Here there Be dragons
Could it be Mexico or California? Neither, it’s Brighton’s exotic seafront, says Kate Wickers
In the centre of the Banqueting Room of the Royal Pavilion in Brighton a colossal chandelier, 30-feet high and weighing a ton, suspends from the talons of a shimmering silver dragon. Below, six smaller dragons with sparkling scales breathe light through delicate glass lamps. Eccentric, excessive, and exceptionally diverting, the scene is enough to make me forget that I should have been on a flight to Mykonos that morning. Could this seaside city deliver what I yearned for most – an exotic holiday? It was worth a go.
No better place to begin exploring than the Royal Pavilion with its swirling onion domed roofs, towers and minarets, conjuring up happy memories of trips to Rajasthan, Istanbul and St Petersburg. It’s such a mishmash of design and is arguably Britain’s most outlandish palace. It began life in the 18th century as a hunting lodge and was reimagined in 1815 into the pleasure palace we see today by King George IV. In the Music Room I’m whisked away to China as I gawp at six towering porcelain pagodas, rich crimson walls decorated in golden images of bamboo, pagodas and herons, and blue silk curtains supported by flying carved wooden dragons. George’s obsession with this mythical creature is found throughout – on the handpainted walls of his bedchamber, in the Yellow Bow Rooms, and in the design of the carpet found in The Saloon. Queen Victoria referred to the Royal Pavilion as, “that strange, odd, Chinese-looking place”, and never did take to its extravagant un-british design, but, for me, a couple of hours spent wandering the lavish rooms is a tonic.
On the seafront, the 1883 Volk’s Electric Railway begins at the Aquarium and terminates at Black Rock near to Brighton Marina, passing by the city’s infamous nudist beach – often quite a shock for families on a day trip to the seaside.for dinner, I head to stylish Murmur, located beachside in The Arches, which takes its name from the term murmuration – the shape that starlings make when they flock from the all-singing-all-dancing Palace Pier to the ghostly shell of the West Pier – surely Brighton’s most atmospheric landmark. I order yellowfin tuna, followed by a shellfish tagliatelle, and feel like I’m on holiday. Night has fallen while I’ve feasted and The Golden Spiral – an art installation made of 24 salvaged columns from The West Pier – is now
atmospherically lit; reminiscent of the Acropolis, albeit on a much smaller scale.
On New Road I spy a door with instructions to press a bell for entry, too intriguing to resist. Ten minutes later I’m sitting in Bar Valentino on a scarlet leather sofa next to a potted palm drinking an Old Fashioned, having time travelled to 1920s Paris. Rich burgundy walls are hung with art-deco prints, and ruby red-tasselled shades hang above a polished mahogany wood bar and the place feels like a secret.
Book ahead for a guided visit to the Grade II listed Middle Street Synagogue, the UK’S last remaining so-called cathedral temple, opened in 1875. Golden light floods through the stained-glass windows and dome, illuminating lavish marble, brass and mosaic work of a Neo-byzantine design. Breathtakingly exquisite, for an hour I’m transported back to Jerusalem, Budapest, Trieste as memories of visits to other great synagogues come flooding happily back.
Next to Morocco, well the north Laines to be exact, which have a flavour of Marrakesh about them,
packed as they are with interesting independent shops and cafes. On Gardner Street, I even stumble across Marrakech House with its carpets and leather goods spilling out on to the street. At nearby Lavash, I lunch on a freshly baked Middle Eastern wrap stuffed with falafel and tzatziki, before disappearing into the narrow pedestrianised Kensingston Gardens, past Snooper’s Paradise – a playground for seekers of vintage clothes and jewellery – to Bert’s for quirky home accessories from around the world (think Modiglianistyle plant pots, Scandi-inspired crockery, tin storage cans that prompt memories of Guatemala). Beach side at Lazyfin, sipping a frozen pineapple margarita, with crayfish tacos on order, I watch surfers with boards race towards the waves. Could I be in Mexico or California? Neither I decide, as a seagull swoops in to nick a chip off a passing bloke with a beard wearing six-inch high heels. His bowlerhatted friend on roller-skates shrieks then shoos the gull expertly away. This is Brighton: Britain’s most exotic city and it’ll do for me.
Golden light floods through the stained-glass windows and dome
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Kate @wickers.kate