Brighton loves Its fishing heritage—but not its fish

On Thursday, May 8th, Brighton & Hove lit a solemn beacon to mark the 80th anniversary of VE Day. Veterans stood beside community members and hymns filled the salty air as tribute was paid not only to soldiers and land army workers, but to fishermen.

Among them stood Neil Messenger, owner of Sea Haze Fishmongers, a long-standing fishmonger in the Fishing Quarter at Brighton's seafront. He also operates Sea Haze Shellfish Bar with his son Jack Messenger. Neil has been involved in fishing since he was 14 and took over the Sea Haze shop in 2003, continuing a family tradition of selling locally caught fish.

The beacon was meant as a gesture of gratitude to those who once kept the nation fed during wartime. And yet, just three days later, Neil was back behind his stall at the Mackerel Fayre—selling mostly imported fish to a public largely unaware, or uninterested, in the story behind his catch.

“It was quite nice to do, honoured to do it,” Neil says of the VE Day ceremony. But he isn’t one for grand gestures. “Fishermen, we’ve got our own life… it’s not easy to take a day off.”

Now nearing 60, Neil still goes out most mornings before daybreak aboard his modest boat—far smaller and less equipped than the industrial trawlers that dominate today’s fishing industry.

“We all run single-person boats,” he says. “And we don’t earn a living unless we catch a bit of fish.”

For those who clapped at the Peace Statue, there’s little understanding of just how fragile that living is. While Brighton celebrates with seafood festivals like the Mackerel Fayre—which Neil sometimes misses when the weather permits fishing—he notes, “If we’re fishing, it’s hard to sort of come down here.” The reality behind the catch is stark.

“The English, they’re not into food at all,” he says. “We don’t eat good fish. We don’t spend good money on good food.”

According to Seafish, around 70% of seafood consumed in the UK is imported, even as much of what British fishermen catch is shipped abroad. Cod and haddock—the traditional cornerstones of British fish and chips—are prime examples. As of 2023, over 90% of cod and 85% of haddock sold in the UK were imported, primarily from Iceland, Norway, and Russia.

Nicholas Röhl, co-founder of Fishlove—a global photographic campaign aimed at ending unsustainable fishing—confirms the industry’s shift: “The industry has moved away from wild-caught fish to farmed fish… it’s all industrialized.”

His Brighton-based sushi restaurant, Moshimo, embraces this approach by focusing on sustainably sourced and primarily farmed species.

“The future is restorative aquaculture,” Röhl explains, “using low-trophic species like sea urchins, oysters, and sea cucumbers in an integrated multi-trophic system (IMTA).”

In stark contrast to Neil’s view from the beach, Röhl believes that “the change will happen at the top… it’s the system that needs to change, not the individual consumer.”

Instead of buying fresh Dover sole from Neil, most people opt for defrosted prawns from the supermarket freezer aisle.

“If we [sold] Dover soles locally, we’d sell three or four per week—if you’re lucky,” explains Neil.

Meanwhile, Dover sole exports from the UK topped nearly 1,000 tonnes in 2022, according to HMRC trade statistics.
That disconnect was lost on few during the VE Day ceremony.

Reverend Hazell reminded the crowd:
“You might think you’ve got a fish and chip shop around the corner and head there on a Friday night, never giving a second thought to how the fish gets there. Frankly, if the fish and chips aren’t there tomorrow night, it’s not the end of the world. But during the Second World War, men like Neil went out into British waters, fished, and risked their lives to feed the nation and support our armed forces.”

But today, Neil sells very little of what he actually catches. Cod and haddock—the post-war staples—are no longer found in his nets.

“We don’t catch cod anymore. We don’t catch Plaice no more,” Neil says. “Everything’s changed. The seasons are not there.”

Climate change has drastically altered local waters. According to the Marine Climate Change Impacts Partnership (MCCIP), rising sea temperatures and shifting salinity are disrupting spawning patterns and pushing cold-water species further north. Lobsters, once common off the Sussex coast, have virtually disappeared since 2017.

Neil’s primary catches now include sole and whelk. But even these are mostly shipped overseas. More than 95% of the whelk caught in the UK is exported, and nearly 70% of that goes to South Korea, where it’s considered a delicacy.

Meanwhile, large commercial trawlers sweep up what’s left of the sea’s stock—though recent bans on bottom trawling along parts of the Sussex coast have tried to limit the damage. Still, Neil knows where the power lies.

“They’ve got the money, the tech, the quota. We’ve got a plotter,” he shrugs.

He explains how one trawler can haul in 2,500 tonnes of mackerel in a single day. Neil? On a good day, he might bring in a few boxes of sole—worth around £500 each.

According to Niel, what adds insult to injury is the endless bureaucracy.

“We fill in the app every day... then the market fills it in again and sends it to the same people,” he said.

Jim Partridge, who’s worked at La Poissonnerie for over six decades, echoes the frustration.

“We’re forever answering the same questions to different agencies—it’s like fishing under four governments,” said Partridge.

Brighton fishmonger Michael Bish of MCB Fisheries agrees:
“It’s just constant paperwork for the same fish,” says Bish.

And the sea itself is changing. “The sand is muddier,” Neil observes. “It’s sticky. If that’s in the water, going through your gills, you find it hard to breathe. It’s like living in a smoggy city.”

Dr. Corina Ciocan, a marine biologist at the University of Brighton, confirms his account. She explains that sediment disturbance—combined with chemicals from untreated sewage—is deteriorating coastal marine health.

“All the chemicals locked in the sediment… are spread all over the coast,” she says.

Still, there’s a disconnect between scientific institutions and those living the crisis daily.

“They’re in the best position to give us data,” Ciocan says of local fishermen. “But there is not very clear communication.”

What remains is a paradox. Brighton celebrates its fishing heritage with banners, statues, and memorials—but often ignores the people still living that legacy today.

“We have to buy fish in because people don’t want the fish that you catch. They want what they want,” says Neil. “You know, you could have the best local fish, but they’ll still ask for salmon or something farmed. So you end up buying what sells, even if it’s not yours.”

At the Mackerel Fayre, the sun was shining. Stalls buzzed with grilled seafood and live music. Children laughed, and tourists snapped photos. Neil and his family, flanked by friends and fellow fishers, smiled through it all.

But come dawn, Neil would be back at sea.

“You don’t know what’s happening. You don’t want to. You get up, catch what you catch,” says Neil. “You try and learn what you can… I just carry on doing what we’re doing,”