighton. Though surrounded by crowds, he is inwardly solitary, his thoughts haunted by a woman named Sabina Zembra. Sabina is not just a love interest but a symbol of a purer, nobler affection in a world that feels increasingly hollow. As Lindsay wanders through Brighton’s piers and promenades, he contemplates life, despair, and romantic ideals. Here is a passage that opens chapter 15 entitled The Wedding.

‘It was a summer night at Brighton. The tall house-fronts were gray and wan against the crimson and yellow still lingering in the north-western heavens; but far away over the sea, to the south-east, there dwelt a golden moon in a sky of pale rose-purple; and the moonlight that fell on the wide waters was soft and shimmering, until it gleamed sharp and vivid where the ripples broke on the beach. Here and there the stars of the gas lamps began to tell in the twilight. There was a faint murmur of talking; young girls in their summer costumes went by, with laughter and jest; there was an open window, and somebody within a brilliantly lit drawing-room was singing - in a voice not very loud but still audible to such of the passers-by as happened to pause and listen - an old Silesian air. It was about a lover, and a broken ring, and the sound of a mill-wheel.

Walter Lindsay was among these casual listeners - for a minute or two; and then he went on, with some curious fancies in his head. Not that any young maiden had deceived him, or that he was particularly anxious to find rest in the grave; for this is the latter half of the nineteenth century, and he, as well as others, knew that Wertherism [morbid sentimentality, regarded as characteristic of Werther, the hero of Goethe’s romance] was now considered ridiculous. But somehow London had become intolerable to him; and he could not work; and - well, Brighton was the nearest place to get away to, while one was considering further plans. It was a little lonely, it is true; especially on these summer evenings, when all the world seemed, as it were, to be murmuring in happiness.

Over there was the Chain Pier. A few golden points - gas lamps - glimmered on it; and beyond it there was a small boat, the sail of which caught the last dusky-red light from the sunset, and looked ghostly on the darkening plain. In that direction peace seemed to lie. He began to think that if he passed away from this laughing and murmuring crowd, and went out to the end of the pier, and quietly slipped down into the placid waters, the world would be none the worse for the want of him, and a good deal of heart-sickness would come to an end. He did not really contemplate suicide; it was a mere fancy. Killing oneself for love is not known nowadays, except among clerks and shop-lads; and then it is generally prefaced by cutting a young woman’s throat, which is unpleasant. No, it was a mere fancy that haunted him, and not in a too mournful fashion.’

Marrocco’s and the dawn of TripAdvisor

Fifteen years ago, in June 2010, a TripAdvisor user named Candyjo quietly posted what remains one of the earliest - and most charming - online restaurant reviews in the UK. Her destination was Marrocco’s, the family-run Italian institution on Hove’s seafront. At the time, hers was the only review for the year - only the second in total. Today, there are nearly a thousand.

Founded in 1969 by the Marrocco family, the Brighton Beach business began as a gelateria serving homemade Italian ice cream prepared fresh each morning. Over the decades it evolved into a full restaurant, offering fresh seafood, pasta and grills in a close-knit, cheerful setting. The heart of the operation remains the same: a warm welcome, an open kitchen, and food made with care.

TripAdvisor, meanwhile, was just beginning to take root in the UK dining scene. Although the platform launched in the US in 2000, its early growth in Britain was slower. In 2010, most independent restaurants still relied on word-of-mouth, and online reviews were more novelty than norm. This is what makes Candyjo’s post feel like a time capsule. 

She wrote in June 2010: ‘If you go here (please don’t - I like to be able to get a table) you need to accept that it’s a small, family-run place where they cook the food in an open kitchen that might be right by your elbow, and if they’re too busy then you’ll have to wait, and if you take longer than usual over your starter that might mess up the timing a bit but that what you get is authentic, fresh and delicious.

I had the crab linguine - a whole spider crab so not a huge amount of meat, and very messy of course what with pincers and extractors etc - it was already chopped up a bit, the pasta spilled from the shell like a piece of art - it was beautiful. Am I being too effusive? Probably. It’s just so rare to get food this good, that looks this good and that I can afford (£11.95). The pasta sauce included fresh cherry tomatoes to die for, a hint of heat (chilli), perfect.

My companion had a whole, huge sea bass, grilled perfectly. Same price; it came with chips. The tables are closely packed and if it’s busy it’s noisy. There are children, who might possibly run around were there room to but there isn’t. There are grandparents, business people, couples, friends; often they seem to be Italian which seems a good thing. The staff are friendly and knowledgeable.

Perhaps you should go with the idea that it’s a café that serves fab food (and with ‘greasy spoon’ cafes charging perhaps £7 or £8 for a plate of breakfast, this is a bargain in comparison). Get a bottle of wine, linger. Then walk along the seafront towards the dreamy sunset and remember that city living can have its advantages.

I don’t especially like the ice cream (not sweet enough for me) but I don’t go there for that. Though I did share an ice cream ‘cocktail’ thing (banana split?) once and it was good.’

Fifteen years later, the heart of that review still beats. The prices may have changed, but the atmosphere, the setting and the charm of Marrocco’s continue to draw locals and visitors alike. Candyjo’s post wasn’t just an early review - it was a small piece of Brighton food history, lovingly written, and now part of the restaurant’s long and ongoing story.