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.

Patch talked me into it. Was I nervous? YES.

I picked Patch up at Liverpool street and we went for a recce in the car. Both potential targets for the night were very close to one of the throbbing veins of the city and even closer to the boys in blue. We parked the car round the corner from Middlesex Street and went for a pint in the hope it might bestow some Dutch Courrage. It wasn’t enough.

We checked out the cameras and stood waiting at some scaffolding. Patch went first. A sudden burst of people had me stood their waiting. Pretending to be fiddling with my tripod and taking an uninteresting photo by night, I waited until they were gone. I passed up the tripod and the i was up too.

We were on a platform on the level of the first floor. There was no way further into the building but more scaff and a noisy metal stair case took us a few floors up. Each was as useless as the one before and meant we had to make more noise, potentially alerting residents int he flats across the road to our presence.

Fail. Top of the stairs and no way in. Back down them now. Tiptoe past bright lit windows and down a letter into the main complex. Across a court yard and against a board. Some nails in the wood provide very basic foot holds. Patch goes over first. Tripod. And then it was my turn. Up I went… Rip went my jeans. “Bollocks”!

Over I went. The suggestion box was a great foot hold. We were in, but we were looking on the security office and there we both were on the black and white screens. We moved and then we were gone.

We were in and up the stairs. All the stairs. They kept going and going and going. And then there was a breeze. We were close to the top. A small ladder was at the top and I juggled tripod and camera bag to climb to the roof.

It was a cold night with a sharp breeze and a penetrating drizzle. The view was spectacular. To our left was the crane that was being used in the construction and further away Canary Warf. To our right the gherkin and Heron Tower, lit up like Christmas Trees in the dark London night.

We took our photos and walked back down the stairs. Slight confusion around the 5th flood about our entry level as we needed to change stair case but once we reached the ground floor, we let ourselves out of the site’s front door and slipped away into the night.

Post Script

The plan had been to take on Heron Tower on the same night but for my first high place in London, one was enough for me. Patch and I recced a few other London sites for other nights later in the year and then I dropped patch back to Heron. I headed home and he had a succesful entry and exit.