Follow My Tracks

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.

It rained all day. Not a summer shower or a dramatic thunderstorm, but grey sheet rain that soaked everything and was cold on the skin. I sat at my desk in the hope that it would brighten up by the time six o’clock came around. And then it did. Jonboy met me after work and we bombed it down to Kent in the warm glow of the evening. Richborough power station stood there, unmoving and uncaring about the two small, fleshy beings that wanted to have a poke around.

Access was easy once we had avoided a rather deep, scummy, trench. I could not keep my feet dry. We had been told that there was sec on site and had seen hi-vis in the hut by the gate as we drove past, but after a few moments, it became apparent that we were the only ones there. We were undisturbed through our visit, apart from a few large birds that appeared to be nesting in the chimney, kestrels maybe? A reason that might prevent further demolition of the site.

In contrast to Thorpe Marsh, a power station of similar style and design, the flood gates to the cooling towers remained closed and water sat several feet deep in their bottom. What lived beneath its dark surface? Did I fancy a swim to find out? No. Several of the shed were firmly secured as were the buildings that lay at one end of the skeletal turbine room. On a casual trip like tonight, climbing and crawling were off. This was a relaxed summers night out where I sought nothing but the sheer enjoyment of a place and not the usual adrenaline rush.

Too often I feel that unless the site is somewhere you have visited several times, we rush to explore as much of it as possible and do not take the time to simply sit in a place. The high octane fuelled explores such as Battersea or The Underground provide a very different type of experience, one which is altogether more wired and passes in something of a blur that even on contemplative reflection, is hard to slow down and digest, it simply happened. Explores like Thorpe Marsh, Steetly or Richborough do not try and rush you through like some cheap attraction, rather they allow you the time and the space to potter about, sit for a while and soak up a place. On this warm summer night that’s what we did. Small details, an empty cable drum, gain much greater attention with a little more time.

We looped the site, avoiding the live substation and cameras the other side of a sharp looking palisade fence, taking time to speak and to photograph and then we left the way we had come, both feeling like summer had finally fully bloomed and that these were a taste of the fruits of long evenings to come. We sat on a kerb to de-kit and pack away, watched the last of the deep red sun fall below the horizon and left the way we had come

Richborough like all places of industry that have been brought to their knees, partially demolished and forgotten in this country, still has that atmosphere of power, and a refusal to be completely erased, but a sadness too. It is tucked away into a corner of Kent, and careful tree planting means that close passing motorists probably do not realised it is there until its several miles away, eyes distracted more with the harsh lights of the subway attached to the petrol station than the giant structures that by the time we left lay in near darkness but for the red lights that marked their location for passing aircraft.