Follow My Tracks

It takes *something* to push you out of a rut and tonight I felt I got that. The need to get over the fear that grows when you haven’t done something for a while. The breaking down the the mental barriers that our minds construct to stop us from potentially doing foolish things, but that also limit us creatively.

We started in the familiar warm place – a gentle breaking of the shell of fear, a slight tap-tap-crack, a small rush, just in case you find that you cannot handle the full flood that would come from doing something more serious. Temple Court at sunset. We sat and watched the great golden orb slowly sink towards the horizon behind the dome of the white stone building.

I had come from the exhibition at the Aldwych, taking advantage of the opportunity to see the ticket hall whilst open to the pubic, being one of the places that I am uncertain I could ever see without it.

We climbed down before we lost the light but by the time we reached the other side of the hoarding the sun was gone, and after a quick drink over the road, it was dark outside.

We strode the streets of the West End. What to do… A few things we held in mind. Cavendish, Silken, a few others we had hints and vague ideas about and yet the streets were full of people a lot longer into the night than we had planned. We walked the Embankment aware of what lay beneath and listened to the sighing of the river.

We recce’d a spot that we had been warned about – but the spikes on the particular fence were rather large and we had decided that they were better left for a night where a well placed sling would allow us to make light work of the place.

We took up New Court – a tiny gem in the city that Hydra has been tipped off about – easy in – stairs up and the stunning view that I never grow tired of as the city unfolds beneath your feet. We sat there and ust watched it. Torn between the urge to experience and absorb and photograph that I might share it with people, I snapped a few pictures and looked at the lights around us. Only when up high can you appreciate how small a city London is. Thousands of years of a want to live by the river have created this compact and beautiful jumble.

Time marched on and we wanted to pull in one more site before the sun rose. It would not be long now. Down and over the boundary and walking to the Strand, we approached the Silken Hotel. It is a building that I have passed more times that I can think about in the car, on the bus and on foot and yet never really notice it. It has been under construction for as long as I have been back in the Big Smoke and the crane stands towering above it.

Again access was easy and we stealthy made our way to the centre of the building where the body of the crane pierced the concrete floors and speared into the sky. We stepped out in the void and grabbed the white, slowly rusting metal.

We climbed the ladders. This was my first crane and my overly sized tripod, the love of my life and most useful piece of kit was getting in the way. Only today I had looked at getting something smaller. The slow change in the type of exploration that enthralled me demanded new equipment, but I slowly maneuvered on.

The last few ladders are vertical where as the lower ones are at a slight angle to make the climbing easier. With the change I noticed the unconscious tightening of my grip on every rung. We were above the roof level now and it is hard to tell when you are approaching the top. Suddenly we were there and my position became an awful mix of raw terror and absolute pleasure. I could not bring myself to get too close to the edge but did not want to allow my fear to freeze me in place.

I was certain I could feel the crane swaying slightly and it made my stomach roll and my heard beat like a fury trying to break free from my chest and scream to the city below. This was revelation. This is why I do this. This is why I will continue to do this. Dawn started to break over the sleeping city, the revelers that lay about or leaned against bus stops wondering whether they would make the last night bus or end up on the first of the day. It was time to head home, but like climbing a mountain the journey out is as important as the journey in.

We descended level after level, back into the hotel. I watched Hydra ahead and then it came… The rough, gruff shout in a slightly African voice “What are you doing..?”

She responded – we were here to take photos and didn’t mean any harm. There were steps and I quickly descended. Hydra stood there on the concrete the other side of the void. The man was no where to be seen. Quickly I made the leap. The guard had bolted, we assumed for the office to tell his boss or make a phone call. We made a swift exist and sped up the Strand and when we felt we were a safe distancea away, strolled to the station. It was 4:30am. I could get the first train home.

I sat in the carriage and watched the sun come up, warming my face and I walked down the hill to my house. It was a new day.

This weekend had been odd. I had found myself looking for things to do up North and stumbled across a report for a place that I hadn’t been to near Leeds. I had the urge to expand out and venture further afield. Plans are coming together for another trip to Urbex.EU but I cant afford to be there every weekend as I might like, there is so much there and yet I feel I haven’t properly tapped what this country has to offer. The UK doesn’t stop at the borders to the South East.

So I loaded the car and headed to Adel. The route seemed familiar. As I approached the site I realized why. I had been there before. The recent reports had made the site seem so different and open that I hadn’t spotted it. Last time I had been seen off by a resident on the other side of the site and walked off by a security gaurd who had appeared out of nowhere. The site had a lot of media exposure and so was periodically secured. A glance at the heavy metal shutters told me that I wasnt going to get in. It was odd to retrace old steps.

The next day would be no better. I had arranged to meet Jon’s parents. A friend who’s been dead for some years now and I was hit with the sudden realisation of how time had rushed past left me feeling odd. I was meeting David later in the afternoon and headed to Steetly. There’s no way to fail here and yet I remembered this as one of my early explores where I eagerly scrambled over the crumbled concrete. I walked now around the site, knowing what was where in the ruins and looking at what had changed, more of the site collapsing in on itself, more rubbish stacking in piles or filling the giant basins that had been sunk into the earth.

More can be learnt of our values from what we discard than what we hoard in our homes and Steetly now stands as a monument to our idea of the disposable and the dispensable. Everything from toys, mattresses and soiled nappies litter the dirt. The site itself half demolished and plans for its redevelopment forever stalling. A show of a clean up was made before I had ever stepped foot in the place and had not progressed further since. I took the few photos that I wanted to. No need now to snap a thousand images away. A select five or six and I was done. I walked back to the car, the sun beating down on the broken stone and the dust whipped up by the odd gust of wind. I had no need to come back here again. I drove away…

Sometimes it’s nice to stay close to home. Like the inhabitants of any city, it is very easy to overlook the gems on the doorstep in favour of more distant sites, the journey to which, influence our experience of the explore. The prolongd build up that comes from hours or days of driving, to a site gives them greater importance due to the effort applied in getting there, which is not to say that you will get in.

But on a warm, lazy Sunday, whilst nursing a hang over that lurked just behind my eyes, local was just what I needed. The site is tucked far away off the road that you wouldnt know it was there if you just drove past and it is a walk on. Recent stripping by travellers or chavs has led to parts of large machines now stripped naked and their inner cladding and workings are on show for all to see and whilst not pristine in nature, there is a lot of industrial beauty to be seen.

The site is not large and it is the little details that give it an edge that make it worth a trip or two. Inside the main building it was cool and any noise travels far. The wind rattles the tin roof and loose doors. Another group of explorers were there and we bumped into them. We trod carefully as recently there had been trouble inside where some explorers had met a group stripping out the metal and thought it best to leave, especially as one of them was reaching for his phone and eyeing up the camera equipment lustfully. Today there was no such trouble.

“The largest known deposit of mineral [Fuller's Earth] in the UK extends for some 9km between Redhill and Godstone. The western section has been extensively worked, but production at Redhill ceased in 1996. There are two further important deposits near Woburn in Bedfordshire and near Faringdon in Oxfordshire. Smaller reserves exist in West Sussex and Hampshire.”

The mineral was refined and processed and used in a variety of industrial and domestic products such as cat litter and old bags of various brands adourne the walls. Today the processing plant lies in neglected ruin, the giant tumblers that would have worked the raw extract into its fine dust lay still and clutters of spiders have woven great webs up and down their drive chains.

In all a quick visit but some great shots and greater potential. A return visit is a must.

TTFN

Last night, after a day in Kent, I went into town to catch up with Brad, an Urbexer and an academic that I greatly respect. We had plans to go and do something high but having both had a long week, fell into a bar in Covent Garden that one would walk past if you hadn’t fallen down the stairs and up to the bar. We drank some rather heavy cocktails and chewed the fat. Love, sex, sex, sex and then urbex were the topics of conversation. We sat with Mike, another guy from the department and eventually we experienced that horrible moment when the lights come up, you realize how drunk you and your friends are and have to decide what to do next…

Food! What does for one do for food in Central London at about 1am? Mike knew the answer – it could only be the Golden Arches. Off we headed to Tottenham Court Road and stuffed ourselves with greasy mechanically retrieved meat and chips.

We took a slightly windy route towards the food, checking to see if one or two other bars were open alas they weren’t. A crazy idea, Centre Point. No way to scale the outside but what about just walking in and going up the stairs? It was worth a go. Up the stairs and through the glass doors, to the desk at reception and mak the turn right towards the next set of doors. We were cornered by reception. Polite conversation followed. It was closed for the night but we could take the number and get on a guest list… We left.

We crossed the road towards Mc Donalds. This whole area has been torn to pieces through the building of Cross Rail and there in front of the restaurant stood a mini JCB style crane, roughly fenced off with herras. It didn’t take much suggest for the Drunken Brad to tackle the fence and scale to the roof of the cab, then shimmy up the shaft and dangle from the wire cables and then he fell, to re-appear moments later and scale back to this side of the fence. As he did so, the sirens and flashing lights appeared.

They were fast, we suspected the bouncer in Maccy Ds and  Brad found himself in the corner surrounded by three of the Mets finest, questioned and sent on his way. As we walked to the car we discussed the fact that we can climb some of the tallest buildings in the city without being noticed and even if noticed, no one cares. Yet as soon as you enter the West End there is an attempt make a public show over any offence yet the police seem not to realize that no amount of policing will stop an attack on the city we all love and it wont come from a slightly inebriated man who’s decided to climb a onto the roof of a vehicle to entertain the passers by. We will not see it coming and to criminalize the city’s inhabitants and visitors does nothing but inspire an innate distrust of the police. This experience was simply part of the circus that is the West End.

I drove Brad back to his flat in Clapham where we sat and drank tea and talked about his upcoming show. Eventually I looked at the clock – 3AM. Time to head for home. Urbex is sometimes about the small things, the people, the good times, the brutal truth, the attempts to just walk in and maybe be walked out but on the odd occasion it all comes together and just works. Some times though it is just about making an obvious stand, knowing that there will be an obvious back lash. Sometimes it’s time to make a spectacle, if only to remind people that we are there, and we’re not going away.

Another weekend and another house full of guests. Mark and Spadge had arrived last night and we had um-ed and ah-ed about what to do with a day that was set to be pretty nice all told. Kent was high on the agenda. Not only did it have a lot to offer in terms of its variety but from South London, we could get to most of the sites that we wanted to hit up in very little time. Hawkhurst had two sites nearby that we decided to look at.

Babies Castle

Built in 1886 this was the largest children’s home built by Dr Bernado. Nicknamed ‘Babies Castle’ for its turreted appearance, it had 9 key principles:

1. No destitute child refused

2. No Race Barrier

3. No Creed Clause

4. No Physical Disability

5. No Age Limit

6. No Money Promise

7. No Voting

8. No Waiting

9. No Red Tape

A more detailed history of the site and its eventually closure can be found HERE

We slipped through the leaning herras and looked around the site. It was tumble down. Slipping in through an empty window frame we walked our way through the ground floor of the site. The building had been trashed, in total contrast to some of the earlier reports I had seen on the site. We moved quickly through the damp and moldy place that was slowly filling with furniture and a double garage door of all things. There was little here to photograph and the most interesting photos were to be found in the items that lay scattered around the grounds. The upstairs was equally in a state of ruin with swathes of the floorboards missing and gaping wholes in the floor. We walked as far as we could and then made our way back to the car.

Lillesden Girls School

This gorgeous red brick building stands at the other end of Hawkhurst. It stands in what is left of an old country estate. We avoided the obvious way in through the front garden of what would have been a grounds keepers cottage and went in round the back. Entering the building was not a hard thing to do, the house stands open to the elements and to the passing explorers. The house has had a large amount of its slate roof removed and the elements had started to take their toll on the place before the developers erected a tin roof over the building. It still stands in a series of stunning terraced lawns with well cultured trees and wild roses that clamber up the brick walls.

The main sections of the house are held up by temporary poles where great load bearing pillars had been knocked away. They lay in pieces across the floor. These combined with a great mirror set below a huge dome gave the place the feeling of some great temple that had fallen into ruin. Some great magical place that still commanded the demons below or the gods above.

We toured the building from the basement to the roof and the outer wooden buildings that had been built to house the school as it had expanded. Spiders had set in and great webs were strung from corner to corner and a broken fume cabinet made an excellent breeding ground.

Finally we made a stop by the outside swimming pool that had become a huge pond for skaters and water fleas. The feeling set in where we felt that we had seen what we had come to see and and were starting to outstay our welcome. We were sure we had seen someone walking amongst the trees on the lower lawn and a rose bush had drawn blood across the back of my leg. The gods were appeased for our trespass. Packing away we left.