They come before dawn. One by one, wrapped in neoprene or nothing at all. Heads bowed, shoulders hunched. Like pilgrims. Like offerings. Their breath cuts vapour trails across the water’s edge. No one speaks.

They still call him The Lifeguard, though no one remembers his name. Not really. There are rumours—always are—whispers that it was something like "Joanston" or "Tonis", maybe "Guarder". Doesn't matter. He’s out there every summer, perched atop that ancient red lookout, the one welded to rusted scaffolding, bolted into the cracked promenade like a warning.

The keeper’s log had no date. Not anymore. Time had collapsed into tides and tremors, and the chromed skymap above Fort Perch was no longer

He was told to watch the sea. He did. It blinked first.

There’s a certain absurdity to being a photographer in New Brighton. You don't take photos—you inherit them. Every shutter click risks reanimating Parr’s ghost, stitched into the concrete, caught in every seagull wing and chip wrapper. His lens flattened the town into folklore. Mine tries to let it breathe.

They built their cities like ships—heavy, slow to turn, and always taking on water. They said we were lawless, reckless, cruel. But we knew how to read the current. We knew when a vessel was doomed before the keel cracked. They mistook our lanterns for malice. But the truth is: no one lights a fire unless they want someone to see it.

It starts with a feeling — not quite desire, not quite hunger. A kind of soft restlessness, like a tuning fork humming behind your ribs.

The flash bulb pops in my mind—bright, merciless, catching me mid-blink. Saturated colours burst around me: ice creams vividly pink..

OK. Let’s just say it out loud: Rebuild the pier. Rebuild the tower. Two no-brainers. Two bold strokes. Two impossible ideas—until they’re not.

The heat snuck in overnight—quiet, heavy, and oddly intimate. It wrapped around the rooftops, pressed itself against the windows, and now it’s sitting on your chest like a sunburnt cat. You wake up already slightly annoyed, not at anything in particular, just... atmospherically.

We’re calling on Wirral Council to recognise the New Brighton mural trail as a cultural asset — and to work with local partners to secure its care, upkeep, and future development.

Last week, I arranged to visit the Floral Pavilion in person — to see what I’d missed, to ask questions directly, and, above all, to listen.

They say street art is meant to be ephemeral—painted into public life and then slowly claimed by time. But when Paul Curtis’s coffee plant mural vanished overnight from Brick Street in Liverpool’s Baltic Triangle, the reaction wasn’t one of quiet acceptance. It was sadness. Frustration.

This week, I read in The Guardian that Folkestone’s controversial harbour redevelopment plan had finally been approved: 410 new homes, 54 commercial units, right on the waterfront. The council voted it through. And the tone wasn’t triumph — it was resignation. “We cannot block the blocks,” one councillor said. It was less a victory than a surrender.

Connor Hilton didn't start as a pizzaiolo. His story didn't begin with dough recipes passed down through generations or culinary training from a prestigious chef. Instead, it started with a spark of creativity, a bold opportunity, and the supportive spirit of New Brighton's vibrant community.

If you’d wandered down Victoria Road in New Brighton back in early 2018, you might have noticed a bit of a bleak canvas—tired concrete corners, unloved traffic boxes, a street needing more than just sunlight. It needed imagination. It needed someone willing to plant a seed.

Stand on Kings Parade and look down towards the lifeguard station—the one watching over the tide like a sentry in a hi-vis vest.

This is New Brighton. Yes, New Brighton.” – Dom Joly on His Unexpected Night Out

New Brighton's Marine Lake has long been a cherished spot for locals and visitors alike. From early morning swims to paddle boarding sessions, the lake offers a unique outdoor experience that invigorates both body and soul. In recent years, this stretch of water has become a quiet revolution—the heart of a growing outdoor swimming culture that brings health, happiness and hope to the Wirral coast.

This is a long read, so buckle in. -✍️ Author’s Note New Brighton has already done the hard part. It found its voice. It picked up a...