The Secrets of Silas Thorne

Here is the fourth of 24 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 depicts a lighthouse standing tall against a deep blue and red-toned sky, possibly representing dusk or dawn. A bright full moon is visible near the horizon, and the lighthouse’s beacon shines in a sweeping beam across the scene. Below, stylised waves and rocky shores complete the coastal imagery. 

Limerick starter

There once was a lighthouse so grand,

In a window, not out on the sand.

Though it shined with great might,

It had one major plight - 

No ship ever saw it firsthand!

The Secrets of Silas Thorne (in the style of John Buchan)

The salt-laden wind whipped at my tweed coat as I stood before the small, circular window in the vestry of St. Nicholas Church. It was a peculiar thing, a stained-glass lighthouse, nestled amongst the more traditional depictions of saints and biblical scenes. The colours, a swirling vortex of deep blues and fiery reds, held an almost unsettling energy, the lighthouse beam cutting through the glass like a celestial sword.

‘Odd, isn't it?’ A voice, dry as parchment, startled me. Reverend Ainsworth, a man whose face seemed etched with the same lines as the ancient stones of the church, stood beside me. ‘Not quite what one expects, is it?’

‘Indeed,’ I replied, my eyes fixed on the window. ‘Do you know its history?’

‘A tale best told in whispers,’ he said, his gaze flickering towards the shadowed corners of the vestry. ‘It was commissioned by a man named Silas Thorne, a notorious smuggler, some seventy years past. He’d made his fortune running brandy and silks along this very coast. But Thorne, you see, was a man haunted by the sea. He lost his son, swept away during a storm, and sought solace in this . . . peculiar offering.’

The Reverend paused, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. ‘They say Thorne believed the lighthouse in the glass was a beacon, a guide for his lost boy’s soul, trapped in the watery abyss. He’d sit for hours, gazing at it, convinced he could see his son’s face in the moonlight reflected off the glass.’

‘A tragic tale,’ I said, my fingers tracing the cold stone of the window frame.

‘Tragic, yes,’ Ainsworth agreed. ‘But there’s more. Thorne was a man of dark secrets. It was whispered he’d made pacts with . . . less than holy entities. The lighthouse, they say, isn’t just a symbol of hope, but a conduit.’

‘A conduit?’ I raised an eyebrow.

‘To something . . . other,’ he finished, his voice barely audible. ‘They say on nights of the full moon, when the tide is at its lowest, the lighthouse in the glass glows with an unnatural light. And if you listen closely, you can hear the faint sound of a boy’s laughter echoing from the depths of the sea.’

The Reverend’s words sent a shiver down my spine. I glanced at the window again. The moon, a pale disc in the stained glass, seemed to pulse with an eerie luminescence. I felt a strange pull, a sense of unease that settled deep in my bones.

That night, I found myself drawn back to the church, the moon casting long, skeletal shadows across the graveyard. The tide was out, the sea a dark, undulating expanse. I slipped into the vestry, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and incense.

The lighthouse window glowed with an unearthly light, the colours swirling and shifting. I pressed my ear to the glass. A faint sound, like the distant echo of laughter, drifted from the sea. It was a chilling sound, a sound that spoke of loss and longing, of something trapped between worlds.

Suddenly, the glass shimmered, the lighthouse beam intensifying. I recoiled, a sense of dread washing over me. The laughter grew louder, closer. I felt a coldness, a presence, pressing against me.

Then, just as suddenly, it was gone. The light faded, the laughter ceased. The window was still, silent. I stood there, my heart pounding, my breath catching in my throat.

I left the church, the salt wind biting at my face, the moon a silent witness to the night’s strange events. As I walked back towards the lights of Brighton, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had glimpsed something beyond the veil, something dark and ancient, stirred by the haunted lighthouse in the stained glass window. The secrets of Silas Thorne, it seemed, were still alive, waiting for the next full moon, the next low tide, to rise again from the depths.

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.

Washing tub drawn by geese!

This day in 1851, 14 March, Arthur Nelson, a clown with Cooke’s Royal Circus, sailed from the Chain Pier to the Albion Hotel in Brighton in a washing tub drawn by three geese - allegedly! The stunt, if performed that day, would have been part of the circus’s promotional activities for performances in the town. It is true that the circus came to Brighton a few times, and it is true that Nelson was one of the circus’s stand-out acts - he was nicknamed King of the Clowns after all. But there is, in fact, no written evidence that I can find of him performing the goose act in Brighton - except for the single sentence in the Brighton History website. Some six years earlier, though, it is very much on record that Nelson’s goose stunt caused such crowds in Great Yarmouth that a bridge collapsed killing 79 people. 

Nelson was born around 1816 in Bristol, the son of a musician, which likely provided him early exposure to performance arts and public entertainment. He began his professional life as an actor in provincial and minor theatres throughout England, as well as performing at traditional annual fairs. During these early career stages, he developed a specialisation as a ‘talking’ or Shakespearean clown, distinguishing himself from the purely physical comedy practitioners of the era. His transition, then, from theatrical acting to circus performance marked a significant career advancement - the circus world of the 1840s was experiencing a golden age of innovation and popularity.

In 1842, Nelson was engaged for the first time at Cooke’s Royal Circus, one of Britain's most prestigious circus companies. He quickly became a favourite with the Cooke family, suggesting his performances were well-received and commercially successful. Somewhere along the way he took on the moniker King of Clowns. It was during his time with Cooke’s that Nelson adopted what would become his signature performance: being towed in a washing tub by three or four geese along rivers or on the sea. This unusual act was not Nelson’s original creation but rather an adaptation of a ‘benefit stunt’ previously performed by another entertainer named Dicky Usher. However, Nelson’s rendition became so popular and so closely associated with his persona that it effectively became his trademark. The spectacle of a clown floating in a tub pulled by waterfowl drew enormous crowds whenever it was performed.

Nelson’s playbills from this period provide insight into how he marketed himself and his performances (see this Sotheby’s Playbill Lot). In promotional materials from around 1842, he was advertised with woodcut vignettes depicting him in full clown makeup and costume, accompanied by bold declarations such as ‘Mr. Nelson Will Sail in a Washing Tub!! On the River Tyne. . . Drawn by Four Real Geese’.

Tragically, on 2 May 1845, Nelson was performing this stunt in Great Yarmouth, sailing down the River Bure towards the suspension bridge when, under the weight of so many spectators, the bridge gave way. Some 79 people, mostly children, lost their lives having either drowned or been crushed by falling bodies and sections of the collapsing bridge. Wikipedia has more details about this tragedy. 

Thereafter, Nelson is known to have continued performing the stunt, so the Brighton History statement for 1951 may well have been true: ‘March 14  Cook’s Circus clown, Mr Nelson, sails from the Chain Pier to the Albion Hotel in a washing tub drawn by three geese.’ But, as I say, nowhere online can I find any confirmation of this. Nelson died at the age of 44 - around 1860 - from gangrene of the leg while touring with Pablo Fanque’s circus.

Brighton Beach - eastern end

While the western end of Brighton Beach is characterised by the private properties of millionaires - see Brighton Beach - western end - the eastern end is dominated by the Marina’s solid infrastructure and a massive sea wall. Along the wire fencing that separates beach from concrete, are a series of memorials, colourful yet looking somewhat tired with age. Nevertheless, these collections of plastic flowers, wreaths, photographs, messages, hearts and figurines remain as poignant reminders of young lives lost all too early.

Here at the east end of Brighton Beach, there’s a sprawling expanse of tarmac and concrete. Generally known as Black Rock, parts of the area  are under development - See Beauty pageant at Black Rock. The beach itself stops abruptly at the giant sea wall, 1.5km long, built in the 1970s as a protective barrier but which has become a defining element of the Marina’s landscape. At high tide, waves often crash dramatically against the wall, sending up towering sprays of seawater, often visible along the beach as far as the Palace Pier. At low tides, the wall reveals a rugged, algae-covered base that attracts seabirds and marine life.

Between the sea wall and Marina infrastructure, there’s a high wire fence, and on it can be found several memorials, such as the one for Jordan Jamieson who died right there. In March 2017, he was attempting to find a shortcut from the Marina to the beach with a friend, but failed to fully jump a cross a two-metre gap, and fell two storeys. Emergency responders provided immediate assistance, and an ambulance arrived. He was transported by land to St George’s Hospital in London but, despite medical efforts, he died on 14 April. See The Argus for news reports.An inquest concluded that his death was a tragic accident. The coroner noted that Jordan was ‘fearless and adventurous’, reflecting the sentiments of his friends and family.

A number of memorial events to remember Jordan followed, and his father undertook various challenges to raise funds for St George’s. The memorial at the site of the accident was established ‘In loving memory’ of Jordan and simply stating, ‘You will always be our angel’.

Another set of memorial items - for Daria Nerush - can be found nearby, also on the wire fencing. Born in 2006, and a student at Roedean, she died aged 16 in 2022.  Her sixth form tutor, Phliippa Borsberry is quoted at Love2donate as saying: ‘I am missing Daria so much in tutor times and in our 1:1 slots, it was great to be her sixth form tutor. I will always remember Daria and the conversations that we had. I will particularly remember how kind and caring Daria was with her friends and her wonderful sense of humour.’

The Flintback Drifter

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

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

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

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

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

Beauty pageant at Black Rock

The Black Rock Lido, a once beloved fixture of Brighton’s seafront, opened its doors on 8 August 1936. The Art Deco building boasted a 165 by 60 foot pool filled with over 330,000 gallons of crystal-clear water. More than just a swimming spot, the lido offered sunbathing terraces, a top-notch restaurant, a paddling pool for children - and a venue for beauty pageants! One such gala - from 60 years ago - was captured in a Michael Gillings film, now freely available to view at the British Film Institute website.

According to Tim Carder’s Encyclopaedia of Brighton, the name Black Rock probably came from a large rock or cave that existed at the foot of the cliffs, though it may have arisen because colliers were forced to unload their cargos outside the then town boundaries to avoid local coal taxes. Precisely for that reason, Black Rock was chosen in 1818-1819 by The Brighton Gas Light and Coke Company to build a coal-gas production works. Carder notes that some terraced housing followed, as did the opening of an inn, The Abergavenny Arms. In 1901, Volk was granted permission to extend his railway east from the Banjo Groyne all the way to Black Rock.

The lido, in its heyday, drew up to 80,000 visitors annually, hosting impressive swimming displays and even being considered as a training ground for Olympic athletes. The pool continued to operate during the war years, and after the war it hosted beauty pageants. The BFI online has a fabulous film of the 1965 pageant. Here’s the caption: ‘Michael Gillings’ remarkable film, made on a breezy day, sees would-be beauty queens parading for the judges at the 1965 Miss Brighton contest. The contestants strut along the poolside at Black Rock Lido, though the wind plays havoc with their elaborate bouffant hairdos. The contest continues later in the day, though now in sunshine, to a packed audience. After much posing in line-ups a winner is eventually chosen and photographers and officials swarm around her.’

Unfortunately, the pool’s glory days were numbered. The 1970s brought the construction of Brighton Marina, which spelled trouble for the once-popular swimming spot. Construction dust and noise drove visitors away, and attendance plummeted. Structural issues emerged, with the pool developing cracks and beginning to tilt. By 1978, the lido had shut its doors for the last time. It was demolished the following year.

For decades after, the site lay dormant, an ugly buffer between the Marina and the joys of Brighton Beach stretching miles to the west. Various redevelopment ideas have come and gone, but none took hold. Brighton & Hove City Council does have ambitious plans to rejuvenate the eastern seafront - see, for example, ‘Fantastic new refectory’ - but the site of the pool remains no more than a car park. Memories of visiting the pool as well as old photographs can be found at My Brighton and Hove.

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.