Once upon a tide, long before Brighton was bedecked with vegan cafés and vintage boutiques, it was a humble little fishing village clinging to the south coast. Back then, the Church and the fishing folk were thick as thieves. It was a symbiotic setup: the fishermen hauled in the mackerel, and the vicar supplied divine reassurance that the sea wouldn’t gobble them up.
From holy water to harbour quarters
Every year, as the mackerel season stirred from its slumber, the local vicar would summon the salty seafarers for a ceremony on the shore. This wasn’t your average Sunday sermon. Oh no. It came with added drama: nets were unfurled like medieval banners, prayers were muttered skywards, and eventually, the Blessing of the Nets was born.
The vicar would waft about with Holy Water, giving the nets a good dousing and offering thanks for the ocean’s edible generosity. Considering fishing was – and remains – a perilous occupation, a heavenly thumbs-up went a long way.
In those days, the nets were laid out to be fixed and dried along the beach and up the Steine in a great communal effort. But as Brighton began to glitz itself up in the Georgian era – all parasols and promenades – the pungent presence of fishy gear and weather-beaten fishermen was gently nudged out of sight (and scent).
By the time the 1970s rolled in, with flares and fondue, Brighton’s shiny new marina promised safer working conditions and free moorings, so the fishermen were finally evicted from the beach and tucked into the marina or Shoreham Harbour.
Not all went quietly: one solitary fisherman still casts off from the eastern side of the Palace Pier, defiantly honouring ancient beach rights with the salty stubbornness of a true Brightonian.
Brighton’s Fishing Quarter
Fast forward to the 1990s, and the seafront got another facelift. This time, nestled between the Palace and West Piers, the city carved out a sanctuary for its salty heritage: the Brighton Fishing Quarter. A pleasing cluster of Victorian arches was bestowed upon fishmongers, artists, coffee peddlers, and – at its heart – the Brighton Fishing Museum.
Free to enter and charmingly eccentric, the museum is a time capsule of nets, boats, and stories from when Brighton smelled a lot more… authentic.
Then came 1999 and the Blessing of the Nets was resurrected by the museum volunteers. The BBC, always up for a bit of ecclesiastical spectacle, swooped in to feature it on Songs of Praise.
Thousands flocked to the beach, the Salvation Army brass band blew its heart out to For Those in Peril on the Sea, and Brighton officially remembered its fishy roots with gusto.
The Mackerel Fayre
These days, the Mackerel Fayre still kicks off the season, conveniently syncing with the Brighton Festival and the ever-eclectic Fringe. The Fishing Museum remains proudly volunteer-run under the watchful eye of the Brighton Seafront Heritage Trust – a noble band of souls keeping the salty spirit alive in a city that’s always been just a bit fishy at heart.
Each year, the Mackerel Fayre kicks off with great ceremony and a dash of theatrical pomp. The Mayor – a one-year-only, gloriously symbolic role filled by a civic-minded volunteer in a very fine chain – makes a grand entrance and offers a few words.
Then comes the real showstopper: the vicar from St Paul’s, affectionately dubbed the Fishermen’s Church, arrives flanked by a robed retinue, clutching holy water and wielding a swinging incense burner like a metronome of maritime blessing.
This year, proceedings took on extra poignancy, as they coincided with the 80th anniversary of VE Day. The Sea Cadets marched onto the scene with some impressively crisp drill routines, and the council’s Armed Forces Champion took a moment to honour the memory of the wartime fishermen – those unsung, oil-skinned heroes who kept the nation fed while dodging enemy fire alongside the Land Army.
Sea shanties and swing
Once the last amen drifted out to sea, the festivities shifted gear. The Wellington Wailers – a ragtag chorus of bearded baritones and weathered tenors – belted out hearty sea shanties from the deck of the Skylark boat, turning salty air into song.
They were followed by a splendid folk trio who gave the crowd a good toe-tapping, and finally a rising star of the local busking scene – first discovered right there in the Fishing Quarter – took the stage, having graduated from plucky pavement performer to headline act in just a year.
The day is always a roaring success, drawing in curious crowds from far and wide. It’s a chance not only to revel in Brighton’s briny past, but also to publicly thank the tireless volunteers who keep the museum afloat – and to fondly remember those who have hauled in their nets for the last time.
Fishing today
Though Brighton has grown up, dressed itself in Regency flair and hipster cool, its fishing roots haven’t entirely washed away. A few dozen boats still set out at dawn, chasing the ever-elusive daily catch. But it’s not all smooth sailing.
Decades of dredging, the disappearance of the once-abundant kelp forests, rising sea temperatures, chronic overfishing, and the bass-thumping hum of a 116-turbine wind farm have conspired to send many local fish species packing.
These days, the last remaining fisherman in the Quarter mostly hauls in crabs, whelks, and enough gurnard to bait his pots – a far cry from the mackerel-stuffed hauls of old.
But hope, like a stubborn barnacle, clings on. A promising initiative called Sussex Bay is underway, aiming to restore the underwater kelp meadows and coax back marine life to these coastal waters. If all goes well, the fish may yet return to their ancestral feeding grounds – and perhaps even to Brighton’s dinner plates.
In the meantime, the museum’s volunteers soldier on, keeping the stories, spirit, and smell of the sea alive.
So if you find yourself strolling through the Fishing Quarter, do pop in, say hello, and if you’ve got a spare coin or two, drop them in the pot – every penny helps keep the past present.
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