Cucumber Bench restoration

Hove’s ‘Cucumber Benches’, so named for their green colour and double-sided design, are a familiar sight on the Hove seafront. As has been widely reported in the press, these benches are currently undergoing restoration as part of a social value scheme initiated by Brighton & Hove City Council. The restoration - which will make use of a new MDF material and Seafront Green paint - involves a collaboration between the council’s contractors, local businesses, and offenders participating in the Community Payback Scheme.

The benches, traditionally made of wood, are being repaired and repainted with the help of R. J. Dance, a local highways contractor, and local building merchants and paint suppliers. The Community Payback Service provides manpower for sanding and decorating, offering offenders a chance to contribute to their community. The initiative aims to revitalise the seafront and provide a visible demonstration of how offenders can contribute to their local area. According to the council, the benches have been surveyed and work is scheduled to begin later this month. (See also BBC News.)

The history of the benches themselves is linked to the development of Hove’s seafront, particularly the Hove Esplanade. In 1903, a wire fence was replaced with a granite kerb and iron fence, and recesses were created to accommodate seats. These seats, initially made of teak and later with glazed screens, proved popular and were expanded upon with additional orders in later years.

In a press release, Councillor Birgit Miller, Cabinet member for Culture, Heritage and Tourism, was quoted as follows: 

‘Maintaining our seafront comes with many challenges, not least the scale of the task at hand. Our teams are responsible for 13km of seafront, including 6km of railings, 18 shelters and 19 cucumber benches. A comprehensive seafront maintenance plan will be published shortly, but I’m delighted to see this element of our strategy getting underway soon. We really value the commitment to improving our city that contractors like R. J. Dance and many other local businesses continue to show.  

Involving people from the Community Payback Service also provides a visible and tangible way for offenders to contribute to their community. We’re hoping to work with more businesses and recruit further volunteers as the scheme progresses. This is a creative solution to the challenges around seafront maintenance and I’m really looking forward to seeing the benches back to their best.’

According to Arnold Laver, timber merchants, prior to this announcement, Brighton council trialled the use of Mediate Tricoya (a new type of extremely durable MDF) for refurbishment of a single bench. Barbara Goodfellow, a council building surveyor stated: ‘We have a lot of small buildings and furniture along our very long seafront promenade. The trial of Medite Tricoya proved its suitability for a harsh coastal environment.’ Arnold Laver also noted that the refurbishment trial used Dulux paints - Seafront Green (Hollybush) and Dark Brown.

More support for Kings Arches

Some of Brighton’s crumbling seafront arches are set for a long-awaited transformation following the Department for Transport’s green light on 8 July to release £21 million from its Major Road Network fund. The money will pay for the next two major phases of the A259 King’s Road Highway Structures Renewal Programme, a project said to be vital for safeguarding the upper promenade and coast road that run above dozens of ageing Victorian arches. Much of the finance will go towards reinforcing the arches since these act as a viaduct supporting the road.

Brighton & Hove City Council has been working on plans to restore the arches for over a decade, prompted by structural failures that first made headlines in 2012. The most dramatic incident came in 2014, when the Fortune of War arch partially collapsed, forcing emergency repairs. Subsequent inspections revealed that many sections of the Victorian seafront were in similar peril. The arches not only house small businesses but also support the A259, which carries up to 36,000 vehicles, 30,000 pedestrians and 2,500 cyclists daily.

Council documents, planning applications and engineering reports, which have been repeatedly cited in local newspapers including the Argus and Brighton and Hove News, set out the detailed proposals. They show that Phase 4 of the scheme will rebuild the arches between the King’s Road playground and the Brighton Music Hall, while Phase 5 will reconstruct even more arches just west of the Shelter Hall. Together these phases are expected to cost around £27 million. The council will top up the government’s grant with local funds.

The rebuilt structures will use a reinforced concrete frame on piled foundations to provide modern load capacity, concealed behind brick façades designed to match the originals. The listed cast-iron balustrades along the upper promenade will be replaced with replicas, slightly raised to meet current safety regulations. The works also promise better ventilation and more efficient services, including the installation of discreet air-source heat pumps. Much of this information comes from the planning submissions and technical statements lodged with the city council, as well as design papers prepared by Project Centre, an arm of Marston Holdings, which is overseeing the engineering.

Construction is expected to start on Phase 4 now and run for about a year, followed by Phase 5 from May 2026 over roughly 18 months. During this time the A259 carriageway and lower promenade will remain open, though parts of the upper promenade may close intermittently. The council has pledged that businesses occupying the arches will either be temporarily relocated or have the chance to return to upgraded premises.

Local leaders have argued for years that the investment is critical not only to protect Brighton’s most famous road from collapse but also to secure the long-term future of the seafront economy. Earlier phases of the arches restoration, including around the i360 and Shelter Hall, have already demonstrated how modern structural interventions can be blended with heritage preservation.

The Great Omani

Twenty-five years ago, Brighton’s seafront bade a flamboyant farewell to one of its most extraordinary residents: Ronald Cunningham, better known by his stage name, ‘The Great Omani’. On 10 July 2000 - his 85th birthday - Omani staged what he declared would be his final stunt, astonishing a crowd at the Norfolk Hotel by escaping from handcuffs while both his arms were set ablaze with lighter fluid. Frail, in a wheelchair, and undergoing treatment for kidney dialysis and cancer, he ensured that his last act was as daring and theatrical as the countless spectacles he had performed along Brighton’s historic front - many of them centred on the West Pier, the backdrop to some of his most audacious feats.

Living modestly at 10 Norfolk Street, Cunningham was a true local legend whose improbable career as a stuntman and escapologist spanned nearly half a century. Born into a wealthy family, he drifted through his early years without ambition until a twist of fate changed everything. As he browsed in a London bookshop, a volume of Houdini’s tricks fell from a shelf and landed squarely on his foot. ‘That moment changed my life,’ he later said. Taking it as a sign, he resolved on the spot to become a stuntman, adopting the name ‘The Great Omani’ simply because, in his words, it sounded ‘exotic and exciting, just like Houdini’s’.

His acts were as audacious as his origin story. Omani became the first man to travel from London to Brighton on a bed of nails, then made the return journey entombed in a ton of concrete. In a heartfelt homage to his idol, he staged a dramatic underwater escape from Brighton’s West Pier - echoing Houdini’s own feats of the 1920s. According to The Argus, ‘The Great Omani could be regularly seen jumping from the end of the West Pier, wrapped in chains and on fire’. His repertoire included smashing bottles on his throat with a hammer, diving through flaming hoops, and extricating himself from burning structures - stunts performed with a blend of swagger and scrupulous preparation. Remarkably, across his long career, he was only seriously injured twice, both times due to mistakes by assistants: once when a cardboard house was set alight with petrol poured inside, another time when a leaking fuel can caused minor burns during a flaming dive.

That final spectacle on his 85th birthday was meant to be his swan song (see this video at Youtube - the source of the screenshot above), yet in true Omani fashion he couldn’t resist also marking his 90th birthday with a last defiant farewell (see My Brighton and Hove). He died in 2007. Further information is available online at Wikipedia, but also in The Crowd Roars - Tales from the life of a professional stuntman The Great Omani which can be freely downloaded as a pdf from QueenSpark Books.

The Pier first sees red - in neon

Exactly one hundred years ago, on 11 July 1925, The Brighton & Hove Herald reported a dazzling leap into modernity: the first brilliant neon sign blazed across the front of the Palace Pier. It was a spectacle the likes of which the town had never seen - a vivid red beacon spelling out Palace Pier, its letters edged in electric blue, visible from a considerable distance along the bustling seafront. This photo - courtesy of Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove - is dated to 1925 (though I know not if it actually includes any neon illumination).

At the time, neon was still a novel wonder. Invented by French engineer Georges Claude and first unveiled to the public at the Paris Motor Show in 1910, neon signs were a marvel of engineering and chemistry, harnessing the glow of electrified gas to paint the night in colours more vivid than anything achieved by traditional incandescent bulbs. In Britain, neon advertising only truly began to catch on in the early 1920s. Londoners were awestruck by neon displays on places like Hammersmith Bridge, and Brighton was determined not to be left behind.

The Brighton & Hove Herald of 11 July 1925 was almost breathless in its report, explaining that the new Palace Pier sign was among the first uses of neon illumination in the town - part of a wider effort to give the seafront a ‘brighter aspect by night’. The paper described how ‘huge shaped glass tubes’, bent to form the letters, were filled with neon gas which glowed fiercely under electrical charge, producing a luminous red unlike anything seen before. Surrounding blue lamps heightened the effect, creating what the Herald called ‘a colour combination that was quite attractive.’

The article goes on to give more details; ‘The words of the sign are formed by vacuum tubes charged with neon gas and electricity, which produces the brilliant light. The sign on the Pier takes 8,000 volts (alternating current), but it is so cheap in consumption of current that it costs only 2 1/2 d. an hour to run; and after the sign has been lit for a month that amount will be reduced to 2d. With the aid of a little lunar limelight, a wonderful colour effect was obtained on Tuesday night, but this was for ‘one night only.’ A great orange-coloured moon rose out of the wall of dark over the sea, and the orange of the moon and the flaming ruby of the sign produced a colour combination that was quite impressive.’

This local marvel was part of a global neon boom that would come to define the visual culture of the 20th century. Within a few years, neon would spread to Blackpool’s promenades, Piccadilly Circus, and Times Square, becoming synonymous with nightlife, glamour, and the thrilling energy of modern cities. But on that July evening in 1925, Brighton stood proudly at the forefront of this new luminous age.

Cheese and Clarity

Here is the 11th 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 one is a vibrant and inviting still life scene. At the centre, there’s a tall green wine bottle labeled ‘WINE’ next to a filled glass of red wine. To the right, there’s a rustic loaf of bread and a large wedge of cheese adorned with a couple of red grapes. On the left, a plate overflows with colourful fruit - bananas, red apples, oranges, and dark grapes. The background features a bright blue sky with white clouds, visible through a window framed by stylised golden foliage, giving the whole scene a cheerful and leisurely atmosphere. 

A limerick starter

A bottle of red by the shore,

With brie, crusty bread, and much more - 

The waves kissed my feet,

The camembert sweet,

And I burped, ‘This is what life is for.’

Cheese and Clarity (in the manner of M. F. K. Fisher)

It was on Brighton Pier, one sunny morning in July a long time ago, that I tasted what I can only describe as a moment of suspended truth. The sea, more aquamarine than English Channel has any right to be, lapped beneath the boards with that sly, deceptive calm particular to days just before a storm. I had walked the length of the pier, past the thump of arcade machines and the shrillness of seagulls, until I found a place to consumer my picnic lunch, a place of improbable peace: a narrow table-for-one outside a shuttered café, laid not with linen, but possibility.

The meal had been packed by a friend in Hove, a woman with the kind of confidence in food that doesn’t require apology. In the small canvas tote, wrapped in wax paper and string, was a half-round of Sussex Slipcote - creamy, yielding, its curd scent as tender as memory. There was a baton of sourdough, still warm from an oven I imagined tiled and sunlit. And there was fruit: a fist of dark grapes, each like a polished bead; a plum so ripe it might have been holding its breath.

But it was the cheese that made everything still.

I remember how the knife slid through it, a slow sigh of a cut. How it spread against the bread with the texture of late-summer longing. I bit in, and everything dissolved: the salt air, the pier’s old iron bones, the sound of a child crying for more coins. For a moment, it was just me, the Slipcote, and a glass of red pulled from a thermos flask and tasting improbably of the south of France. There may have been a crust of honeycomb too - my memory folds here - and a wedge of quince paste, amber and dignified like a grandmother’s brooch.

Brighton’s beach glinted distantly, pebbles fizzing in the sun like soda water. I could just make out the broken skeleton of the West Pier, its frame ghosted with rust. I wondered, not for the first time, what it means to love a place that is constantly eroding, and whether that same principle applies to people. Or cheese.

I stayed there a while. Long enough for the gulls to give up hope, and the sun to soften everything into shadow. The clarity of hunger had passed, but in its place: something softer, wiser. Not fullness, precisely, but a kind of peace.

If there is a meal worth remembering, it is never because it was perfect, but because something in the bread, or the cheese, or the view from a rickety pier told you a secret you didn’t know you needed to hear.

And the secret was this: You do not have to earn pleasure.

Not with labour, or loneliness, or a perfectly laid table. Not by pretending not to want it. You are allowed to sit on a salt-bitten bench above a bright and battered sea, and let a little wheel of cheese remind you that the good things - rich, ripe, sensuous - require no justification. They exist, like the sea and the sun, and so do you. That was enough.

Glitzy history of sunglasses

Sunglasses - such as these photographed on Brighton Beach - have a curious, winding history that stretches far beyond mere fashion. Long before glossy magazines or film stars, people sought ways to shield their eyes from the sun’s harsh glare. The Inuit crafted slitted goggles from walrus ivory to narrow the world into thin bands of light, protecting themselves against snow blindness. In ancient Rome, it’s said (but also disputed) that Nero watched gladiators through polished emeralds, delighting in both spectacle and subtle shade.

Centuries later, in twelfth-century China, smoky quartz lenses appeared not to protect eyes from sunlight but to conceal them. Judges wore these dark panes in court, their eyes unreadable behind flat stones, masking any flicker of bias. By the eighteenth century in Europe, tinted lenses gained a new reputation, believed to ease particular visual ailments - blue and green glass held out as hopeful remedies.

It was only in the modern age that sunglasses began their true march into everyday life. In the roaring 1920s and 30s, seaside holidays and open-top cars demanded tinted spectacles. Sam Foster seized the moment in 1929, selling mass-produced sunglasses on the Atlantic City boardwalk, delighting beachgoers who craved a touch of glamour with their sunburn. In 1936, Edwin H. Land introduced Polaroid filters, cutting glare with clever chemistry and forever changing how sunlight met the human eye.

War gave sunglasses another push. In the 1940s, Ray-Ban designed protective eyewear for American pilots, launching the aviator - a shape that would later slip from cockpits into cocktail bars with effortless ease. By the 1950s and 60s, sunglasses were not simply practical shields; they were signatures of style. Audrey Hepburn’s enormous frames, James Dean’s brooding lenses - they didn’t just hide eyes, they created mysteries.

Today, sunglasses straddle the line between science and seduction. They promise UV protection, polarisation, sharp optics. But they also whisper of disguise, of attitude, of watching the world from a place just out of reach. More on this from Wikipedia, Bauer & Clausen Optometry, and Google Arts and Culture.

Lens or no lens

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

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

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

Tomorrow? The history of sunglasses!