Leave No Trace

On Brighton Beach, just east of the Palace Pier, a bright collage of a seagull stands watch above the pebbles. Its blue feathers are layered over a city street map, and alongside it the words shout: Leave No Trace. The paste-up is by The Postman, a Brighton-based street art collective whose work has become part of the city’s visual fabric.

The Postman began appearing on Brighton’s walls around 2018, pasting up portraits of pop icons and local heroes in a vivid, pop-art style. Their pieces are instantly recognisable for their saturated colours, collage textures and playful humour. Over time they have moved from backstreet paste-ups to high-profile murals and commissions, but they continue to paste work directly into the public realm, where anyone might stumble across it on a morning walk.

The seagull piece feels especially at home by the beach. For Brighton, the gull is both nuisance and mascot, scavenger and sentinel. Its presence here, paired with the slogan, links directly to the council’s long-running campaigns to reduce litter left on the stones after busy weekends. Leave No Trace is an outdoor ethic borrowed from hikers and campers, urging visitors to take their rubbish with them and protect the natural setting. Seen from the shingle, it works as both a warning and a piece of local character.

Street art along the seafront is often fleeting - battered by wind, rain, and human hands. But for as long as it lasts, The Postman’s gull hammers home a simple seaside truth: the beach belongs to everyone, and what we leave behind becomes part of it.

Remembering the Old Lady

Half a century ago today, Brighton’s West Pier, affectionately known as the Old Lady, closed to the public for ever - and quite possibly she has become more famous and loved since then. Opened in October 1866, the 1,115-foot iron promenade designed by Eugenius Birch was built on screw-piled columns and laced with a light lattice so seas could run through it rather than break it. Early visitors paid at paired toll houses and strolled past octagonal kiosks and serpent-entwined gas lamp standards whose motif echoed the Royal Pavilion’s interiors. 

By the mid-1870s a central bandstand helped turn air-taking into entertainment, and in the 1880s weather screens and a substantial pier-head pavilion arrived. Steamers berthed on the south side from the 1890s, and on one peak summer’s day in 1898 nine vessels were alongside at once. Eugenius’s son Peregrine Birch oversaw an 1893 pier-head enlargement and pavilion, and Clayton & Black’s grand concert hall of 1916 completed a half-century of building. 

Attendance surged after the First World War with more than two million paying visitors recorded in 1919, a high-water mark for the resort economy. The pier also carried a bathing station at the north-east corner of the head, a detail often missed in later photographs. In April 1900 tragedy struck close inshore when a naval boat swamped near the pier and seven bluejackets from HMS Desperate were drowned; the men are buried locally.

The West Pier was the first pleasure pier to be protected at the highest level: listed in 1969 and upgraded to Grade I in 1982. It doubled as a film set, notably for Oh! What a Lovely War! in 1968. Ownership changes and post-war decline brought tight finances; a local company failed in the mid-1970s as repair orders loomed. The city declined to buy the asset and on 30 September 1975 the pier closed completely to the public. The company went into liquidation and the structure vested in the Crown before the newly formed West Pier Trust later acquired it for a peppercorn £100, beginning decades of advocacy and plans.

Exposure then accelerated the damage. A section fell in 1984 and the Great Storm of 1987 shook more loose. For safety the shore link was removed in 1991, isolating the seaward buildings. National Lottery support of £14m in 1998 raised hopes of full restoration with a commercial partner, but storms in late 2002 brought partial collapses, and two separate fires in March and May 2003 devastated both pavilion and concert hall. Further winter losses followed in 2013-14. Limited demolition around the root cleared the way for the i360 project in 2010, while the offshore ironwork gradually separated into the familiar twin rust-red islands.

Even as a ruin the pier gathered new life. In winter months vast starling murmurations began to wheel between the Palace Pier and the West Pier’s skeleton before carpeting the lower chords at dusk, turning the wreck into a wildlife stage. The Trust shifted to conservation-education: rescuing an original octagonal kiosk in 1996, seeking funds to restore it as a seafront learning centre, mounting exhibitions from historic archives, and occasionally auctioning recovered fragments to support its work. The ruin remains on Historic England’s At Risk register, with official advice long concluding that full restoration of the original structure is now beyond practical means.

Fifty years to the day since the gates were finally shut, the West Pier’s story still reads as a précis of Britain’s seaside age: engineering bravura, civic showmanship, mass leisure, precarious economics, and an afterlife as cultural memory and accidental sculpture. The serpent lamps are gone, the concert hall is sea-room for cormorants, but the outline still sketches Brighton’s horizon and the city’s abiding argument with the sea.

Here is a very brief list of some of the shows and acts that appeared over her 109 years open to the public.

1870s-1920s

Marie Lloyd, one of the most famous music-hall stars of her day; touring orchestras and conductors such as Sir Henry Wood; summer seasons of operetta, Gilbert & Sullivan productions, pantomimes; notable aquatic acts like daredevil divers and novelty acts including James Doughty and his performing dogs

1930s-1950s

Popular light entertainment, seaside variety and dance bands. Big names in British comedy such as George Robey and Stanley Holloway

1960s-1970s

Pink Floyd in 1972, The Who in 1964, Jimi Hendrix in 1966, The Rolling Stones in the early 1960s, Genesis, Deep Purple, and The Kinks.

Selected sources and links; West Pier Trust, My Brighton and Hove, Wikipedia. Images courtesy of Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove.

Brighton beach tragedy

 Published this day, 29 September, in 1908 in the Mid-Sussex Times:

‘The Brighton Borough Coroner held an inquest on Saturday on the body of Charles Robert Wearne, aged 18, who was found shot on the beach on Friday night. According to the evidence given by Mr. Hammond Wearne, of Fourth Avenue, Hove, and Mr. Cecil Henry Croft, tutor, of Maude House, Tonbridge, the deceased lad was the son of Mr. Harry Wearne, a paper manufacturer, of Alsace, and received a liberal allowance. 

After three years’ tuition under Mr. Croft, young Wearne was sent to a German University to complete his education. In August last he came to England for brief stay with Mr. Croft. At the termination of this short stay at Tonbridge he went to London, where he was met by his father, who was making arrangements for him to start business in the establishment of a London agent. On Monday, however, the father received a letter from his son saying he had left London for ever, and threatening to blow out his brains if he were followed. 

It was supposed he sent his boxes to West Worthing and inquiries were at once instituted, but without avail. Information obtained revealed that he came to Brighton, putting up at an hotel in the Queen’s Road. He seemed to be perfectly happy, and on Thursday purchased a bicycle. It was known he had £20 in his pocket when he left London. When the body was removed to the mortuary the following letter was found in the clothing:

“Whoever finds this would be doing a great favour to me, and I know he will be repaid some day, if it be not before he gets to heaven. I have committed suicide because I could not live, although it was terribly hard to leave my parents and friends I loved so deeply. If they knew the truth, I know they would almost die, so I beg you to have it put in the papers that I died accidentally. 

I am residing at Queen’s Road, where I have all my belongings, including a beautiful new bicycle. I want all my belongings sent to H. F. Wearne, Manor House, Tonbridge, Kent. There is £1 in the left drawer of the wardrobe or chest of drawers, which will pay for the luggage to be sent. If you desire money or anything, I beg you, in my name, to go to E. S. Theobald, Esq., 22 Oxford Street, Newman Street, London, who is my father’s agent, and you will get all you want, I guarantee. . . . For reimbursement of all money apply to E. S. Theobald, Esq. Yours truly (signed) O. Wearne.” 

The Coroner questioned Mr. Hammond Wearne and Mr. Croft as to whether they could offer any reason for the suicide, but both said they were quite unable to account for it. Certainly he was not in want of money, and they knew of no romantic attachment. The father was said to be on his way to America. The jury returned a verdict of suicide, adding that there was no evidence to show the state of the deceased lad’s mind.’

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.