The Brighton steamer

Here is the 16th of 25 stained glass window designs on the Palace Pier which AI and I are using as inspiration for some of these BrightonBeach365 daily posts - see Stained Glass Window 1 for background. The image shows a stylised seascape in shades of blue, white and beige. At its centre is a ship with a single tall funnel and two long decks lined with rows of square windows, suggesting a passenger steamer. The vessel has a solid, rounded hull that sits low in the water, built for carrying people rather than speed. It is sailing from right to left across dark blue waves, with broad cloud shapes filling the sky above. In the foreground, sandy tones and angled forms evoke the shoreline or harbour wall, giving the impression of the ship either departing or arriving at the coast.

A limerick starter

A bright little steamer at sea

Steered a bit too close to the quay.

The captain cried, ‘Blimey

The chalk’s right before me!’

Then dodged it with surprising esprit.

The Brighton steamer (in the style of Joseph Conrad)

The Brighton steamer lay broadside to the cliffs, its hull dark against the pallor of chalk and cloud. A late tide heaved against the shingle, uneasy, as though uncertain of its errand. The vessel, with her one funnel trailing a faint stain of smoke, seemed strangely inert, half-marooned in that restless light, yet she pressed on, slow and deliberate, past the line of the pier.

I watched her from the stones, the weight of her passage pressing upon me as though I were myself embarked. Those rows of windows, dull squares under the whitening sky, were like so many blind eyes - passengers hidden, yet expectant. One imagines them sensing, as I did, the menace of the shore: the pale cliff rearing to the east, sheer and implacable, indifferent to all the little confusions of men.

It is not the sea that alarms me, for the sea, even in its sudden wrath, is honest. No, it is the coast, the narrowing margin where water and rock conspire against the traveller, where a false bearing or a moment’s pride may grind out years of labour in an instant. I thought of the master on his bridge, his hands idle on the rail, gazing ahead with the obstinacy of command, knowing that any falter of judgment would lay bare the futility of his journey.

The ship moved on, a shadow sliding under the immensity of cloud, past the bright disorder of the town’s terraces, into the channel’s uncertain breadth. I turned away then, yet her slow form remained before me, imprinted like a memory of some choice deferred, a fate hovering just beyond reach of the beach and its stones.

Guest: Anzac’s Brighton Beach, Gallipoli

On the Gallipoli Peninsula in north-west Turkey, there is a beach whose name echoes far from home. Known to soldiers of the First World War as Brighton Beach, it lies on a long curve of sand between the headland of Gaba Tepe and the narrow inlet of Anzac Cove. The name was never official but it stuck, a reminder of how men carried fragments of familiar landscapes into the most alien of settings. More than a century later the shoreline is quiet, its role in the campaign less famous than other places nearby, but it remains part of the story of Gallipoli.

To get there, walk south from Shrapnel Valley Cemetery, rejoin the main beach road and follow it for approximately half a kilometre. Ahead stretches the promontory of Gaba Tepe, and to your right lies the shoreline the ANZAC troops called Brighton Beach - originally designated ‘Z Beach’. In The Story of Anzac, Charles Bean recorded that the 3rd Australian Infantry Brigade - the intended Covering Force - was to land here on 25 April 1915 and advance inland to strategic ridges. But as history shows, the actual landings occurred further to the north.

The terrain facing inland from Brighton Beach was noticeably flatter and less rugged than the dramatic cliffs around North Beach and ANZAC Cove. It’s widely accepted that had the troops landed here, casualties would have been higher: the Turkish guns at Gaba Tepe and artillery further back at a location later nicknamed the ‘Olive Grove’ posed a grave threat to any incoming forces.

In the days following the initial landings, Brighton Beach became something of a logistical backwater. Under heavy shelling and sniper fire, men occasionally risked the water there, drawn to its relative serenity as a swimming area. A stores depot emerged at the mouth of Shrapnel Gully, heaped with supplies and hidden behind stacks of crates, timber, barbed wire and engineering stores. The Indian Mule Cart Company also established base here, transporting supplies inland under hazardous conditions. In one extraordinary incident on 22 May 1915, a white flag appeared at Gaba Tepe opposite Brighton Beach - prompting soldiers to improvise a truce using a beach towel raised as a flag.

Today, Brighton Beach stands in peaceful contrast to its wartime past. The shoreline is open and inviting, framed by gentle slopes and the distant headland of Gaba Tepe. Visitors can walk the same coast road used by soldiers and pause where stores once piled high against the dunes. It is now one of the few officially sanctioned swimming spots on the peninsula, a place where locals and travellers cool off in summer. Families picnic on the sand, tour buses stop nearby, and signs mark the site’s historic associations. The water is clear, the beach is quiet, and apart from the occasional memorial plaque there is little to suggest the noise and danger that once dominated this tranquil corner of the Dardanelles.

Piers star in Atelier Open

Time is almost up to catch this year’s summer Open at Atelier Beside the Sea, the creative hub on the beachfront at 165 Kings Road Arches. After five annual editions, founders Jon Tutton and Sarah Young will close the doors on 14 September, drawing a line under a project that has been part of Brighton’s seafront since 2021.

Atelier Beside the Sea was established by Tutton and Young, long known for Brighton Art Fair and the MADE craft shows, as a permanent space for exhibitions, sales and workshops. The three arches had previously been home for over two decades to Castor and Pollux, the much-loved gallery and design shop that closed during the pandemic,

Over the last five years, Atelier has become a landmark on the seafront, showing contemporary art and craft, offering a carefully curated shop, and running classes and community projects. This summer’s Open, which received nearly 400 submissions and selected two-thirds for display, will be the last, ending a short but influential chapter in the city’s creative life. 

Among the artworks are several inspired by Brighton’s piers. Top left is Lyndsey Smith’s Brighton Piers Sunset (watercolour); top right is Janet Brooke’s The Close of the Day (hand-finished screen print); bottom left is Stephanie Else’s Brighton West Pier (kiln formed glass); and bottom right is Flo Snook’s Brighton’s Palace Pier (acrylic on wood).

A boy, a yacht and a cat

On this day in 1951 the Daily Mirror published the tale of a boy, a yacht and a cat. ‘Shivering and soaked to the skin,’ it began, twelve-year-old Roger Maitland stood on the deck of his father’s topsail schooner Rustler as heavy seas drove her toward the shingle. When the anchor cable parted and a tow proved hopeless, Roger tucked the kitten inside his jacket and swam for the shore while holidaymakers cheered. ‘I was not afraid,’ he said afterwards; ‘The kitten got frightened and clawed my face.’ The Daily Mirror set out the scene in tight detail: the beach some sixty yards away; his father, Kenneth Maitland, and family friend Fred Austin also abandoning the vessel; and the Shoreham lifeboat with a hawser aboard but unable to pull her clear.

The Telegraph, the same day, added the practical coda: after failed attempts to refloat her that tide, Rustler was hauled higher up the beach by a lorry to await the next rise. A photograph in The Journal of the Royal National Life-boat Institution - captioned ‘Shoreham life-boat and the yacht Rustler - shows the schooner grinding in the surf with the lifeboat standing by.

A year later, the wreck was still a Brighton landmark. Ernie Charman’s diary places him on the promenade on Sunday 24 August 1952, photographing Rustler beached between the piers as crowds filed past. His note fixes the date; the memories it prompted show how fast the vessel became part of seafront life.

Local recollections found at My Brighton and Hove fill in what happened next. ‘The Rustler could not be refloated,’ one reader remembers; ‘dozens of volunteers shovelling stones away from the ship,’ recalls another. Several contributors say children were allowed aboard: ‘we climbed on board, I was eight years old,’ wrote Terry Hyde; ‘the man let us on board to play . . . it was fabulous,’ remembered Rosemary Brazill. As the fabric failed, accounts say the remains were eventually burned and beachcombers picked through the cooling timbers for copper and bronze.

Where the sea has no memory

Here is the 14th of 25 stained glass window designs on the Palace Pier which AI and I are using as inspiration for some of these BrightonBeach365 daily posts - see Stained Glass Window 1 for background. This image shows a coastal landscape. In the foreground, rounded white shapes suggest foamy waves breaking onto the shore, with different shades of blue indicating the sea. To the right, green and yellow forms rise upward like a cliff or headland. Above, a large pale cloud dominates the sky, with smaller purple-tinged clouds drifting across. Cutting through the centre is a brown bird in flight, wings outstretched against the sky.

A limerick starter

Clouds of pale lavender hue,

A bird split the turquoise in two.

Where emerald cliffs lean,

On the foam’s shifting green,

The sky wrote its story in blue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The blessing of the sea

Brighton’s seafront witnessed a striking fusion of ritual, performance and protest this afternoon at the annual ‘Blessing of the Sea’. Clergy in white robes stood at the Doughnut Groyne beside the Palace Pier, leading prayers over the waters while a banner proclaimed ‘The sea is rising and so are we’. A few feet away, the Red Rebels of Extinction Rebellion moved in silent procession, their scarlet veils lifted in slow gestures of lament and warning. The scene unfolded beneath a cloudless August sky, the green bronze ‘Afloat’ sculpture framing both the pier and the gathering of worshippers. (See also Hamish Black’s Afloat.)

This year’s service was announced by the Diocese of Chichester on Instagram and widely shared on local forums such as Anthony Murley’s post to the Brighton & Hove Notice Board. Organisers called it both a Christian rite and an act of ecological witness, recognising the sea as a source of sustenance, beauty and peril. The clergy’s words of blessing were joined by calls for responsibility toward the coast at a time of rising tides and intensifying storms.

The ceremony is not without precedent. Brighton’s fishing town ancestors sought blessings over their nets each spring, a custom enshrined in the 1580 Book of all the Auncient Customs and revived in the late twentieth century as the ‘Blessing of the Nets’ on the beach by the Fishing Museum -  for more on this, see the Brighton Seafront Heritage Trust and My Brighton and Hove. Meanwhile, the city’s Greek Orthodox community has long marked Epiphany with the ‘Blessing of the Waters’, casting a cross into the waves from the pier. Today’s event consciously draws on both traditions, updating them with a climate-conscious emphasis suited to Brighton’s identity as a coastal city where faith, protest and performance often overlap.

What emerged on the groyne today was therefore more than symbolic: it was a reminder of the continuing link between the sea and the city, between prayer and protest, and between past traditions and present anxieties.

Charting the elsewhere

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guest beach: Brighton Beach, Duluth, Minnesota

Brighton Beach in Duluth, Minnesota, at the eastern end of Kitchi Gammi Park, is built on a rocky Lake Superior shoreline steeped in more than a century of history. The city established the area as its first dedicated tourism campground in 1922, offering auto tourists public lakeshore access. In the early 1930s, cabins were constructed - four in 1930 and five more in 1931 - to accommodate overnight visitors.

During the mid-20th century, as Duluth’s harbour shifted from an industrial zone into an area for leisure and tourism, Brighton Beach benefited from the same ethos, retaining its popularity as a local recreation spot. The 1960s saw several fierce storms that reshaped much of Duluth’s shoreline, including Brighton Beach, prompting later efforts at shoreline reinforcement. Plans for enhanced public access culminated in the 1980s and 1990s with the construction and eastward expansion of the Lakewalk, built in part from rocks excavated during the construction of Interstate 35. By 1991, the Lakewalk linked downtown Duluth to Brighton Beach, establishing it as a vital gateway to Lake Superior and a beloved picnic, ship-watching, and stone-skipping destination.

Though no longer a campground, Brighton Beach remains beloved for its cobblestone terrain, ideal for agate-hunting, wading, ship-watching and picnicking along the nearly mile-long lakeshore stretch that marks the eastern terminus of Duluth’s Lakewalk. 

Discussions about renovating the site began around 2015, but after severe storms in 2017 and 2018 caused major erosion and repeated damage to Brighton Beach Drive, planners shifted toward what officials called a managed retreat strategy in 2019: relocating public infrastructure inland and stabilising the shoreline rather than rebuilding in place. The City of Duluth embarked on a multi-year programme beginning in 2019, guided by a mini-master plan to rejuvenate the beach, extend the lake walk, relocate the road, rebuild shore protection and add resilient landscaping with native North Shore forest plants.

By 2023, shoreline restoration and most park improvements - including installation of picnic tables, grills, vault toilets, recycling stations, pet-waste stands, hammock stands and new accessible paths - were substantially complete. The relocated one-way road and separated pedestrian pathways were fully rebuilt by October 2024. Duluth then officially reopened Brighton Beach in a ribbon‑cutting ceremony at its historic stone pavilion, celebrating the end of the six-year, $6.4 million revitalisation. See the Duluth News Tribune and WDIO for more.

Back in February this year, MIX108’s Nick Cooper published photographs and a report about ‘waves of ice shards rippling along the shore’ of Brighton Beach. The waves, he said, were catching the last light of the day in the approach to sunset. Moreover, ‘the noise of the waves and ice shards in the water was pretty soothing and almost hypnotic’.

World’s oldest operating aquarium

Brighton’s aquarium was formally opened on this day in 1872. Designed by Eugenius Birch, the engineer behind the West Pier (see Celebrating Eugenius Birch), it was built below beach level in the Italian Renaissance style and originally featured tanks lit by gas burners behind red glass to simulate sunlight. One of the world’s oldest purpose-built aquariums, it quickly became a Victorian marvel, drawing thousands to its seawater tanks, grand entrance hall and winter garden.

Among its more unusual early exhibits was a cigar-smoking sea lion, and for several decades it hosted regular military band concerts in a specially designed concert hall. In the 1950s and 60s, the centre of the aquarium came alive again as a music venue called The Florida Rooms, known for its nightly jazz performances and packed dancefloor. According to Sea Life itself, The Who played there every Wednesday and helped turn it into a hotspot for local mods.

By the 1920s, the attraction had been renamed the Brighton Dolphinarium and became known for its performing sea lions and dolphins. These shows later became the focus of growing criticism, particularly in the 1980s, as concern mounted over the ethics of keeping dolphins in captivity. The last were relocated in 1990, following sustained public pressure. For more history see Wikipedia and the Sea Life website.

Recognised as the world’s oldest operating aquarium and a Grade II* listed building, Sea Life Brighton combines original Victorian architecture and tanks with innovative modern exhibits, reflecting both its storied past and ongoing commitment to marine conservation. Highlights include the UK’s first glass-bottomed boat experience inside a tank, a 750,000-litre ocean display featuring sharks and a rescued green sea turtle, and the atmospheric Victorian arcade, still in use after more than 150 years. (Credit to Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove for the vintage picture of the building.)

100 years ago, 200 years ago

Exactly 100 years ago today, the Brighton & Hove Herald reported that a 49 year old visitor from London had died in the sea at Brighton Beach. Encouraged by his son to swim, the father appeared at first to have drowned, but it was then established that he had died from heart failure caused by shock. The same edition of the Herald carried a feature - ‘From our files of 1825’ - giving a snapshot of Brighton Beach events exactly 200 years ago.

Brighton & Hove Herald, Saturday August 8, 1925

SAD BATHING FATALITY - Visitor’s Death from Shock.

Within a few hours of his arrival in Brighton on Sunday for a holiday, Mr Robert Dargavel, aged 49, a steel and copperplate engraver, of Cavendish-road, Balham, London, had a bathe in the sea, which proved to be fatal. At the time, it was thought that death was due to drowning, but evidence at the inquest on Tuesday by Dr. H. A. Baines, of Cannon-place, showed that the deceased was suffering from inflammation of the lungs and pleurisy, and that death was due to heart failure from shock.

The circumstances of Mr Dargavel’s death were unusual. His son, Mr Leonard Albert Dargavel, a motor driver, told his father that he proposed to have a bathe, and his father said that he would bathe too. The son swam out some distance and saw nothing more of his father until his body had been brought ashore. Mr John Taylor, a boatman and coxswain of the Brighton lifeboat, when bringing in a load of passengers, saw the deceased standing in shallow water some yards from the shore. A few moments later he saw the deceased fall. Mr Taylor ran into the water, and, with the assistance of another boatman, Mr George Bert Souch, of Artillery-street, brought Mr Dargavel ashore.

Mr Taylor, assisted by Mr Souch, immediately commenced artificial respiration. Shortly afterwards, P.C. Henry Tindall arrived and took over the task. This officer continued the process for about twenty minutes, and, with the assistance of Sergeant W. Cook and P. C. A. Hobden, it was continued for about an hour, two methods being tried.

Dr. Baines, at the inquest, paid a warm tribute to the manner in which the work of artificial respiration was attempted so assiduously and efficiently by the police. If there had been any possible chance of deceased’s life being saved in that way, said Dr. Baines, in all probability it would have been saved.

The Borough Coroner (Mr W. D. Peskett) expressed his gratification at this latest testimony to the services of the police. In the course of the evidence, it was revealed that Mrs Dargavel, widow of the deceased, who had travelled to Brighton with her husband and son, was on the beach when the body was pulled ashore. The son told the Coroner that his father had not been very well at times, but had not had medical treatment, and had been able to attend to his business.

A verdict to the effect that deceased died from natural causes, produced by shock, was returned.

Here also are three verbatim notices from the same page of the 8 August edition of the Herald

Brighton & Hove Herald, Saturday August 8, 1925

BRIGHTON 100 YEARS AGO - From our Files of 1825.

Lady Byron disembarked here on Tuesday from her yacht. After a stay of a few hours, her ladyship sailed for Southampton.

On Sunday last 4,200 persons visited our inimitable Chain Pier.

Yesterday morning two strange boats with no persons on board were perceived in the offing. A boat from the shore secured them, when it turned out that they had broken from their moorings and drifted from Worthing during the strong gale.

NB: Both images above are used courtesy of Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove. The top image is dated c. 1925; and the lower image is dated c. 1825.

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 roker’s tail

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Floods in Pool Valley

One hundred and seventy years ago today, on 17 July 1850, Brighton suffered a violent storm - with thunder and lightening - that soon flooded parts of the town, notably Pool Valley, just across the road from the beach and pier. This fabulous image - courtesy of the Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove - was first published by F. B. Mason (Repository of Arts, 120 King’s Road, Brighton) in August 1850. A detailed report of the weather and damage appeared the following day in the Brighton Gazette (available online with subscription) as follows:

‘Storm of Last Evening

A storm of lightning, thunder, and rain of almost unexampled violence broke over Brighton last evening. During the whole of Monday, Tuesday, and yesterday, the temperature had been very high; on Monday the thermometer in the shade reached nearly to 80. Indications of a coming tempest were discernible throughout the whole of yesterday afternoon, and about a quarter to seven it burst, after a few preparatory grumbles, apparently over the centre of the town. The lightning and thunder were terrific; the flashes of blinding brilliancy were followed the next instant by the crash, and the buildings were shaken to their foundations. The rain came down, not in poetic but in literal torrents, and the widest streets were turned into streams over their whole width. Even the most apparently secure roofs were not proof against the attacks of the water; the rain came through in numerous houses, flooding the apartments. In our own office, operations were suspended, and during the height of the storm the probability of the publication of the present sheet assumed a very dubious aspect. The violence of the storm lasted about an hour.

After the above general observations had been written, we learned the following details. Pool Valley, as is known to all the residents of Brighton and to most of its visitors far and near, is situated in the lowest part of Brighton. It is at the back of the Royal York Hotel; and years ago, previous to the construction of the Grand Junction Road, which now forms a barrier between it and the sea, it was constantly overflowed at high tides. Within a few minutes of the commencement of the storm, the water poured from three different sources - namely, from East Street, the Steyne, and the Marine Parade - the streams bringing with them the overflowings of North Street, the Marine Parade, St. James’s Street, and Edward Street, into the Valley; and the result was that Creak’s baths, Strong’s painter’s shop, an adjoining carpenter’s shop, two small houses, and the Wellington Inn were flooded.

The contents of the cellars and shops were immediately floated into the street; and as the storm continued and the accumulated water poured down, two of the three shops at the back of the York Hotel and forming a portion of the building were also inundated. The shops are occupied by Mr Pegg, wine merchant, and his brother, a fishmonger. The third shop, occupied by Mr Donald, farrier, escaped a similar visitation from the fact of its being approached by a flight of steps. In rushing from the Steyne, one of the streams entered and deluged in succession the area of Mr Cordy Burrows, surgeon, the shops of Mrs Streeter, baker, Mr Smith, stationer, and Madame Dorney, milliner, and approached within an inch of the shop doors of Mr Bruce, engraver, and Mr Martin, ornamental hairworker.

When the water first rushed into the Valley an attempt was made to give it exit by keeping clear the sink gratings by means of brooms; but this attempt was immediately and necessarily abandoned. Boats were then brought to the spot, first one, then a second, and then a third, for the purpose of securing the floating property; and as the depth of the water increased and the inmates of the houses were driven to the upper stories to aid their escape, the women and children uttered piercing cries from the windows for assistance. Fortunately, however, the water did not rise to such a height as to render the latter course expedient.’

The text on the image above reads: ‘On Wednesday morning, July 17th 1850, Brighton and immediate neighbourhood was visited with a remarkable deluge of rain, which, descending in continuous torrents, for several hours, speedily converted the low lying ground of Pool Valley, and other parts of the Town, into what appeared, as represented in the above view, an extensive lake.’ Also along the bottom margin are: ‘Published by F.B. Mason, Repository of Arts, 120 King’s Road, Brighton, Augt 19th 1850.’

A poorer reproduction of the image and a brief summary of the weather events, can be found on page 67 of Eileen Hollingdale’s Old Brighton (George Nobbs Publishing, 1979).

A long RNLI weekend

RNLI volunteers have been busy along Brighton Beach during the last few days. Over the weekend, the crews launched five times in 48 hours, a press release details, dealing with everything from people blown offshore on inflatables to paddleboarders venturing far out to sea.

The first task came at 7.30pm last Friday when the crew launched to reports of a person in the water clinging to an orange float near the West Pier. The lifeboat quickly located a man who was fishing from his stand-up paddleboard. On the return journey, at around dusk, the crew spotted two paddleboarders approximately 1.25 nautical miles offshore. The pair were attempting to reach the wind farm in failing light. They had no communication devices, no lifejackets, no food or water, and were dressed only in T-shirts and shorts. With conditions deteriorating and darkness falling, the crew persuaded them to come aboard and towed their boards back to the beach.

A third task that evening involved a dinghy with paddlers waving for attention. While this turned out to be a case of poor paddling technique rather than distress, it demonstrated the importance of raising the alarm early. Saturday lunchtime, the crew launched to search for a 27-year-old man who had been missing for over 90 minutes after swimming east of Brighton Palace Pier. His belongings were found unattended on the beach by his friend, prompting a swift and coordinated response. Brighton RNLI carried out shoreline and offshore searches, while RNLI Lifeguards and Coastguard teams scoured the beach, and a rescue helicopter conducted an aerial search. The swimmer was eventually located and assisted onshore by the lifeguards and Coastguard.

Just hours later, that evening, Brighton RNLI was called out again. Two people had earlier been brought ashore without lifejackets after using a jet ski, but later swam back out to retrieve the craft, which had been tied to a buoy. Concerned that they might attempt another unsafe recovery, the crew returned the two individuals and their jet ski to Brighton Marina. The incident served as a reminder of how even seemingly short trips on the water can escalate without proper equipment or planning.

Finally, on Monday, at 1.24am, Brighton RNLI launched following a police request after bloodied clothing was discovered near the shore close to the i360. The crew carried out a thorough search of the area but were stood down after nothing was found. Back at the station, returning crew were met by five of the newest volunteer crew. They turned out in the early hours to help recover and clean the boat and to start learning how to respond to calls in the middle of the night safely.

These weekend call-outs were not unusual for the Brighton RNLI team. In 2024, Brighton RNLI responded to 61 incidents and were credited with saving two lives. Across Sussex, RNLI lifeboats carried out 475 launches last year, reflecting how busy the coastline can be.

Lifeboat operations manager Charlie Dannreuther said: ‘These launches highlight just how varied, and how demanding, a weekend on the coast can be. They also reinforced some vital safety messages. Whether you’re paddleboarding, using a jet ski, or going for a swim, being prepared is essential. Always wear a lifejacket when on the water. Take a means of calling for help, like a mobile phone in a waterproof pouch or a VHF radio. Check the weather forecast and tide times. Don’t head out in fading light. And always tell someone your plan.’

Sea spaghetti for tea?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guest: Brighton Beach, North Vancouver

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

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

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

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

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

West Pier peril

Two young men were hospitalised, yesterday, with serious injuries after falling from the remains of Brighton’s iconic West Pier. Emergency services were called at approximately 12:40 after reports that the pair, who had attempted to climb the structure, had slipped into the sea. Both individuals sustained serious cuts, and one suffered a suspected dislocated shoulder. Lifeguards were able to retrieve them from the water, and they were treated at the scene by the South East Coast Ambulance Service before being taken to hospital for further care. The incident was widely reported, by the BBC, Brighton and Hove News, and on the Sussex Coast Incident News Page.

The incident triggered a large-scale response involving the Shoreham and Newhaven Coastguard teams, Brighton’s RNLI lifeboat, the South East Coast Ambulance Service, and Sussex Police. The rescue coincided with a period of intense heat across the South East, which often draws crowds to the seafront. ‘Climbing on old structures in or over water, tombstoning, or jumping into water from height is dangerous. There’s always a possibility of submerged rocks, metal, or shallow water. Don’t do it. Stay safe,’ HM Coastguard Shoreham warned in a public statement following the incident.

The West Pier, once a Victorian marvel, has been closed to the public since 1975 due to safety concerns. Over the decades, the structure has suffered repeated damage from storms, fires (two suspected arson attacks in 2003), and the relentless effects of the sea. Major collapses have occurred regularly over the last 25 years, each time further reducing the pier’s skeletal remains. The West Pier Trust clearly states the structure is ‘not stable, it is unsafe and liable to collapse,’ and it warns of ‘many sharp obstructions’ on the seabed that are often hidden and could cause serious injury. It urges people to ‘keep away from the structure at all times’ and specifically advises against swimming, surfing, kayaking, paddle-boarding, or sailing near it, as well as never going between the ruin and the yellow marker buoys.’

Generally speaking, this advice is heeded. As far as I can tell, yesterday’s incident was the first of its kind for some good long time, at least the first that has received any publicity (The Palace Pier, however, has been the scene of recent occasional rescues involving the RNLI, see this incident report and another. 

(The photograph immediately above is taken from the Shoreham Coastguard, and the image above it was created by AI.)

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.