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LIFEBOAT SERVICE CELEBRATES 175 YEARS

The original lifeboat station was situated on shingle just
off Marine Road. In those days Eastbourne was a busy coastal
village, with barges beaching themselves on the foreshore
and unloading many a cargo of coal, bricks and sand. When the
railway made its connection to the town in 1849, all that was
to change.

From these primitive beginnings - for the lifeboat in those days
was an open rowing boat - a properly constructed station was
built at the Wish Tower in 1898. The cost was raised by the Daily
Telegraph, who launched a public appeal and named the building
after the famous Victorian actor, William Terriss, stabbed to
death by a disgruntled rival actor outside the stage door of the
Adelphi Theatre in London.

The following year, a second station on the beach near Princes
Park was opened. Both stations served Eastbourne for a time until
the Wish Tower station was closed and turned into a museum.

Today, the lifeboat plies from the Sovereign Harbour with greater
speed and efficiency than its forerunners.

THE COMING OF THE MOVIES

A hand-cranked camera once recorded the movement of horse-drawn carts making their way into Eastbourne, passing the old toll house that formerly stood at the MFI Roundabout. This was the pioneering days of this new art, with a make-shift studio based at the corner of what was later to be called Leeds Avenue. No lavish sets as today's studio complexes boast, but a rough tin
shed, more a developing room for the black and white images.

Such studios were in abundance throughout Britain, every town had its pioneer movie maker and there were lots of takers for the new medium as travelling projection tents toured with the numerous fairs and other attractions. It was appropriate that Eastbourne found itself amongst these early innovations, for the inventor of cinematograph, William Friese-Greene, lived only a few miles away, in Middle Street, Brighton, another town with film studios that lasted up to only a few decades ago.

The first public performance of 'moving pictures' in Eastbourne took place at Horsey (Churchdale Road area). This was a popular site for many traveling fairs. It was given in a small tent and the images flashed across the screen for only a few minutes, but it was the start of an industry that was to revolutionize the world.

Sydney Wenham, the furniture auctioneer, whose premises were at 88 Seaside, extended his building to accommodate this new wonder, but the local authority refused permission for him to open as, they said, there was not an adequate fire exit.

The first cinema to open was the Electric Picture Hall in 1908. Quickly others followed: the Gallery Cinema (July 1913) where the main entrance to the Arndale Centre now stands. In 1914, cinemas opened at the rate of one every two months: there was the Winter Gardens, with the cinema on the first floor, the Old Town Cinema which stood on a site now occupied by Safeway's Food Stores, the Empire, which changed its name numerous times and is now the Mecca bingo hall in Seaside, and opposite, the Eastern, which finished its life as the Regal. If you look above the shop that now stands in its place you will see the old flag posts and on the east side, the entrance to the projection box reached by a metal ladder.

The last of the pre-war cinemas, opened in 1938, was the Classic in Trinity Trees. The author of this article once worked as a projectionist running the Kallee projectors, later moving to a similar task at the ABC cinema in Pevensey Road. The Classic closed its doors in 1966 and was later demolished to make way for a block of flats.

In 1919, the Central cinema opened in Seaside Road, it's still there though sadly derelict. In recent months the Luxor in Pevensey Road built in 1933, has been immortalized - the main entrance is now an eating place bearing that name. The only cinema that has survived is the Curzon, formerly the Picturedrome in Langney Road, opened in 1920. In March 1973, the Curzon was converted into a triple cinema with seating for 537, 238 and 237 respectively.

In the fifties, the Picturedrome (Curzon) produced its own local newsreel to compliment Pathe as a popular feature. A unique celluloid history, now lost, that recorded such events as the arrival of the last British Warship, The Vanguard, making a courtesy call to the town. Early film was highly inflammable and the Fire Brigade forced the cinema owners to dispose of the footage. It lies, buried somewhere near the Leisure Pool, which was the town's landfill refuse site for many years.

Only one new cinema complex has opened in Eastbourne since the war, that of the Multiplex at the Crumbles shopping Centre off Pevensey Bay Road. With six screens this has capacities ranging from 217 to 316 seating units, accommodating in total 1,574 patrons.

EASTBOURNE DIARY

Our Old Station Building

150th
anniversary
of the
coming
of the
railway

Bands and an open-air party celebrated the coming of the railway to Eastbourne in 1849.
It was to place the town firmly on the map as a leading ‘watering place’ as early seaside
resorts were known. The first station, pictured above, stood on the land between Wharf
Road and the entrance to the Enterprise Centre; it was to be moved twice more before the
present station buildings were built.

Preservation of Seafront

NEW LOOK TO SEAFRONT
Despite the annual spring tides, work is still on schedule for the completion of the Eastbourne’s new-look
seafront. The promenade that used to finish at the Redoubt now stretches to Langney Point, where a nature
area and picnic site have been completed.

One of the earliest programmes

Historic Program

PAST
MEMORIES

How many people remember the log rolling contests on Princes
Park Lake, the open-air dancing on the lawns and the cycle racing
in the stadium -
or the 1st World War tank in Gildredge Park?

As Eastbourne discontinues the annual carnival, one looks back over a hundred years to the cover of this rare programme.
Events included a battle of flowers, procession of cyclists in fancy costume, Gymkhana and a Battle of Confetti. Then
there was a torchlight procession in fancy dress, an open-air Military Concert and to end it all a Fancy Dress Ball. They
certainly knew how to celebrate in those days.

SEA DEFENCE SCHEME COMPLETE

Over 30 million pounds has been spent on one of the biggest coast protection schemes ever entered into by the town council. To celebrate its completion, local government minister, Elliot Morley, joined members of Eastbourne's town council in an official opening ceremony.

The project which has taken over three years to complete has replaced groins and beaches washed away by the sea. The greatest loss was caused at Holywell, where after the construction of the Sovereign Harbour breakwater, almost the entire length of the beaches was swept clear of shingle by the changed flow of the tide.

WINGS OVER EASTBOURNE

Pioneering Days

The August sun had burnt the grass into patches of brown dust, its radiance alighting upon the tin roofing of the nearby hangers, a shimmering mirage which enhanced the mystic world of flight. The peace was broken callously by the fearful roar of a Bleriot's 80 h.p. Gnome engine, its newly acquired life pulsating through every rib and strut of the monoplane. Carefully, the pilot eased the throttle back, adjusted the richness of the fuel and when reassured by the timing of the engine, to which the ear had become accustomed, signalled to the mechanic to remove the chocks. With this freedom the machine moved forward, slowly gathering speed, the pilot moving the rudder to swing in line with the grass runway, at the same time increasing the power of the engine. With the ease of a bird in flight the machine climbed into the clear sky, its shadow growing smaller as each second passed. Sheep in a nearby field scurried to the safety of the hedgerow and a sheepdog barked in alarm.

Now the Bleriot's image flashed, reflected for a moment in the Pevensey Haven, which lay straggling across the landscape. To the left the muddy path that joined Willingdon with Eastbourne's eastern end came plainly into view, while partly obscured by a heat haze, the tree lined boundary of Hampden Park could be seen to the fore of the plane. The pilot eased the controls to bring the machine in line with the downland and levelling out, crossed the main London to Eastbourne railway line just as a passenger express roared past below.

The patchwork-quilt appearance of fields gave way to houses in the outskirts of Ocklynge as the machine now altered course towards the sea, rising to skirt the crest of Willingdon Hill, with the drone of the engine to echo back across the valley. To the south the white sunlit domes of the Winter Garden pavilion came into view blending with the rich green of the tennis courts.

The Devonshire Park grounds, of which the Winter Gardens was an inherent part, had been witness to the advent of aviation in Eastbourne. These were the pioneering days, the end of a decade that on December 17th 1903 had heralded Orville Wright's first flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. The intervening years had seen a growth in the desire to become airborne, a period when America ruled the sky, with France a close second.

In 1908, Lord Northcliffe, owner of the Daily Mail, frustrated by Britain's lack of advance in aviation, sought to stimulate interest. The bait was a £500 prize for the first man to fly across the English Channel.

As dawn broke on the morning of July 19th, the first contestant, Hubert Latham, took off from Calais. His machine rose steadily over the cliff, outlined against a sea bathed in the first rays of the morning sun. Hardly had the machine gained height, than the tone of the Antoinette engine faltered. Latham hurriedly examined the carburetion and ignition of the engine. This was to no avail for within seconds the engine stopped completely. The aircraft glided in one slow downward slope, finally skimming the surface of the water and coming to rest in a horizontal floating position.

Count de Lambert's attempt was even shorter lived, his Wright's biplane spinning out of the air during a test flight. The Count, having thus wrecked one machine, decided gracefully to abandon the attempt.

Meanwhile Louis Bleriot, who was recovering from burns received when his aircraft caught fire en route to Calais, arrived at the nearby town of Les Baragues. On the morning of July 24th, he confidently threw away his crutches he had needed since the accident and was helped into the cockpit of the aeroplane. 'I will not need these again until I come back from England,' he assured onlookers. Shortly his aircraft took off and after a fifteen minute trial flight over Calais, landed back at the starting point.

A light south westerly breeze was blowing, the sky clear, yet it was not possible to see the cliffs of Dover shrouded in a distant haze. Louis wore a wool-lined khaki jacket over his blue cotton overalls, beneath which was a tweed suit. Over his head and ears was a close fitting pilot's cap. Everything was now prepared.

A business associate, Alfred le Blanc, gave the signal to start. With this the monoplane, which Louis affectionately named Eleven, rose gracefully into the air, the engine reaching maximum revolutions to skirt the telegraph wire along the edge of the cliff.

At a height of around 260 feet the plane leveled out, passing over the torpedo boat destroyer Escopette, which was on standby in case of a sea landing. After a while the coast of France disappeared and even the Escopette was no longer to be seen. With no sight of the English coastline Louis suddenly felt alone, lost in mid-channel without even a compass. For ten minutes the aircraft continued its course with Louis resting hands and feet gently on the levers. Then, twenty minutes after he left the French coast, the cliffs of Dover came gratifyingly into his view.

As he neared the coast Louis turned the Eleven gently towards the west, searching for a break in the cliffs. Entering through a cleft and avoiding a red building to port, Louis lined the monoplane up to land on the grass covered slope. Suddenly a gust of wind caught the machine, whirling it round several times. He hurriedly switched off the engine causing Eleven to drop from a height of sixty-five feet. This somewhat unconventional landing brought Louis Bleriot safely onto English soil and completed the first crossing of the English Channel.

After a short stay in London, Louis Bleriot's frail craft was brought to Eastbourne, where it was put on exhibition on the lawns of the Devonshire Park. Quite apart from gaining for its proud owner the coveted prize of £1000 from the Daily Mail, it heralded the birth of many Bleriot aircraft.

On that bright sunlit Tuesday, the whole of Eastbourne had gathered to watch its arrival. Was it possible that this frail machine had carried its passenger, seated only in a wickerwork chair, safely across the channel waters, suspended above the sea by the pull of a motor and the spread of wings. This first chance to have a close look at an airplane stirred the imagination, awakening in the more ardent a thirst for adventure.

In arranging the exhibition, Mr. E. A. Brown, manager of the Devonshire Park Company had unwittingly planted the seed for Eastbourne's involvement in aviation. While Louis Bleriot's aircraft again crossed the channel, this time less precariously by steamer, plans were alive for the construction of an aerodrome costing £2000 to be sited on the Crumbles to the east of the town. On Saturday, September 13th 1909, a notice appeared in the Eastbourne Chronicle giving details of the new Eastbourne Flying School, but lack of funds to construct the 100 yard long runway caused the whole project to be abandoned.

Two years passed, with only the occasional sighting of an air machine. Then on Saturday, April 15th 1911, while the wealthy strolled along select promenades between the pier and the Wish Tower, there was to be heard, faintly at first, the drone of an aircraft engine. Ladies tilted their heads, peering from beneath their large, feather-plumed hats, while the gentlemen removed their bowlers to shield their eyes from the spring sunlight. A dot appeared, flying in from Shoreham, where an hour earlier a plane had taken off. The pilot was Mr. O.C.Morrison, an aviator of some renown, who, seeing the large crowd entranced by the appearance of his Bleriot, decided a flying display was timely. Opening the throttle, Morrison swung the aircraft into a tight turn, flying low over the parades and narrowly missing the end of the pier. To the delight of the watchers, the little machine turned and rolled, climbing and descending in circles which extended far out from the seafront. Finally, Morrison flew inland and completing a slow turn, lined the monoplane up with the Devonshire Park lawn.

The descent would have been made with ease had it not been for the unexpected appearance of telephone lines, hitherto unnoticed in the bright sunlight. Morrison swung sharply to starboard but this maneuver, hampered by loss of height and lift, caused the plane to side-slip. The wing hit an electric light column, snapping it off at the base and the plane crashed headlong into chairs set out on the edge of the lawns. Pieces of the propeller embedded themselves in the turf, while the wings split away from the main plane, leaving the fuselage to grind to a halt among the debris. Morrison was helped from the cockpit, miraculously only slightly shaken by the impact. While the crowd of sightseers converged on the wrecked aircraft he stood, oblivious of his narrow escape, signing autographs. The wreckage of Morrison's monoplane was later collected by lorry and he, sadly, left by train.