Two Hours in Brighton is a bit like joining a circus halfway through the performance—there’s glitter on the pavement, music in the distance, and at least three people in flamingo-print shirts offering you oat milk lattes. This is not a city that likes to do things quietly. But if you’ve only got a couple of hours to play with, you can still squeeze in the greatest hits and get a good sniff of its salty, eccentric brilliance. It’s a whirlwind, but it’s a fabulous one.
Start at the Royal Pavilion. Yes, it looks like it got lost on its way to Rajasthan, and yes, that’s the point. Built for the Prince Regent in the early 19th century, it’s a gleaming onion-domed fantasy in the middle of a very British seaside town. You don’t have time for a full tour unless you sprint through like you’re in a period drama-themed obstacle course, but definitely have a wander around the gardens. The grass is populated with seagulls that look like they pay council tax, and local artists sketching while pretending not to judge your trainers. If you have time, peek inside the entrance hall for a glimpse of the over-the-top décor that mixes Regency excess with a heavy dash of the exotic. There’s a reason the locals still can’t decide if it’s brilliant or mad.
From the Pavilion, make your way down East Street and dive straight into the Lanes. This is Brighton’s famously labyrinthine collection of alleyways, where you’ll find antique shops full of clocks that might be haunted, jewellers with rings that could win a duel, and cafes that specialise in five different kinds of vegan sausage rolls. You’ll probably get lost, and that’s half the fun. Look for the corners where the buildings seem to lean into each other like they’re sharing gossip. You might stumble upon a tiny record store that smells like the ’70s or a shop that only sells hats for dogs. Stop for a coffee if the queue isn’t made entirely of digital nomads trying to finish their screenplay. Bonus points if it comes in a cup made of seaweed.
Eventually, you’ll stumble out into North Street, blinking like you’ve just emerged from a magical realism novella. Head west toward Churchill Square, but don’t go into the shopping centre unless you’re feeling especially masochistic. Instead, take Western Road and then swing left down Preston Street, where the smell of every global cuisine mingles in glorious competition. There’s ramen, falafel, fish and chips, and at least one place trying to convince you that jackfruit is the new pulled pork. If the aromas don’t tempt you to pause for a nibble, you have more self-control than most.
Continue heading south and you’ll hit the seafront. Brighton Beach isn’t exactly Malibu, but it has its own charm. The pebbles are murder on the ankles, but the views are spectacular. Look west and you’ll see the skeletal remains of the West Pier, slowly being reclaimed by the sea and Instagram filters. Look east and there’s the Brighton Palace Pier in all its neon, candyflossed, mildly ironic glory. If you’re fast on your feet, head onto the pier itself. There are arcade machines, people screaming on rides, and seagulls plotting petty crimes overhead. If you’re lucky, there might even be a small band playing something cheerful and off-key under a carousel.
Walk along the seafront promenade heading east. You’ll pass beach huts, ambitious joggers, and possibly a guy playing ‘Wonderwall’ for the 93rd time. Stop to watch the waves crash, or just eavesdrop on a couple arguing over whether or not to get chips. The British seaside experience in a nutshell. You’ll also pass the Fishing Museum—tucked quietly beneath the arches. It’s small but sincere and filled with the kind of maritime memorabilia that smells faintly of salt and varnish. A worthy five-minute detour.
If you’ve still got time, duck into the Artists’ Quarter, those slightly ramshackle arches under the promenade that house local painters, printmakers, and people who create sculptures entirely out of reclaimed flip-flops. Some of it is genuinely good. Some of it is confusing. All of it is very Brighton. You’ll meet the sort of artists who offer life advice along with their prints and are likely to give you a discount if you agree with their stance on seaweed conservation.
Turn back inland toward the Brighton i360. It’s a giant glass doughnut on a stick, essentially a vertical viewing pod that gives you panoramic views of the city and beyond. You don’t have to go up unless you like the idea of seeing your own hotel from space, but it’s worth standing underneath and debating whether it’s an eyesore or a feat of modern engineering. Brighton thrives on opinion. If you do go up, try to time it for sunset, when the city looks like it’s been brushed in gold and the sea sparkles in just the right way.
Cut up Middle Street or West Street and head north again, depending on how energetic you’re feeling. The area gets noisier and more theatrical as you approach the North Laine. It’s the city’s alternative heart, filled with vintage shops, record stores, comic book emporiums, and one café that only serves cereal. The graffiti here is excellent—look out for giant murals of David Bowie or someone dressed as a pineapple. You might stumble into a street performance involving stilts or a pop-up market selling T-shirts made from recycled slogans. Pick up something second-hand, or just revel in the joyful chaos of it all.
Duck into Komedia if you’re lucky and there’s a matinee stand-up show happening. Even if there’s no time to stay, the chalkboard out front usually features something worth a chuckle. There’s always something going on in North Laine, and chances are, it’s quirky, mildly anarchic, and surprisingly heartfelt.
End your walk in Kensington Gardens (the street, not the royal park), where every square inch seems to have been claimed by a microbusiness or a charity shop with weirdly good clothes. Grab a last coffee or a small-batch, hand-churned sorbet served in a biodegradable cup shaped like a swan. If you’re peckish, pop into one of the falafel stalls or pick up a doughnut from the bakery with the queue that snakes round the corner. Sit on a bench, people-watch, and let Brighton happen around you. There’s no tidy way to summarise it. That’s sort of the point. It’s like trying to describe a particularly vivid dream involving glitter, drag queens, and Victorian ironwork.
Two Hours in Brighton means you’ve met a king who built an eastern fantasy palace by the sea, walked through an art installation disguised as a city centre, dodged a seagull, nearly adopted a vintage leather jacket, and resisted the gravitational pull of a fourth espresso. You’ve wandered from pebbled beach to printmaker’s stall to record shop to Regency architecture and somehow ended up with sand in your shoes and possibly a temporary tattoo. Two Hours in Brighton is a mood, a mess, a masterpiece. You won’t have seen it all. But that’s just another reason to come back with better shoes and more time. Preferably when the sun’s out. Or even if it’s not. Brighton doesn’t really care. And that’s why you’ll love it.
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