Follow My Tracks

This was a bit of sneaking round the side of the very modern and very open factory and its front of house, along a tall brick wall, black with damp and mould and through the back of the site, under a hole in a mesh fence and across a very open, flat piece of waste land to the space between two long buildings. The old on the left and the new on the right as we looked down the grey space.

We looked through an open door and found one. Wide open. But there were noises inside. Fans that still ran in the empty factory that kept us on our toes. We could hear people in the building across the alley. This is not somewhere we wished to linger for too long.

We swept round the place on tip toes. There were boxes of old pieces stacked high and rotting rolls of card that would have been used to wrap and dispatch them. Long dusty table lay empty.

We were getting towards the end of our trip. There would be one more stop before we headed to Calais. We de-kitted and headed back to the cars.

I think of all the places that we went to on this little jolly, this one un-nerved me the most. I’m not sure why, probably a combination of a dog being soclose you could almos smell it and from the sounds it was making, it certainly knew that we were there. Also the feeling that the place was not empty. It was odd considering that it was probably the most stripped of sites that we had visited.

I walked on soft feet the whole wa around. Therehad been bad attempts to divide the building into different flats and too many ways that should have been linked were cut off by breze block walls as if someone was trying to heard me into a tight and cold corner.

It had been a Terberculosis santiorium and acces was an easy hop through an un-boarded window, the only hard thing about it was that several houses stood only a few hundred years from the place.

I was not sorry to leave the place. The ghosts were definatly there and they were watching us.

Chateau Miranda, a place I had heard a lot about and seen all the photos that flickr could provide me with. I was excited. We drove into the night and parked in the small village. We tried to quietly slip away but some dogs heard us arrive and made a racket loud enough to wake the sleepy place.

Lights came on and people appeared. What were we doing? Good question. Certainly not making our quiet entrance. Seeing friends was the line. Of course in such a tiny place, the old man and woman who had appeared would know everyone in the whole six houses. We checked that we could leave the landy and the car where we had. They nodded and took the dogs back in doors and watched us walk into the dark.

What followed was a muddy scramble that I’d rather forget but eventually we made the top of this large bank and up a temporary set of steel steps and down into the building. We began the task of looking for somewhere to sleep and once again headed to the basement. We found a tiled room with its windows in one piece. We rolled out our sacks and sat by torch light drinking whisky and talking shit until the early hours.

I woke and was colder than I had been the night before. It is only in the day light that I could suddenly appreciate the size of the place. It was vast and its crumbling remains only hinted at the beauty that had once been there. The place had slowly been stripped. Floor boards lifted to get the copper piped and marble taken from a set of stairs to leave only a smooth white slide.

The structure itself was mostly sound and had obviously had a variety of uses from a farm, to beautiful stately home and finally as an activity camp for children. From one of the many spires we gained a great view over the valley to a neigbourning and similarily designed castle.

It was as we stood outside taking some external photos that the man came across us. He appeared to be a game keeper. We had seen and heard the many pheasants that lived around the building. I thought I had heard a car earlier in the morning but had dismissed the idea as my imagination or the road not being too far away.

A few went in to retrieve the bags and we were asked to leave and he pointed the way down.

It is a very beautiful place we said.

It used to be was his reply.

The descent was easy due to their being and gently inclining drive with a fence and gate at the bottom that could be easily walked down. 

Having left Salve Mater, it was time to eat. Pascal had recommended a resturant. We couldn’t find it. We did fine the Carefour and a resturant attached to it which advertised steak and chips for 7 Euros. We were hooked. A quick tour round the supermarket for food for breakfast We went round the buffet and i had my first beer of the trip. A small one, but it was nice to sit and eat warm food.

Winch had a half bottle of wine with his meal and this set him off. I cant even remember the jokes but i remember people being it stitches around the table. Furry gloves spring to mind.

Then it was time to re-pack the Landy. An event of reasonable regularity as it had a lot of stuff in it and we did not want to be diggin through it on our arrival at the village with hid in the shadow of Chateau Miranda.

The someone offered Winch 2 Euro to throw himself into a hedge. Picture the dark car park, illuminated by the neon signs of the supermarket sign and then Winch, running at full pelt through the empty car park and jumping the same way a pole volter would jump, but without the pole, straight into the hedge that quickly and seamlessly devoured him.

He head appeared and then the rest of his body. He was unscathed. The hedge was not.

Once all packed up it was time to move on. Just over two hours to Miranda…

After a failed attempt at Stella in Luven, we quickly moved on. Lots to do and not enough time to get pissed off over one failed site. There were workmen in by the only decent looking access with pieces of wood in a van. I got the impression that they were doing some serious sealing up.

As we drove up the drive, bumpy as it was, to Salve Mater there was an airing court shelter than reminded me of the assylums in the south east. Same design. Same lonely, dirty, wind beaten feel. We parked up on the main drive. Some of these buildings are in use. A nursey operates out of one and an artist lives in another. We walked to the informed access point. A window that we were told would be open. It wasnt. There was a stick jammed between the frame. We gave it some effort. No effect. Another dud? No.

Winch and GoblinMerchant went for a bit of a recce. I took a wonder. There was a tingling crunch. Broken glass. I walked back to the car. Goblin merchant appeared clutching his writst through the sleeve of his jacket and there was the tell tale streaks of deep red.

He had been applying pressure to a frame, slipped and put his hand through the frame. I delved into my little boot and dug out the first aid kit. This had seen better days but it would do. The others went for a further look around and I patched GM up. Melonin, plaster strip and a small bandage did the job.

In the mean time, people had found a way in. Photographer  Pascal Baetens has lived in the administration block in 2003. We went in the back, into an old kitchen and a block with a leaky roof. Empty beds stood in odd rooms. The Chapel of Rest, complete with slab and the back door to the chapel. At the time I didn’t realise that this rear block was connected the the main admin block.

Once people had had their fill we headed back to the cars.  As we were leaving, Pascal was standing in one of his windows, examining large photographic prints. Furtle sweet talked the man to letting us in and soon we found ourselves standing int he front entrance of the admin block which he was preparing for an exhibition of his work. Mainly photos of nude women.

We all appeared to look stunned as he opened the chapel door. We had a chat about the evil urbexers that break into his building. He’s not so fussed about the empty ones but is tired of boarding up windows, and then it was time to leave.