Through Dammo’s eyes

Following on from the Brighton Mod Weekender, two exhibitions are giving Brighton a chance to look at Mod culture in fresh detail. On the beach front, beside the i360 and the Upside Down House, the photographer David Clarke - known to the Mod community as Dammo - is showing Through My Eyes, a free outdoor display of his work. 

The exhibition sits between the shingle and the traffic, where the promenade railings overlook the sea, so that anyone strolling past or pausing for an ice cream finds themselves drawn into the images. Running until the end of August, it charts twenty years of the Brighton Mod Weekender, from scooter ride-outs to sharply dressed gatherings, and captures how a once-fringe revival has matured into a fixture of the city’s summer. Clarke’s images are not posed studio portraits but candid records of Mods in their element, whether standing by the railings in the wind or reflected in the chrome of a Vespa.

Inside Brighton Museum & Art Gallery, a parallel exhibition takes a deeper dive into the roots of the movement. The In Crowd: Mod Fashion & Style 1958-66 brings together garments, photographs, ephemera and music that defined the original scene. From Italian-cut suits to miniskirts, from Motown singles to Lambretta brochures, the show aims to immerse visitors in the years when the Mod aesthetic was first forged. The curators emphasise that Mod was as much about attitude as appearance, with a spirit of youthful confidence shaping fashion choices and nightlife.

Although both exhibitions centre on Mod identity, their approaches differ. Clarke’s photography celebrates the Brighton revival, with an eye on the community that has kept scooters on Madeira Drive most Augusts since 2005. The museum’s survey looks back to an earlier moment, before Quadrophenia and before the myth-making, when Mod was still a modernist youth movement in the making. Together, they offer a conversation across sixty years: how a style born in late-1950s London became heritage on the south coast, and how today’s enthusiasts carry the look forward.

The contrast between the two is deliberate. Clarke’s work meets passers-by in the open air, integrated into the ebb and flow of promenade life, while the museum requires a step indoors into a curated, reflective space. One is part of the spectacle, the other a retrospective. For the Mod faithful, the seafront show is also a chance to find themselves in the pictures: Clarke has been a regular on the front line of ride-outs and has built up an archive unmatched in its scope. Meanwhile, the museum exhibition situates Mod within broader shifts in British design and music, drawing links with jazz clubs, Carnaby Street boutiques and the global rise of youth culture.

Little ol’ me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aroe with divan

Aroe’s arch piece on the seafront still stops you in your tracks. Two luminous female faces float inside the red-brick curve, one in profile, one tipped skyward, airbrushed light drifting like sea mist between them. The brickwork’s scars and drips are left in play, so the image feels breathed onto the wall rather than pasted over it. It is classic Aroe, probably painted 2015-2017: cinematic scale, soft gradients, and a refusal to separate photorealism from the grit of a working shoreline.

Brighton and its beach has Aroe’s worked etched, as it were, everywhere. He has been active since the first hip-hop wave hit Britain in the early 1980s, coming up through Brighton, joining MSK, and becoming one of the city’s defining writers. He is now four decades deep, with recent retrospective-style shows in Brighton confirming how far those train-yard beginnings have travelled. The long arc explains the polish on the arch: a style that has been iterated, toured and argued over for years.

Eleven years ago this September, Aroe and fellow Brighton artist Gary were invited to paint the sea-facing hoardings for the i360 build, a seafront commission that announced, in broad daylight, how institutional Brighton had become about its outlaw form. That job set the tone for a run of shoreline works and helped normalise the idea that tourists might arrive at the beach and find serious graffiti looking back at them. 

Other Aroe pieces on or by the seafront have kept that momentum. In 2015 the MSK crew covered roughly 100 metres of the i360 hoardings, turning a building site into a rolling gallery (see Graffiti Brighton for some examples); in 2016 Aroe helped brighten Hove Lagoon’s south wall with neighbours and local supporters (see HOVE LAGOON in murals). These episodes sit alongside Brighton’s longer, sometimes uneasy story of city-sanctioned walls, conservation rows, and the simple fact that the arches remain the most visible outdoor gallery the town possesses.

And the bed? It reads like a found prop that accidentally completes the composition. Aroe’s portraits make the arch feel domestic, as if the curve of brick were a proscenium and the door a pale, painted window; the patchwork chaise invites a pause, a place to sit and look back at the faces. There’s no sign it belongs to the artist, but in context it works like street-level staging: a fleeting, Brightonish still life where public art, furniture and promenade collide. The mural will outlast the upholstery, but for now they belong to the same scene.

See Art Plugged and Helm for more on Aroe.

A truck in thought

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Lens or no lens

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

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

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

Tomorrow? The history of sunglasses!

Beside the Sea

Brighton’s 2025 Beside the Sea exhibition, running from May through September, features works by renowned photographers Martin Parr and JJ Waller, with a particular focus on Waller’s intimate and playful portrayal of Brighton Beach. The exhibition is presented in three distinct venues: the Hove Museum of Creativity, The Seafront Gallery, and, most strikingly, on the roofs of Brighton’s bus shelters (which, according to the organisers, is a world first).

JJ Waller, a British documentary photographer born and raised in Brighton, is well known locally for his portraits of people in Brighton and other coastal towns such as St Leonards-on-Sea and Blackpool. His images capture the spirit of Brighton Beach, a place celebrated for its freedom, eccentricity, and everyday spectacle. Waller’s photographs depict children with ice cream-smeared faces, sunbathers asleep on the pebbles, and the curious mix of visitors in various states of undress, all contributing to a rich visual record of seaside life. 

Drawing on his background in performance and theatre, Waller blends candid moments with a staged quality, highlighting the ritual and rhythm of the beach without losing sight of humour and humanity. His recent work, including widely praised Covid-19 lockdown portraits of Sussex residents taken through their windows, has brought him national recognition and was even edited into a collection by Martin Parr.

The Beside the Sea exhibition breaks new ground by presenting over 65 large-scale photographs some pasted flat onto the roofs of 30 bus shelters across Brighton, visible only from the top deck of a double-decker bus. This innovative approach transforms everyday journeys into art experiences, integrating photography into the city’s fabric and making the exhibition accessible to all with a bus ticket or pass. Waller, inspired by childhood memories of bus rides with his mother, sees this as a unique way to open up new exhibition spaces and reach audiences who might not typically visit galleries. He describes the collaboration with Parr, who is exhibiting in Brighton for the first time, as a dream come true, likening it to a young musician sharing a double album with legends like Bowie or McCartney.

In addition to the bus shelter installations, the exhibition is anchored at the Hove Museum of Creativity and The Seafront Gallery, where visitors can enjoy classic and rarely seen seaside photographs in more traditional gallery settings. The gallery, located on the lower esplanade by the West Pier spiral, offers an enhanced experience for those promenading along the beach, blending art with the everyday seaside environment. While Martin Parr’s contributions add national context and depth with images from his iconic Last Resort series and other archives, it is JJ Waller’s local focus and playful sensibility that give Beside the Sea its distinctly Brightonian flavour. 

The Golden Gallopers

We are lucky to have the GGs on Brighton Beach, better known as the ‘Golden Gallopers’, a fairground ride that surely captures the spirit of traditional seaside entertainment. 

This carousel was built in 1888 by Frederick Savage, a pioneering 19th-century English engineer and inventor who transformed the world of fairground machinery. Savage, based in King’s Lynn, Norfolk, developed steam-powered systems for carousels, including the ‘galloping horse’ mechanism that gave ride-on horses their signature rise-and-fall motion. His roundabouts were exported around the world and laid the foundation for what became known as the golden age of mechanical fairgrounds.

The Brighton carousel originally toured the North of England before being exported to the USA by an American collector. After some years abroad, it returned to the UK and eventually found a permanent home on Brighton beach. Over the course of its history, the ride has undergone a number of restorations, including a key rebuild by Savage’s company to convert it from a ‘dobby set’ (with stationary horses) to a full galloper ride using overhead cranks and a rotating platform. The original steam engine was removed in 1949, and the carousel has since run on electric power.

The carousel has been operated on Brighton beach since 1997 by Owen Smith - Smith’s name is proudly painted on the ride’s canopy, and he continues to manage its seasonal appearance and upkeep. The carousel typically operates from Easter to September and is dismantled each winter for protection. A notable feature of the ride’s operation is its annual rebuilding each March, when it is reassembled on the beach. This process has been documented in a sequence of photos by Tony Mould, who also recorded the names of all the carved horses, each one individually painted and named - see My Brighton and Hove. (However, these photographs are my own.)

Today, the Golden Gallopers carousel remains a much-loved landmark on Brighton’s seafront. It stands, one might say, as a living tribute to Frederick Savage’s mechanical ingenuity and to the commitment of its current operator, who ensures the carousel continues to delight new generations of visitors with the colour, motion, and music of a bygone era.

Rampion’s giant turbines

This month marks ten years since a major turning point in the UK’s green energy journey - and in the future of views out to sea from Brighton Beach. In May 2015, confirmation of a £1.3 billion investment unlocked the start of construction on what would become the Rampion Offshore Wind Farm - a pioneering renewable energy project off the Sussex coast. A decade later, Rampion has not only reshaped the region’s horizon but also played a key role in reshaping Britain’s energy future.

Back in 2015, the announcement by E.ON, with backing from the UK Green Investment Bank and Enbridge, signalled more than just a financial commitment. It was a bold vote of confidence in the potential of offshore wind, then still an emerging sector. Construction began in 2016; by spring 2018, the turbines were fully operational, delivering power to the National Grid.

Situated 13km off the Sussex coast, Rampion was the first offshore wind farm in the south of England. With 116 turbines generating up to 400 megawatts - enough to power around 350,000 homes - it demonstrated the viability of large-scale wind energy in the region. Its name, chosen by public vote, nods to the round-headed rampion, the county flower of Sussex.

Today, Rampion stands as a landmark project - visible most especially from Brighton Beach - and a vital contributor to the UK’s renewable energy mix. Looking ahead, the proposed Rampion 2 expansion aims to nearly triple the wind farm’s generating capacity. With an estimated cost of £2 billion, the project received government approval in April 2025 and is expected to begin construction in late 2026 or early 2027, aiming to be fully operational before 2030. The extension will add 90 turbines, each up to 325 meters tall - surpassing the height of the Eiffel Tower - and will provide clean electricity to over one million homes. (The photo below is from the Rampion website.)

The visual impact of Rampion has been a topic of discussion - see The Guardian. While some residents and visitors appreciate the turbines as symbols of progress and find them majestic, others express concerns about their prominence on the seascape. The developers have engaged in public consultations to address these concerns, including reducing the number of turbines and adjusting their placement to minimise visual intrusion. Meanwhile anyone wishing to get up close and personal to the turbine giants can take a tour with Brighton Diver - costing just £45 for a two-three hour boat ride.

A godly spell

Golden liquor drizzled through the sky

Drizzled over all the pier, and the sands

Must be from the feast of gods, we sigh

With too much nectar on their hands

Lucky Bacchus at the table, Odin too

Chinking vessels, slurping mead

Sniggering at the glitter goo

That dazzles us, and feeds our need

What of the myths and sagas that they tell?

Should we rap on sequinned pebbles

Emblazoned as they are in glistening swell  

Or simply take a photo of such a godly spell.

Mods and Rockers clash in the 60s

Sixty years ago today, on 19 April 1965, groups of Mods and Rockers clashed on and around Brighton Beach. The event occurred during the Easter bank holiday weekend. Police were present in large numbers and intervened to disperse the youths gathering along the seafront and in the town centre. Several arrests were made and minor injuries were reported. Damage included broken shop windows.

The incident followed similar disturbances during the previous year’s May Day bank holiday in 1964. On that occasion, clashes between Mods and Rockers in Brighton resulted in multiple arrests, injuries, and damage to property. Police were deployed to manage the disorder, and several youths appeared before local magistrates in the days that followed.

Mods were typically associated with scooters, suits, and modernist fashion, while Rockers were known for motorcycles and leather jackets. The two groups were identified as youth subcultures with differing styles and music preferences. The 1964 clashes were widely reported in national newspapers, and later immortalised in Franc Roddam’s 1979 film Quadrophenia (based on The Who’s 1973 rock opera of the same name). It’s a gritty, stylish snapshot of subculture and adolescent angst, featuring music by The Who and early performances from actors like Phil Daniels, Sting and Ray Winstone. Above are four grainy stills from the film which itself can viewed freely at Internet Archive.  

ChatGPT provides this analysis: ‘By 1965, the fierce edge of the Mods and Rockers rivalry was already dulling. Mod fashion was moving toward psychedelia and the emergent counterculture, while Rockers began to look like a fading relic. Yet the 19 April disturbances showed the staying power of the myth. Even as the actual confrontations became more manageable, the cultural image of Brighton as a flashpoint for youth rebellion lingered. Indeed, the echoes of these bank holiday battles still resonate. They were not just scuffles between teenagers but symbolic episodes in a much larger story - of how Britain came to terms with its youth, its future, and its identity.’

Photographs and contemporary reports of the Brighton clashes in 1965 are not widely available. These two here (the one above copyrighted at Media Storehouse, the other at Alamy) are the only ones I can find actually dated to 19 April. However, earlier this year, The Argus published an excellent article, with many photographs, looking back to the 1964 clashes, and quoting from its own reports.

A paddle steamer and mixed bathing

 A superb collection of high quality old photographs of Brighton Beach and the seafront - from the James Gray Collection - are currently on display on the Lower Promenade near the i360. The 36 images have been chosen and reproduced by the Regency Society and will remain on show until 27 April 2025. All the panels carry their own captions and can be previewed at the Regency Society website.

In promoting the open exhibition, the Society says: ‘We continually look for ways to share the RS James Gray Collection of historical photographs with the public. This is one of the most adventurous yet. [. . .] We hope many residents and visitors will have a chance to experience these fascinating glimpses of bygone life on Brighton seafront close to their historical settings.’

Here are two of the photos from the exhibition. The caption for the one above reads: ‘The paddle-steamer The Brighton Queen at the eastern landing stage of the Palace Pier, probably in the 1930s. She was built in 1905 and was not just a pleasure steamer. She served as a minesweeper in WWI and in 1940 she was bombed and sunk at Dunkirk on her second trip to rescue British troops.’

And the caption for the one below reads: ‘A Mixed Bathing beach in Hove in 1919. Hove was slower than Brighton to allow men and women to go swimming from the same stretch of beach but by 1919 it had several Mixed Bathing areas, all strictly signposted and enormously popular.’

The Regency Society of Brighton and Hove was founded in December 1945 by a group of local historians, preservationists, and civic leaders with the aim of protecting the city’s distinctive Regency-era architecture from post-war redevelopment threats. Over the years, the Society has played a vital role in campaigning for the conservation and sensitive restoration of Brighton’s architectural heritage, becoming the city’s oldest conservation group and a key advocate for preserving its unique Regency character. 

In 1998, after the death of James Gray, an insurance broker with a passion for local history, the society acquired his extensive collection of historic black-and-white photographs, known as The James Gray Collection. The full collection comprises 7,530 annotated photographs, arranged in 39 volumes by areas of the city - all available to view online.

Brighton waves, Brighton raves!

A sea of enthusiasm for BrightonBeach365

100th post, 265 to go!

In a silvery sea of time

My struts and columns, battered, beaten, rusted
My arches, beams, joists exposed to every weather
Yet here I am, old, old yet standing, still standing
Proud
Honest
Beautiful
In a silvery sea of time

My bones and muscles, always tired, seeking rest
My ligaments and joints, creaking all day long
Yet here I am, old, old yet standing, still standing
Wrinkling
Watchful
Wizened
With a silvery mop on top

Where gone my dancers, promenaders, those in deckchairs
Gone to winds, and silvery waves, and elemental forces
Yet here I am, old, old yet standing, still standing
Proud
Honest
Beautiful
In a silvery sea of time

Where gone my friends, family and travels
Gone to dust, torn photos and unremembered postcards
Yet here I am, old, old yet standing, still standing
Wrinkling
Watchful
Wizened
With a silvery mop on top

I do like to be beside the seaside

Visitors to Brighton Pier this week have been left deeply unsettled by what should have been a harmless seaside tradition. A new ‘Kiss Me Quick’ photo board - designed for tourists to poke their faces through for a fun snap - has taken on an unnerving reputation. Why? Because while one face cut-out offers a clear view of Brighton’s iconic seafront, the other is eerily, inexplicably blank. Our photographer insists his image is straight from the camera, unedited.

The effect is startling. Onlookers swear that when someone places their face into the open cut-out, they momentarily glimpse an unsettlingly pristine, slightly different version of Brighton - a view that doesn’t quite match the present day. ‘I saw the beach, the pier, but . . . there were no people. It was like Brighton, but frozen in time,’ one visitor whispered.

More disturbing still is the blocked-out side. Those who step up to the photo board expecting to see their grinning friend beside them instead report . . . nothing. The space remains stubbornly empty, as if the board refuses to acknowledge whoever stands there. Some claim they hear a faint, muffled echo of the old seaside song ‘Oh I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside’ when they press their ear to the board. Others say the cut-out briefly reflects a different figure - someone who isn’t them.

Local paranormal enthusiasts are already dubbing it the ‘Brighton Time Portal,’ speculating that it might be an accidental rift between past and present. Pier officials, meanwhile, insist it’s just an ‘unfortunate design quirk’ and have politely asked visitors to ‘tapping the board’ in an effort to detect hidden depths.

But with reports growing of people stepping away from the board with their reflections slightly altered - a new freckle, a missing earring, or (in one case) an inexplicable knowledge of 1950s tram schedules - Brighton’s newest attraction is proving to be more than just an innocent seaside joke.

So, if you’re planning a visit, remember: only one of you will see the sea. The other? Well. . . we can’t say for certain what they’ll see.

Löyly, Leil and Saunacraft

Löyly, Leil and Saunacraft are good for another five years! Earlier this month, Brighton & Hove City Council approved an application by Beach Box Spa Ltd for ‘a temporary change of use of beach for use as a spa/sauna for period of five years’. The company - set up by Liz Watson and Katie Bracher - first offered a single sauna back in 2018, but since then has expanded to three saunas. In support of the planning approval, the council received hundreds of positive comments. 

Beach Box first operated nearby the early Sea Lanes site; but, it was obliged to close down as the Sea Lanes complex developed. In early 2022, it repositioned its saunas a little further east, at the Banjo Groyne (by this time Liz Watson was the sole owner). A temporary planning permit was granted, to March 2023, and then another to March 2025. However, the most recent planning permission will last till 2030, ‘to allow time for a new, permanent location to be found’. Three conditions are attached to the permit: the land to be restored to its natural condition on or before 30 April 2030; operations limited to the hours of 7am to 10pm; and, a prohibition on any use of external loudspeakers (unless otherwise separately agreed).

Leil, the original sauna, was created from a converted horse box. Aspen-lined it has benches on one level and it boasts a snug, grey, felt ceiling. Löyly was built by the Bristol company Saunacraft, and is the hottest of the three, also aspen-lined. It is said to have a woodland cabin feel, and a maple syrup aroma. Lotta was crafted by local sauna builders, Wildhut, and is cedar clad - cedar having aromatic and antibacterial properties. It offers panoramic ocean views and a capacity of 9/12.

According to the council, some 229 letters in support were received in support of planning permission. The contents are summarised as follows:
‘- Provides health and wellbeing benefits
- Economic boost to local area from employment and tourism
- Positive feature on the seafront with benefit to local community
- Fits with other venues in the area
- Facility is well run and accessible
- No harm to neighbouring amenity
- Generates positive publicity
- Location on the beach benefits the sauna experience’

As well as a range of spa treatments and a forest sauna near Battle, Beach Box also offers a busy schedule of sauna events. This one, on 31 March, looks particularly interesting: New Moon Party. ‘A New Moon offers us an opportunity to set intentions and goals, letting go of limiting beliefs that might hold us back and planting seeds for the future. It feels like a breathe of fresh air for the mind! Our trained Sauna Masters will guide you through a journey for the senses, with sauna rituals, leaves and aromatherapy scents. Enjoy cold plunges between rounds to reset and invigorate. A cosy moment around the firepit, to finish, with post-sauna nibbles under the moonlit sky. Let the warmth of the sauna soothe your body, the coolness of the water awaken your senses, and the magic of the New Moon inspire your soul.’

Freedom or Kiteboarding on Brighton Beach

As free as the sky

As free as the sea

As free as she wants to be

As free as the wind

As free as the breeze

As free as she hopes for ease

As free as flight

As free as the air

As free as she wishes to dare

Zink Zonk Zunk

This is space/time warping 30 degrees

The air rotating to an acute angle

The sea flowing down and to the west

The breeze churning into a mighty easterly

And she who was as free as . . .

And she who was free . . .

And she who was . . .

And she who . . .

And she . . .

Is taking a last glorious, epic leap - up, up and beyond

Never to be seen again

Palace Pier light and dark

As part of Britain’s coastal defence strategy, the War Office mandated - in May 1940 - the closure of Brighton Palace Pier in order to mitigate risks of invasion or sabotage. Just a few weeks earlier - on 15 March, exactly 65 years ago today - this beautiful postcard of a lit up Palace Pier was mailed by Mr E. Thomas, stationed at Preston Barracks, to his cousin Lil Groom in Bridgend. The striking image can be found in Palace Pier, Brighton by Albert Bullock and Peter Medcalf. Overleaf from that image, can be found another, darker image of the Palace Pier - its polar opposite.

During the war, the pier, once a symbol of seaside joy, underwent a dramatic transformation as it became part of Britain’s coastal defence system. A then-secret War Office paper identified the possible direction and scale of a German invasion, and recommended that the majority of piers around the country should have three spans removed to prevent the passage of troops and light infantry vehicles. The Palace Pier was cut in half by a team of sappers from the Royal Engineers led by Captain Peter Fleming. It was left with a 40 ft wide gap. 

The remaining structures were heavily reinforced with sandbags and defensive barriers. Soldiers were stationed, and anti-aircraft guns were installed, turning it into a lookout and defence post against aerial attacks. The closure also involved deactivating the pier’s lighting system, which had previously required 67,000 bulbs to illuminate its length. These measures aligned with broader national efforts to darken coastal areas, reducing visibility for enemy aircraft and naval forces. 

The war years saw a significant decline in the pier’s condition due to the lack of maintenance and constant exposure to the elements. Resources were diverted to the war effort, leaving little for the upkeep of civilian infrastructure. The pier was not repaired until September 1945, four months alter VE Day. It reopened on 6 June 1946.

Hamish Black’s Afloat

A little more than 25 years ago, a striking sculpture appeared on Brighton Beach, captivating the imagination of passersby with its unique form and thought-provoking concept. Hamish Black’s Afloat, a bronze work that reimagines the world as a floating torus, has stood the test of time, becoming an iconic landmark that continues to inspire locals and tourists alike.

Born in Braintree, Essex, in 1948, Black grew up assisting in his family’s blacksmith business. This youthful apprenticeship led to a deeper interest in making forms with metals. Aged 16, he began to study art, seven years in all - at Eastbourne School of Art, North East London Polytechnic, and the Slade School of Art. He preferred to sculpt in metal but also realised works in wood and ceramics, often using an additive process, a form of assemblage in three dimensions, as opposed to the reductive process of the stone or wood carver.

Throughout his career, Black was committed to art education, teaching at various institutions including Brighton Polytechnic, West Sussex College of Art, and Wimbledon School of Art. In the mid-1980s, he began a significant collaboration with renowned sculptor Sir Anthony Caro, which lasted for 25 years. He resides in East Sussex, but there is little sign in the media of any recent projects - his personal website has remained unaltered for some years.

Back in 1998, as part of his One World Series, Black created Afloat, commissioned by Brighton & Hove City Council and funded by the Arts Lottery. The work ingeniously transforms a traditional globe into a bronze torus, with continents drifting across its surface, allowing viewers to gaze through the world itself - both out to sea, and in towards man’s urban landscape. Afloat is 2.5 metres in diameter, weighs 2.2 tonnes, and was put in place on the seaward end of the East Street Groyne by a crane, with Black overseeing the installation. Just as the sculpture soon became known as The Donut, so, too, did the groyne become known as the Donut Groyne. 

Apart from Afloat, Black’s contributions to Brighton’s artistic landscape include works like Tree House, crafted from elms felled during the 1987 storm, and Brighton Light, a steel fabrication for the University of Brighton. 

Meanwhile, according to Brighton council, Afloat is now often the place for assignations, even proposals of marriage.

Helpless before the froth and foam

On Brighton Beach - 

A man stands alone, apart, upon a sea wall

Waiting for what, he does not recall

For the majesty of nature to touch his spirit?

For long-forgotten memories to stir his soul?

For the largest wave to take him to the deep?

Time has wrought him older than his age

For what, for why has it brought him to this stage

As well-worn as the stones beneath his feet

As troubled as the worried waters in his view  

As wise and foolish as each imagined quest 

And does this ocean prospect halt his pinings

Bring him answers, cut short the longings?

Still fixed he is, a rock among the restless

Still as thoughtless as a mighty gale

Still ever helpless before the froth and foam