These are the somewhat steampunk ruins of the old West Pier in the town of Brighton where I was recently disporting myself as the alleged Mad Poet of Rock & Roll. The construct of twisted iron stands a few hundred feet out in the deep water of the English Channel, surviving on the promise that, on some unspecified day, it will be rebuilt and restored to it former glory.
Built back in 1866 by marine engineer Eugenius Birch, the West Pier was always secondary – at least in my day, when the Mods and Rockers flourished – to the more easterly Palace Pier, that had much more to offered in the way of fun, frolic, slot machines, alcohol, bumper cars, and girls who shrieked and giggled as the sea-breeze lifted their skirts.
The West Pier also was dogged by far more than it’s share of misfortune. As Wikipedia tells it…
“The West Pier had been cut off from the shore (partly deliberately, for safety reasons) since 1975, but the West Pier trust offered regular tours of it until the structure suffered a serious partial collapse during a storm on December 29, 2002, when a walkway connecting the concert hall and pavilion fell into the sea. On January 20, 2003 a further collapse saw the destruction of the concert hall in the middle of the pier. On 28 March, 2003 the pavilion at the end of the pier caught fire. Firefighters were unable to save the building from destruction because the collapsed walkway prevented them from reaching it. The cause of the fire remains unknown. On May 11, 2003, another fire broke out, consuming most of what was left of the concert hall. The Fire re-ignited on May 12. Arson was suspected: the West Pier Trust refers to the fires as the work of "professional arsonists". On June 23, 2004 high winds caused the middle of the pier to collapse completely.”
I would not only regularly see the old West Pier as I recently roved around the town, but a painting of its black iron at sunset dominated one wall of my hotel room at the cutely named Motel-Schmotel, and I started to wonder – especially amid the mixed emotions of leaving – whether I was indentifying with the ruin a little too intimately. If I really did venture a return to the haunts of my youth, and go back where I was so recently welcomed, will I really be able to cut as some ancient but surviving force with whom to be reckoned still, or would I be nothing more a short-lived relic, briefly lauded but then forgotten? I know, as I write, I am definitely suffering from that post-adventure, let-down, sadness, and am also understandably tired, and I don’t doubt that I will cowboy up soon enough and all will be well. But what would be the point of this forum if I didn’t, now and then, voice a fear of misgiving?
The secret word is Trepidation
Built back in 1866 by marine engineer Eugenius Birch, the West Pier was always secondary – at least in my day, when the Mods and Rockers flourished – to the more easterly Palace Pier, that had much more to offered in the way of fun, frolic, slot machines, alcohol, bumper cars, and girls who shrieked and giggled as the sea-breeze lifted their skirts.
The West Pier also was dogged by far more than it’s share of misfortune. As Wikipedia tells it…
“The West Pier had been cut off from the shore (partly deliberately, for safety reasons) since 1975, but the West Pier trust offered regular tours of it until the structure suffered a serious partial collapse during a storm on December 29, 2002, when a walkway connecting the concert hall and pavilion fell into the sea. On January 20, 2003 a further collapse saw the destruction of the concert hall in the middle of the pier. On 28 March, 2003 the pavilion at the end of the pier caught fire. Firefighters were unable to save the building from destruction because the collapsed walkway prevented them from reaching it. The cause of the fire remains unknown. On May 11, 2003, another fire broke out, consuming most of what was left of the concert hall. The Fire re-ignited on May 12. Arson was suspected: the West Pier Trust refers to the fires as the work of "professional arsonists". On June 23, 2004 high winds caused the middle of the pier to collapse completely.”
I would not only regularly see the old West Pier as I recently roved around the town, but a painting of its black iron at sunset dominated one wall of my hotel room at the cutely named Motel-Schmotel, and I started to wonder – especially amid the mixed emotions of leaving – whether I was indentifying with the ruin a little too intimately. If I really did venture a return to the haunts of my youth, and go back where I was so recently welcomed, will I really be able to cut as some ancient but surviving force with whom to be reckoned still, or would I be nothing more a short-lived relic, briefly lauded but then forgotten? I know, as I write, I am definitely suffering from that post-adventure, let-down, sadness, and am also understandably tired, and I don’t doubt that I will cowboy up soon enough and all will be well. But what would be the point of this forum if I didn’t, now and then, voice a fear of misgiving?
The secret word is Trepidation
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2 comments:
Beautiful picture. Thank you. A testament to the forces of nature and the inability of Brighton & Hove to support two such public attractions.
I fell in love with Brighton when I stayed over for the weekend of your gig a couple of weeks ago. It's got a real good vibe about it, and there are some great little boozers too.
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