I worked at the Royal Albion hotel at the time. We watched the Helter Skelter crash into the sea from the hotel restaurant. Tons of stuff washed up on the beach over the next few days. Used to fish on the landing stage. The baked potato shop was a cheap lunch and a welcome change from sandwiches.
Wonderful feature, with some brilliant photographs. I remember all this so well. I was 13 at the time. The day after the storm, the beach all the way to Black Rock was a mass of wreckage, mostly pitch pine decking, silver painted onion domes, and bits of Moorish arches. It was a pitiful sight amongst the grey and the spray. But it was rebuilt, and I remember going into the theatre auditorium just once, and being knocked out by its beauty. The seats were dark blue plush, the decorations gilt and white. But the worst thing was the coming back. One winters afternoon in 1986 I drove down from London with a girlfriend. I wanted to show her the town where I grew up. As we came along Marine Parade, the Pier came into view, and the theatre had gone. Vanished. No-one ever said where to, just gone. I know we later sat on the beach in the dying yellow light of December, and I felt part of my childhood slip away. The rest of Brighton followed, bit by bit, over the coming years. Its an alien place, now.
There was a section of the West Pier removed to prevent the Germans using it as a landing point during WW2. My father was one of those working for a scrap metal merchant cutting out the section to be removed. The original metal was wrought iron and after WW2 this was replaced with mild steel. Wrought iron lasts longer in a marine environment than mild steel.
I worked at the Royal Albion hotel at the time. We watched the Helter Skelter crash into the sea from the hotel restaurant. Tons of stuff washed up on the beach over the next few days. Used to fish on the landing stage. The baked potato shop was a cheap lunch and a welcome change from sandwiches.
Wonderful feature, with some brilliant photographs.
I remember all this so well. I was 13 at the time. The day after the storm, the beach all the way to Black Rock was a mass of wreckage, mostly pitch pine decking, silver painted onion domes, and bits of Moorish arches. It was a pitiful sight amongst the grey and the spray. But it was rebuilt, and I remember going into the theatre auditorium just once, and being knocked out by its beauty. The seats were dark blue plush, the decorations gilt and white.
But the worst thing was the coming back.
One winters afternoon in 1986 I drove down from London with a girlfriend. I wanted to show her the town where I grew up. As we came along Marine Parade, the Pier came into view, and the theatre had gone. Vanished. No-one ever said where to, just gone. I know we later sat on the beach in the dying yellow light of December, and I felt part of my childhood slip away. The rest of Brighton followed, bit by bit, over the coming years.
Its an alien place, now.
There was a section of the West Pier removed to prevent the Germans using it as a landing point during WW2. My father was one of those working for a scrap metal merchant cutting out the section to be removed. The original metal was wrought iron and after WW2 this was replaced with mild steel. Wrought iron lasts longer in a marine environment than mild steel.
Many people preferred the theatre on Brighton's West Pier, sadly long since but a few metal stumps sticking out of the water.
Adam Trimingham. The Sage of Sussex