Follow My Tracks

I love North Wales. In particular I love the National Park. This weekend I headed up into the hills with Simon for a weekend of climbing. We had a great Saturday trekking up to a snowy peak and then down for a few beers in the bar.

Dinorwic Quarry is a place that has held my fascination for a long time. Its sheer scale and the inconceivable ammount of power that has been used to shatter a side of a mountain is terrifying. I had walked through the quarry before at quite a low level to check out some bolted climbs, but recently had seen some photos of ruined buildings on the higher terraces. I wanted to take a look. I had planned to explore these previously but was usually thwarted by the changeable weather.

At first this morning seemed to be the same. Grey, raining and not really suitable weather to go scrambling up slate slopes at reasonable heights. We went to Pete’s in Llanberris and had a pint of tea. Do we call it off? I look at the sky and it’s brightening up. I had a good feeling. No – we would push on and see what happened.

We  parked over the road and followed the track up into the quarry. One pit had been drained. The dead trees in its depths stripped white. A building that looked too new made us think that it had been drained on purpose. The slate of the quarry is far from grey. Great streaks of colours flow through and in the sun, the place has a stunning, if unpolished beauty.

We walked deeper into the quarry. Tramways, crumbling stairs and well worth paths up scree slopes led us higher and higher. The number of ruined buildings became apparent the higher we got and the task that I had set myself appeared to become nigh on impossible, but I wanted to push on.

Persistance paid off. We found ourselves on a terrace with half a dozen buildings that were mostly in tact. A quick examination showed that we had struck gold and these were the buildings I had seen.

The biggest of these buildings was a living guest book. On wooden pegs hung the remnants of coats and pairs of boots stood on the bench. The walls had been covered in people’s names carved into the shallow white plaster. I documented it but couldn’t bring myself to add my own.

I walked the terrace and examined every building. The temperature had started to drop and I felt my tripod freezing in my hands. The bad weather that had been predicted for the day had started to arrive and it was time to leave.

We picked our way down the slopes and stairs and back to the valley floor. The rain swept down in sheets and the slate turned black.

The dirt and dust of the ground floor made me think that animals came here alive, doomed for the cold stores but alive at the begging. We stepped into the dark. A scramble down a crumbling wet wall and we were on the floor. Soft under foot, wet now with water from the leaky roof, but once with blood? It wasn’t beyond belief.

We stepped through some ancient arch that marked the edge of one world and the start of another. This supposedly hidden gem of London greets us with a morbid handshake.

Two lift shafts and an endless maze of fridges that would have once served the main market above. I took out my flash and did some test shots. The lighting was too even and made the place look too flat. I took out the trusty Tesco torch and began to light paint, getting rough, ill lit, pictures that suited the place that much better.

The three of us ventured upwards. There were things very much alive in this place. You would see them in the corner of your eye or hear them scurry across the floor. Rats? You’re never more than six feet away from a rat in London. Here I’d be willing to be it’s only 1 or 2 feet if you’re lucky.

We worked our way up the higher floors but couldn’t reach the top floor. The stairs creaked as we approached them and decided that it wasn’t worth going any further forward. We retreated to the ground floor, walked through the main area of the market and up onto the roof, walking through the offices of the market, something about how the floor boards had been pulled up reminded me of somewhere in Belgium. From the roof one can abseil into the city’s biggest asset and biggest weakness. We did not venture in.

We hid in the shadows. The street out side is a bit of an informal taxi rank and as we wanted to leave a cabby had pulled up and started to eat his tea. This was one place we didn’t really want to be seen leaving. Whilst its not massive, it’s a nice central explore and I’d like to do a return visit. We heard him fire up his engine, roaring in a way that only London cabs can. He left and so did we.

A return trip to Battersea. Thrown together in a lastminute.com fashion. I arrived. So did the others. I had brought the medium format. The Bronny. I wanted to shoot the place on film. It turned out to be a larger excursion but we thought we’d still go in the same way and we did. Quickly – trying not to let the heras rattle.

Once inside we noticed there was something wrong. There was noise in the usually silent structure. We walked over to the ledge and peered down into the turbine hall. There was a truck parked there and men working. Do we continue? We had too. The hardest part was past but it is hard to make a little noise when there are quite so many of you and its a space in which the smallest noise carries.

We ascended to Control Room A by the usual route and took our time to take shots. Onwards to the roof. I wasn’t going to climb the chimney on such a cold night. My hands were already frozen and I hadn’t brought my gloves with me. Patch, Dave and Nebby carried two long ropes up to the base of the white chimney. Four of us stood on the roof and waited. There was a crack as the ropes hit the deck. It was ear splitting and terrifying.

Slowly three figures descended over the scaff and down the long rope. The rope was pulled down and rescues and we headed back towards the stairs. The boys at the top had seen sec walk past the corner of the building. We descended the stairs and thought we had heard people talking. There it was again. Had we been seen? Had we been heard? Were we busted? No! It was two other explorers.

We all headed to Control Room A and chewed the fat. I was so cold. We had to leave. A decision was made that it wasn’t worth trying for B Side tonight. Not with the men working in the hall. Another night. The station wasn’t going anywhere.

We down-climbed our way to the ground floor and hid in the shadows. My finger tips were numb and I was glad we were leaving. The call was made. Run through the herras and head towards the fence. Just run. We did. We knew the direction to head in and we moved swiftly, yet as we approached the fence, I heard someone shout ‘RUN!’ and then another strange voice shouted ‘Oi!’.

That was all I needed to hear. I pulled the tripod close and gave it everything I had. To the heras and slide under it, to the hoarding and up the beams. Bag on my back and tripod thrown over after me. Back out the way we have come. Were we all there? Yes.

How close were we? Ali was last over and he believed that he had been a mere ten metres away from the hoarding as we cleared it. ‘No time for tea and cakes’ was the cry as we leapt into cars and sped away into the night.

There was a rendezvous a short while later at a safe distance where passengers were exchanged and details shared. That was all a bit too close.