The Blue Coat

The most common question put to me by friends and tourists alike is not about the quality of the mackerel (excellent), nor about my years at sea (endless, damp, unprofitable). It is always: ‘Where did you get that blue coat?’ So, I’ve put together - for my friend Alasdair Grey - three answers.

The Official Version: Awarded by the Admiralty in recognition of ‘valour under maritime duress.’ [Report No. 17, Admiralty Archive, 1923, now missing*] The medals rusted away, but the coat endured, which suggests it was made of sterner stuff than empire.

The Local Version: Won in a card game against a fishmonger’s nephew who styled himself ‘Neptune’s heir.’ [See Fig. 1 for an artist’s impression of the game, in which five haddocks sit in judgment.] The nephew lost, I gained, Brighton gained a coat.

The Domestic Version: My late wife stitched it from curtains ‘borrowed’ from the Theatre Royal. She swore the colour was ‘ocean blue’. I called it ‘constable drowned’. Either way, she was right that it lasted longer than the marriage.

Notes on Structure and Material

Buttons: variable. Brass to visitors, barnacle to locals, invisible to those too drunk to notice.

Lining: allegedly woven from kelp fibres. Tastes faintly of iodine.

Weight: increases each year, suggesting the coat is absorbing stories, salt, and disbelief in equal measure.**

In conclusion, the coat has no single origin. It is sewn from stories, stitched with memory, dyed in Brighton rain. When you ask me how I got it, I answer truthfully: by accident, by invention, and by being asked the question often enough that the coat itself began to exist.

* A Brighton Archive librarian insists there is no such report. The same librarian owns a suspiciously similar blue coat.

** A scientific study has been proposed but abandoned due to the coat’s refusal to leave its wearer.

One single anchovy

Found on the beach: a single small anchovy, its silver flanks and dark back glinting among the shingle. At first sight, one might mistake it for whitebait (which can often be beach-stranded en masse this time of year), but that term refers to the fry (juvenile) of sprat, herring, sardine or anchovy taken at only a few centimetres long. This specimen is a near-adult European anchovy Engraulis encrasicolus, identified by its projecting lower jaw, large eye and elongated body. Famous as the salty little fish you find on pizzas, anchovies are small and oily with a strong flavour. Widely used in Mediterranean cooking, they are also a key ingredient in Worcestershire Sauce. 

The European anchovy spawns from spring to autumn, releasing planktonic eggs that hatch within one to three days. The larvae feed on plankton and grow rapidly, reaching around ten centimetres within a year. Sexual maturity comes at about twelve centimetres, and most individuals live no longer than three years. They form large coastal shoals, moving to shallower water in summer and deeper in winter, and are a key forage species for seabirds, larger fish and marine mammals.

Commercially they are fished across the Mediterranean and Atlantic using purse seines and trawls, and are marketed fresh, dried, salted, smoked, canned and frozen. They are also processed into fishmeal and oil. Its strong flavour, developed especially in salting, has given it an enduring place in European cuisine. In the Mediterranean it is a major fishery; in British waters it is less heavily taken, but records exist along the Channel coast. The UK shore-caught record stands at a modest forty-nine grams off Hastings. The maximum recorded length is about twenty centimetres, although most range between ten and fifteen.

In 2009 - according to a report on the British Sea Fishing website - unusual climatic conditions brought exceptional numbers of European anchovies to the south west coast of England. Local trawlers quickly switched to the species and were landing tons each day in what was described as an anchovy ‘gold rush’. More on anchovies can be found at Wikipedia, Fishbase, and the Cornwall Good Seafood Guide.

Temple cafe at Black Rock

The little Regency folly at Black Rock known as the Temple has reopened as a café, nearly two centuries after it was built as part of Brighton’s seafront embellishments. First constructed in 1835 to the design of William Kendall, the architect who laid out Madeira Drive and the Esplanade, the Temple was conceived as a classical garden shelter for residents of Lewes Crescent and Sussex Square.

Kendall’s work along the eastern seafront also included the Reading Room, restored last year and reopened in November as a refectory (see ‘Fantastic new refectory’). Together these structures once framed a coherent set of seaside amenities, built into the cliff slopes and intended for genteel recreation. The Temple, with its three-bay round-arched arcade and Tuscan pilasters, has long been recognised as a Grade II listed building.

Time had not been kind to the Temple. It was used for military purposes during the Second World War, then fell into decades of neglect. For years it stood derelict, its architectural detailing obscured by decay. Only recently has the building been restored with glazing, services and a terrace to make it fit for public use once again (see the Brighton & Hove Council press release).

The new café is operated by Philip Cundall, already known in Kemptown for his Portland café. He said he hoped the Temple would become ‘a place where locals and visitors can relax with good coffee and enjoy some of the best sea views in Brighton.’ Opening hours are weekdays 7.30 am to 2.30 pm and weekends 9.30 am to 3.30 pm.

The project is part of the wider regeneration of Black Rock, which has introduced new boardwalks, play and sports facilities alongside the restoration of historic structures. Councillor Julie Cattell, chair of the council’s culture and tourism committee, welcomed the opening: ‘It is fantastic to see this historic building brought back to life. The Temple has stood empty for too long and now adds another attraction to our seafront.’

Fun at the hub

This Saturday, Brighton & Hove City Council is launching - with entertainment, games and giveaways - a new visitor information hub inside the Brighton i360. Meanwhile, today in fact, there are some kind of shenanigans happening in and on the i360’s iconic half-mirrored pod

The visitor information hub is situated in the i360’s gift shop area on the lower seafront level, it will operate daily between 10:30 am and 5:00 pm and will be officially opened at midday on 27 September by Mayor Amanda Grimshaw. To mark the occasion, a family fun day including entertainment, games and giveaways is planned from 11 am to 4 pm. The hub is a joint effort between the Brighton & Hove Tourism Alliance, the i360 itself, and Visit Brighton.

But what about these shenanigans? At first I noticed a lot of climbing equipment inside the resting pod, but a few minutes later the pod had risen to the upper terrace level where there were a dozen or more action men (I think they were all men) all wearing or holding climbing equipment and wearing ‘Secret Compass’ t-shirts. Some were climbing atop the pod, and fixing a long rope ladder, others were doing things inside the pod. The whole terrace was closed off, but I managed to stop one person on his way into terrace. 

I asked, ‘what’s going on?’ His response was short and sweet, ‘I can’t tell you.’ 

‘But what is going on is very public,’ I insisted, ‘is there some kind of event later?’

‘I can’t tell you a thing,’ he repeated. 

A secret company indeed.

My only clue was the company name on the t-shirts, and so I got googling. Secret Compass is an international company that specialises in expedition logistics, risk management and extreme filming support. Its presence could point to a number of possibilities: publicity stunts, installing equipment, or assisting with film work. But also it frequently supplies climbers, medics and technical riggers for work in hard-to-reach places, whether in remote mountains or on urban landmarks. In the past, for example, it has provided climbers and riggers for television shoots on London’s Shard and in the mountains of Afghanistan. Given its track record working with television and film crews, a media project seems the most likely explanation.

Brighton’s oldest pier

This week in 1822, work began on Captain Samuel Brown’s Royal Suspension Chain Pier, the town’s first true pier and a bold answer to Brighton’s surf that made boat landings treacherous. Brown, a naval engineer fresh from his Trinity Chain Pier in Edinburgh, drove the first piles on 18 September 1822. The 1,134-foot structure opened on 25 November 1823: four towers carried swept iron chains, a 13-foot-wide timber promenade ran out over the sea, and a toll gate on the esplanade kept order. 

The pier was conceived as a packet-boat stage to France and quickly doubled as a promenade lined with amusements: a camera obscura at the head, a reading-room and library, kiosks and a weighing machine, military bands, even shower baths. William IV came to admire it; Turner and Constable painted it (see Constable on the beach, and The Pavilion pivots 90°). Early blows, however, came with storms in 1824, 1833 and 1836. Here is a diary entry by Gideon Algernon Mantell, a surgeon famous for his diary (and for his fossil collection).

29 October 1836 - ‘A dreadful hurricane from the SSW at about eleven AM it was terrific - houses unroofed - trees torn up by the roots: chimney-pots and chimneys blown in every direction - sea mountains high. Went to the Pier, and was present when violent oscillations began to be produced by the hurricane: the whole lines of platforms and chains were thrown into undulations, and the suspension bridges appeared like an enormous serpent writing in agony - at length one of the bridges gave way, and planks, beams, iron rods - all were hurled instantaneously into the boiling surge! The tension of the bridge being thus set at liberty, the remaining bridges gradually became motionless; the damage done to this beautiful structure cannot be much less than £1,000. Some persons were killed by the falling of chimneys and lead blown off the houses.’ For more on Mantell, see Brighton in Diaries.

Steamer trade ebbed to more sheltered Newhaven, so managers turned to entertainment and spectacle. The town grew around it: the Aquarium arrived to the west in the 1870s; the West Pier opened in 1866 and pulled crowds; by the 1890s a grand new Palace Pier was authorised on condition the ageing Chain Pier be dismantled. It closed in October 1896, already tired, its oak piles and ironwork strained after seven decades of gales.

On 4 December 1896 the Channel finished the job. A fierce winter storm tore the old pier to pieces and hurled wreckage along the front, battering the half-built Palace Pier. Brighton salvaged what it could and kept the memory close to shore. The dainty Gothic toll kiosks were later re-erected at the Palace Pier entrance; the signal cannon that once boomed a steamer’s arrival still sits on the deck; masonry footings cling to the beach and, at the very lowest tides in recent years, the stumps of piles have shown and gone again under shifting shingle. 

Sources (text): Wikipedia, National Piers Society, Institute of Civil Engineers; (images) The Regency Society (aquatint drawn and published by Joseph Cordwell, 1823-1824) and John Huddlestone’s The Brighton Story.

We gave it away to the crabs

Piers are stepping-stones
out of this world, a line of poetry
flung out to sea on a whim,
a dazzle of sea lights
glimpsed between floorboards.

This is the opening stanza to Hugo Williams’s poem i.m. The West Pier (1866-2003), first published in the London Review of Books four years ago today. It’s an affectionate portrait of the old pier but far from sentimental, capturing instead the tension between seaside gaiety and slow decay, and placing the ruined structure firmly in the realm of memory and mortality.

Williams, born in Windsor in 1942, is the son of actor Hugh Williams and model-actress Margaret Vyner. Educated at Lockers Park and then Eton, he began publishing poems while still at school and went on to build a career marked by wit, intimacy and a finely-tuned autobiographical eye. His first collection, Symptoms of Loss, appeared in 1965, and over the decades he became recognised as one of Britain’s most distinctive voices, blending humour, candour and a conversational ease with themes of family, memory, illness and love affairs. His marriage to Hermine Demoriane has provided a recurring source of inspiration, as have the lives and deaths of his siblings, and his later years brought powerful reflections on dialysis and transplant surgery.

Williams’s books include Love-Life, which won the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize, Billy’s Rain, which took the T. S. Eliot Prize, and Collected Poems, which secured him the Queen’s Gold Medal for Poetry. Although most of his life has been rooted in London, he has long contributed travel writing, journalism and poetry that reach into England’s coastal imagination. His work often circles themes of seaside towns, childhood holidays and the shifting moods of shorelines, placing him within a tradition of poets for whom Brighton and other resorts serve as shorthand for both freedom and transience.

Williams’s poem i.m. The West Pier (1866-2003) was first published in the London Review of Books (Vol. 43, No. 18, dated 23 September 2021), and can be freely read on the LRB website. It later appeared in book/pamphlet form in The West Pier, published by New Walk Editions in 2022.

The poem is considered an elegy to the Brighton beach ruins of the West Pier. Written in his typically spare and understated style, Williams evokes the pier as a decaying skeleton of its former grandeur, a structure whose collapse into the sea mirrors the erosion of memory and time. The poem treats the West Pier as both a civic monument and a personal touchstone, registering its slow disintegration not with nostalgia but with a wry acceptance of impermanence. In Williams’s hands, the pier becomes an image of loss that is as much about the inevitability of decline in human life as it is about the destruction of a beloved seaside structure. See also: the Sphinx Review; The London Magazine; and my own reflections on the ruins (written before I knew of Williams’s poem) - see In a silvery sea of time.

The portrait of Williams is a screenshot taken from a video of him talking to camera last year, when the T. S. Eliot Prize team invited him into a film studio to reflect on having won the T. S. Eliot Prize five years earlier.

i.m. The West Pier (1866-2003) by Hugo Williams

Piers are stepping-stones

out of this world, a line of poetry

flung out to sea on a whim,

a dazzle of sea lights

glimpsed between floorboards.

For 50p you can study eternity

through a telescope

and never have to go there,

only promenade to nowhere and back

in an atmosphere of ice cream

We used to take the speedboat ride

between the two piers,

pulling the canvas up to our chins

when the spray flew in our faces.

Now we stand and stare

at the remains of our innocence,

twisted girders piled up

in a heap of dead holidays,

while Brighton limps out to sea

on its one good leg.

*

There it is over there,

a little rusty island moored off-shore,

the empty cage of its dome

lying lower in the water

every time I come down.

Where are the luminous dolphins

on the merry-go-round?

Buffalo Bill’s Wild West?

We could have saved the old pier,

but we gave it away to the crabs

and put up a giant pogo-stick

on the seafront,

a middle finger to its memory.

Now only seagulls cry

in what’s left of the concert hall,

only storms shift the scenery.

It sinks below the horizon,

a black and tangled sunset

surrounded by bubbles.

Madame Esmeralda, gypsy fortune-teller,

presses her lips to the glass

of her waterlogged cubicle

and gurgles her apologies

for getting it all so wrong.

Where a lamppost and the i360 compete for depth

Welcome to the zombie pool

Where you might like to cool

Welcome to the depth and down

Where illusions learn to frown

Welcome to the blinding light

Where you might like to write

Welcome to the grime and lies 

Where all exposure dies

Welcome to unbending poles

Where you might find our souls

Welcome to the rigid climb

Where there is but an anti-time 

Welcome people, come in, come in

You all might like to win

Welcome to the looking glass

Of dreams, that scream, en masse