Women bathing allowed!

On this weekend in 1896, The Illustrated London News reported ‘the opening of the bathing from the end of Brighton pier to swimmers of our sex.’ It marked a milestone in women’s freedom on the English coast, and the article added a heartfelt plea for more facilities for female swimmers across the country.

‘A delightful piece of news for all whose it may concern,’ the paper declared, ‘is the opening of the bathing from the end of the Brighton pier to swimmers of our sex. The pleasure of diving into fifty feet of water needs to be felt to be understood. It is good to see that there are plenty of women able to take advantage of the concession: daily, up till ten o’clock, the cabins are in constant demand, and it has become a popular amusement for visitors to go to watch ten or a dozen ladies swimming about with perfect freedom and strength of limb.’

Until the 1890s, women at Brighton had been confined largely to bathing machines and segregated areas of beach, often under strict supervision. Mixed bathing was still controversial, and even when ladies’ clubs existed, they often lacked proper facilities. Brighton Swimming Club, founded in 1860, did not admit women until 1891, and then only to a separate ‘Ladies’ Section’ that swam under rules of modesty and restricted hours. The ILN article describes how remarkable it was that women could now dive from the pier-head into deep water, a privilege long taken for granted by men.

The article went on to say:‘For poor girls, facilities for learning to swim in large towns are still imperfect as compared to those open to boys. With a little cost and trouble, provision might be made for women swimming in the lakes of our public parks, as men and boys do. Even those who live near rate-supported baths find that these are only open to girls at low prices for two or three hours a week, whereas boys can bathe for twopence or threepence at any time. Brighton may lead on to reforms for the masses in this matter.’

Nationally, the paper’s plea was well judged. In London and other large towns, campaigners argued that swimming was not just recreation but healthful exercise and even a lifesaving skill that every girl should be allowed to learn. The Brighton initiative, reported approvingly in 1896, was taken as a model that might encourage reform elsewhere.

Brighton would later become home to champion women swimmers such as Hilda James and Mercedes Gleitze in the early 20th century, but the scene described that September - ten or twelve women ‘swimming about with perfect freedom’ under the gaze of visitors - was a small revolution in itself.

NB: I have used two images to illustrate this piece but neither are directly related to the text about bathing from the pier. The Illustrated London News cover pre-dates by a year the edition used as a source for this story. Moreover, the famous image - Mermaids at Brighton - by William Heath, c. 1829, predates it by 70 years. 

The Shingle Shoe

The tide was low and the Palace Pier lights scribbled crooked patterns on the water. DS Marlowe was off duty, collar open, killing time with the gulls when she walked up out of the dusk - tall, blonde, the kind of woman Brighton didn’t attract unless London had grown too hot.

She carried a shoe. Not a heel, not a pump, but a mesh beach shoe, damp with salt. She held it out like an exhibit.

‘You’re a detective,’ she said, cool as a gin at half-past midnight. ‘Then you’ll know this isn’t just lost property.’

Marlowe took it. Light as air, but wrong. A seam bulged in the sole. He split it open and felt metal: a key, old, salt-stained.

‘Found it under the pier,’ she said. ‘Thought you might make sense of it.’

By the time he looked up, she was walking away along the promenade, heels striking sparks. He should have dropped the shoe in the nearest bin. Instead, he turned the key over all night, seeing her face in the smoke of his cigarette.

Next morning he prowled the arches and under the pier. The key fitted a rust-eaten locker, waiting like a mouth half-open. Inside was the twin shoe, heavy. Out spilled a bundle of banknotes, banded and damp, and tucked in the mesh a photograph: the blonde, younger, smiling beside Harry Klyne - the local conman who twenty years earlier had bled three bookies dry before vanishing with half a fortune.

Marlowe barely had time to curse before the cosh landed and the world went black, blacker. The beach hit him in the teeth. When he came round, the notes and the photo were gone. Only the empty shoe sat grinning at him.

She’d set him up, sure. But why show her face? Why drop a detective into Harry’s pocket? His head rang with answers he didn’t like.

Klyne had once held court at The Blue Parrot, a smoky dive on Middle Street where the piano never stayed in tune and the gin was cheaper than the women’s perfume. Marlowe pushed through the door, the band hammering something half-jazz, half-dirge.

She was there. Alone at a table, whisky glass sweating in her hand. The blonde looked up and gave him a smile that could cut Brighton in two.

‘So you found the locker,’ she said.

‘And the cosh,’ Marlowe growled, sliding into the chair opposite. ‘Neat play. You use detectives often, or just when Harry’s on your heels?’

Her laugh was low, bitter. ‘Harry’s always on my heels. I stole the key from him, thought I could buy myself a way out. But Harry’s coming, I couldn’t stop him, and when he walks through that door I need to be three streets gone.’

Marlowe lit a cigarette, watched the smoke curl. ‘And the money?’

She leaned close, breath hot with whisky. ‘Long gone, darling. Like me.’

Then she was up, coat over her arm, heels clicking through the blue haze. Marlowe sat there with the smoke and the piano and the empty chair, knowing the only thing he’d earned was the echo of her perfume.

On Brighton Beach, you don’t find shoes. They find you. 

(With apologies, of course, to Raymond Chandler.)

Sussex Diving Club

September is when Sussex Diving Club begins its autumn training cycle - a handy peg to look back at nearly half a century of local scuba. The club was founded in 1979 as BSAC Branch 1016 and today counts roughly fifty active members who split their year between winter socials and planning, spring pool work, and summer evenings or weekends on the wrecks and reefs off Brighton. The rhythm hasn’t changed much since the early years: trainees start in autumn and aim to be ocean-ready by early summer, while the old hands mentor, skipper, and keep the calendar moving.

Brighton Beach is not just a backdrop. Shore dives happen right off the Palace Pier in 5-9 metres with crabs, blennies and shoaling bass weaving through the pier’s tangle; on the right tides it’s an easy there-and-back swim from the shingle. Offshore, the club’s own site list shows ‘Palace Pier Reef’ ridges a short run from Brighton, plus a spread of novice-to-technical wrecks.

Among them is the Miown, a French steam trawler lost in 1914. Its cargo of cement bags set hard on the seabed, and today those solidified stacks resemble reef blocks, colonised by conger and lobster. Closer to Brighton lies the Inverclyde, a merchantman sunk by German aircraft in 1942. Sitting in thirty metres, its boilers, hull plates and steering gear are still visible, a reminder of wartime losses within sight of the Palace Pier. See also the Brighton-based Channel Diving website.

In 1979, the club formalised under BSAC and began running member-led trips off the Sussex coast. Through the 1980s and 1990s the local repertoire settled into a Brighton-Shoreham-Newhaven triangle, mixing evening reef dips with weekend wreck runs. By the 2000s the pattern of an annual UK club holiday and occasional expeditions further afield was established, while training broadened to include boat handling, oxygen administration and marine-conservation add-ons. In the 2010s, social media made the undersea Sussex more visible, but the core remained stubbornly clubby: volunteer-run dives, autumn intakes, and a summer diary pinned to tides and visibility. There are plenty of photos and videos on the club's Facebook page.

A frilly crimson ruffle

Found on the beach: a frilly crimson tuft washed ashore, striking against the pebbles like a splash of paint. This is Chondrus crispus, better known as Irish moss or carrageen, one of the most distinctive of the red seaweeds. Its fronds are flat and forked, often 2-15 cm long, with tips that curl into a lacework of ruffles. The colour varies from greenish through deep red to purple, depending on age, light and water conditions. 

Like many algae, Chondrus has a complex life cycle that alternates between two diploid generations and a haploid gametophyte phase. Fertilised female fronds develop tiny cystocarps where spores form, and these are carried back into the sea to grow into new plants. This alternation of generations, shared across the red algae, means the seaweed thrives in different conditions and ensures its persistence around the rocky Atlantic coasts of Europe and North America.

Though small, Chondrus crispus has long had a large presence in coastal life. In Ireland it was gathered and boiled in milk to make a sweet blancmange, while in the 19th century it was sold as a remedy for coughs and chest ailments. Its processed extract - carrageenan - is now a global commodity, valued for its ability to gel and thicken. 

Food scientists prize the seaweed’s stabilising properties, and it turns up in ice cream, custard, yoghurt, beer, toothpaste and even some cosmetics. Dried and rehydrated, it can still be cooked into traditional puddings or soups; eaten raw, it carries the taste of the tide. Foragers warn that it should only be taken from clean waters and not picked from beach wrack,

Traditionally, Irish moss is hand-raked or gathered by hand at low tide from rocky intertidal zones. In some places, small boats were used to drag rakes or nets over the seaweed beds. Harvesting is usually concentrated in late spring and summer when growth is fastest. Collectors often follow local licensing or community rules to avoid damaging the beds. Once gathered, the seaweed is washed in seawater to remove sand and shells, then spread out on beaches or fields to dry in the sun. This drying both preserves the seaweed and enhances the gel strength of carrageenan.

For further information see the Marine Life Information Network, the UN Food and Agriculture Organization and Totally Wild UK (our main goal is to excite people with the amazing flavours to be found in the wild).

Brighton buys the Pavilion

This year marks the 175th anniversary of the Royal Pavilion being bought by the town’s commissioners, thanks to the passage of the Brighton Pavilion Purchase Bill of 1850. The acquisition was a pivotal moment in Brighton’s civic history, transforming a royal pleasure palace into a public asset and setting a precedent for municipal custodianship of cultural landmarks.

Though the Pavilion sits a few hundred yards inland, its fortunes have always been bound up with the beach. Built in stages between 1787 and 1823 for the Prince Regent, later George IV, the domes and minarets quickly became the seaside skyline against which visitors strolled and bathed. Engravings from the early 19th century show the Pavilion’s onion domes rising just beyond the fishermen’s boats drawn up on the shingle. For fashionable Londoners coming to the coast, the Pavilion and the beach were inseparable halves of the same experience – oriental fantasy inland, salt spray and sea-bathing without.

By the 1840s, Queen Victoria had little interest in either. She disliked the lack of privacy in a town where crowds gathered on the promenade and the beach in view of the palace windows. When she abandoned the Pavilion in favour of Osborne House on the Isle of Wight, Brighton suddenly faced the risk of losing its most exotic landmark. Had the Crown sold it for private development, the visual dialogue between Pavilion and beach - palace towers looking seaward over fishermen’s nets and bathing machines - might have been lost.

Instead, civic leaders stepped in. The Brighton Pavilion Purchase Bill, passed in 1850, enabled the town to acquire the site for £53,000. It was the first time a royal palace had been sold to a local authority for public use, and the deal secured not only the building but the seafront identity it helped anchor. Just as the beach was being reshaped with terraces, railings, and new promenades, so too the Pavilion was reborn as a civic showpiece rather than a private retreat.

The Pavilion’s story since then has mirrored the life of the seafront. It has housed civil offices, wartime hospitals for troops brought ashore, and now stands as one of Britain’s most visited seaside attractions. Managed today by Brighton & Hove City Council, the building remains part of the same civic inheritance as the piers, Madeira Terraces, and seafront lawns. In 2025, 175 years after Brighton secured its fairy-tale palace, the Royal Pavilion continues to reflect both the grandeur of its royal past and the democratic vision that bound it forever to the beach.

The image at the top is an aquatint engraving by George Hunt after the Brighton artist Edward Fox. The digital image, taken from the Regency Society website, is owned by the Society of Brighton Print Collectors. The other image, a watercolour, is Brighthelmston, Sussex, by JMW Turner which can be found at Brighton Museum. See The Pavilion pivots 90° for more about this picture which, unusually (and wrongly), shows the Pavilion facing the seafront.

The Brighton steamer

Here is the 16th 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. 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.

Skyline’s Brighton bike event

A crisp Sunday morning yesterday saw over four thousand or so cyclists gather at Clapham Common to start the Skyline London‑to‑Brighton Cycle Ride. Riders set off in staggered waves, carrying energy and strong fundraising ambitions. The 55‑mile route wound through leafy Surrey lanes, passing Banstead and Haywards Heath before climbing the mile‑long Ditchling Beacon atop the South Downs. Cresting the Beacon rewarded participants with sweeping views and a fast descent to Madeira Drive on Brighton’s seafront, where cheering crowds and medals awaited.

Skyline’s event has run for about fifteen years, operating under the Skyline Events banner, a charity-focused organiser that partners with many different causes. Riders pay a registration fee (currently £55) and commit to a minimum fundraising target (usually £150) for their charity of choice. The route, now well-established, typically moves from city streets to quieter country lanes, up and over the South Downs, and on to the finish in Brighton. Logistics include comprehensive sign‑posting, resident notifications along managed sections, mechanical support, and first aid. While the ride has grown in size and visibility, it remains smaller and more inclusive than the long-running BHF equivalent.

For context, the British Heart Foundation (BHF) London‑to‑Brighton Bike Ride, founded in 1976, attracts up to 14,000 participants and raises over £1 million each year. The BHF ride is a Father’s Day institution, with closed roads and major media coverage. (See 14,000 cyclists on Madeira Drive.) Skyline’s event offers an alternative autumn date and a wider mix of charity partners - such as Great Ormond Street Hospital, Breakthrough T1D, and the MS Society - providing more opportunities for different participants and causes. While the BHF version is known for its scale and road closures, Skyline favours inclusivity and a diverse range of abilities, giving the event a friendlier, less daunting atmosphere.

According to Yahoo News, riders in yesterday’s ride came from all walks of life and raised funds for a wide range of charities. Jonathon Gilchrist, 32, from London, called the ride ‘tough but really fun’, saying Ditchling Beacon was the hardest part and that he was riding in support of Hackney Foodbank with colleagues. Mairi Beasley, 27, also from London and new to cycling, said it was ‘amazing’ and praised the ‘huge sense of community’; she was raising money for Mind UK. Four friends from Wokingham - Simon Fawkes, Steve Simmons, Ian Stewart and Brian Allan - completed the route without stopping at the Beacon and raised £2,500 for Yeldall Manor, a drug and alcohol rehabilitation centre.