The morning is cool and soft, riddled with bursts of briny air. I stand in Brighton Station in a swirl of tourists, school children and muffled announcements christened by bells. From a nearby kiosk, I pluck a map and bus schedule, then melt into a stream of people moving out into the light. I cannot help but smile; my time at the English seaside has begun.
The map directs me south on Queen’s Road and into a warren of streets leading to the sea. There, I find cheerful things all in a row—a gleaming pier, string of pubs, £2-a-day beach chairs, even a Ferris wheel.
*
In the mornings, I eat at a café in the artists quarter. The patrons are a charming pair; she is quiet and reserved, the epitome of sweetness in her flowered apron. Her barrel-chested husband has a hearty, booming voice.
“There you are, my darling,” he thunders, delivering my coffee with a flourish. “Stay as long as you like, no need to rush off.”
His wife makes the rounds, straightening, serving. She stops to stare out at the sea from time to time. If I happen to look up, she breaks from her reverie and asks, “Alright, love?”
*
“You’re a proper bookworm,” the man says one morning, nodding at my borrowed copy of Larkin poems. “Is poetry your thing?”
“History,” I reply. “That’s my thing.”
He says if it’s history I fancy, I ought to take a peek in their local fishing museum. “It’s just down the way,” he says, jabbing a thumb eastward. “More than you ever wanted to know about Brighton. And then some.”
*
Things I Learned at the Fishing Museum [READ MORE] From its humble beginnings as a fishing enclave, Brighton has evolved into one of England’s prime leisure destinations. Royals were among its first visitors; the town boasts a Mughal-inspired palace built in the 1700’s by Prince George IV who favored Brighton for the sun and sea air (but mainly, because it was an ideal place to rendezvous with his mistresses). In the 19th century, an influx of tourists prompted Brighton’s fishermen to offer sailing cruises (after pulling up nets for the day) on their hastily scoured “pleasure boats”. Closer to shore, aristocrat ladies soaked discreetly and claustrophobically inside bathing machines—tiny, canvas-roofed houses wheeled into the frigid waters by enterprising locals who charged them dearly for the service. With each new era, came new diversions—diving clubs, swimming contests, regattas. The Golden Age of pier-building dawned in the 1860’s. Brighton’s Piers were places of glamor and culture, where people went to dine, dance, and socialize. A theater was built, then a concert hall. Musicians and artists added Brighton to the circuit; Punch and Judy enlivened the weekend set. Brighton’s West Pier enjoyed its peak of popularity in 1918, when as many as two million people visited. Today, only one Pier remains: the Brighton or “Palace” Pier. The skeletal remains of the once dazzling West Pier (ruined by fire in the 1970’s) still stand forlornly in the waves but sadly, are beyond repair. * At Brighton Pier, the cheerful atmosphere is infectious—children squeal and make a beeline for the whirling rides, the confection stands, the arcade that vibrates like a launch pad. Vacationers bounce to upbeat music as the aroma of warm, sugary dough weaves through the air like an invisible ribbon. I find a canvas lounger next to the railing and settle in with a pen and a pint, feet propped, wind whipping my hair into a flag. Below in the water, a group of boys do backflips off the stern of a speedboat, each one surfacing in a sudden, dramatic spray. They perform for hours, like glistening harbor seals. * As in every new place, my joy lies in walking. My mind moves as I do, through landscapes, through time. One afternoon, I stop to lace my fingers through the fence at Pavilion Gardens and stare in at the city’s largest architectural oddity—The Royal Pavilion, George IV’s epic “pleasure palace”, a sprawling edifice adorned with Indian minarets and ornamental arches befitting a Maharaja. It is visually stunning. Glorious, even. Yet, absurdly out of place. I walk around to the entrance and pay a bored-looking teenager £18. She hands me a headset, an audio player and advises three hours for the tour, should I wish to do it properly. * Inside the Royal Pavilion [READ MORE] England’s King George IV (b.1762 – d.1830) built the Royal Pavilion while in the throws of an affair with Maria Fitzherbert, a woman some years older whom he considered “the wife of his heart and soul”. They eventually married in secret, then drifted apart, after which George pursued dalliances with a chain of random women. George’s truest romance, however may well have been with his Pavilion. He spared no expense in its construction and enlisted renowned architect, John Nash and interior designer, Frederick Crace to bring his vision to life. The visual drama of the palace unfolds theatrically, beginning in the Long Gallery with an array of elegant, illusory textures: enigmatic Chinese “nodding figures”, simulated bamboo furniture and enfiladed mirrors. It is in the lavish banquet hall that visitors are first astonished by the exotic landscape, filled to bursting with thousand-shell chandeliers, entwined snakes, faux palm trees, dragon-shaped lanterns and floor-to-ceiling tapestries infused with secret freemason symbols (George IV was first freemason to become the King of England). Thrilling to the eye? Yes. Aesthetically confusing? Extremely. At first, the palace feels almost manic—is it Neoclassical? Gothic? Chinese? But three hours and two floors later, it matters not. Its beauty clearly lies in its exquisite bizarreness, its unapologetic defiance of propriety. As for George IV, he was not a fêted royal. While sharp and artistic, he was scorned for his gluttonous lifestyle and eventually died—blind, obese and heirless—attended by his page. His final words, “Good God, what is this?” followed by, “My boy, this is death,” were uttered in his rooms at staid and stately Windsor Castle, a universe away from his Brighton playground of vivid, mercurial delights. * Later, I go in search of coffee, my mind still ablaze with the exotic colors of George’s Indo-Chinese palace, and am delighted to find a woman in The Lanes selling Miao jewelry. During a trip to China a few months earlier, I had bought a Miao ring and had yet to take it off. I point to a beautiful ring in her display box. “Mi-ao?” I ask (painfully aware that I sound like a cat). “Ah, yes!” she says and lifts the box closer. “I have many Miao things.” As I admire the bright-colored ring, my eyes flick across a second piece—a silver cuff with a tribal motif. Before I can blink, she deftly slides the bracelet over my wrist. Not fair, I think. “Looks good, huh?” She says enticingly, as if I need convincing. “It’s perfect,” I agree, and know that I will be £25 lighter on the way home. * I find my way back to the guesthouse through the high-spirited crowds on St. James Street. Fatigue dissipates as I sit, coiled with a book in my tiny room. In the stillness, I practice the art of conjuring moments for later use: soft-focus mornings at the cafe, the cozy sag of my beach chair, the squawk of gulls as I squint out at the implausibly sparkly sea. Fairest of all, are my evening walks beneath the descending dome of night. What begins as a sash of lavender turns suddenly to darkness; rich, soil-black darkness awaiting a riot of slow-blossoming stars. F I N
