Follow My Tracks

Over the past two nights I have walked myself lame. I have crossed across this city more times than I have fingers, my heels hurt and my toes have blisters and yet the urge to carry on is so strong that I was trying to see if I had any plasters in the kitchen drawer. But today is Sunday. A rest day. An iron-the-shirts-for-work day.

I lay in bed and re-ran the night in my head. The taxi driver parked in the drive of the building I had hoped to conquer, thwarting any hope of making the roof that night and the miles and miles of tunnel routes that we walked about the ground, tapping covers, watching pipes are wires vanish under the ground. How we wanted to be there.

We walked up and down and chatted. Every man hole cover was potential, every vent in the road might give us a glimpse of what lay beneath and at the same time we were trying to look up. Step-step-step-step-step…

It was a night of recce, of exploration, of not knowing where we might end up and what we might do if a lid could be opened. We had a minor breakthrough towards the end of the night but by 2am my feet were screaming. We strode back to the car and drove into the night. Many things lay waiting to be conquered.

It is the realisation that you are driven to be out on those streets, looking, watching, checking behind the hoarding, that we do not view the world in quite the same way as the rest of the people and the easily ignored becomes the absurdly interesting. We are peering behind the curtin, daring to look where others blindly accept that there is something else but they do not need to know it. We break down the 4th wall and explore what may be a new reality or a new way of interacting with this one.

How tied are we to this 9-5, iron-my-shirt, polish-my-shoes, go-to-work life? A littel, but only because at the moment there are bills to pay and I need petrol for the car. Work to live, don’t live to work. Live to explore and see.

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.

Clapham Common – not far from where I am but so close to the city that it overspills and some of that vibrancy lands here. The night was a bit of a fail. The group had turned out to be larger than planned, one place we wanted to see was sealed and undo-able without enough action to make what we do a criminal offence and so that was not happening tonight.

The other – an epic – magical doorway into another world had been sealed and try as we might it was not doable.

We were starting to disband. Two new friends headed to the tube as responses to texts requesting further ideas had come up with absolutely nothing. I was about to walk towards the station myself when someone shouted that they had an idea.

We crept down the dark streets to The Greenway. There lit up like a Christmas tree stood a temple to everything that was great about Victorian architecture and engineering. The temple although having been recently open was now sealed. Through the window we looked at the great machines that were resigned to their fate of pumping the city’s shit through deep brick tunnels.

We stepped out in a light. Silver steel lids glinted in the glow and it is these we approached. A small click and the lid swung back revealing a ladder going down into the pitch black. I could see nothing in that hole. We descended into the dark and with a click the lid was pulled shut over us and torches came on. We came to the first platform and looked around us in with the pale beams of light.

If the building above was a temple this was a tomb… or a prison. Some great monster could have lived here, been lured down by the cities ancient founders and imprisoned, promised a wealth of food and regular sacrifice only to find it is shit on every moment of every day, the great joke on the green-eyed greedy beast.

The occasional rumble only emphasised the idea…

We descended from platform to platform down the great ladder, lifting heavy steel trapdoors and then we were at the bottom. A great smelling pit stood below us and the last ladder vanished into the swill. Across from us a hole and a wooden ladder that with some coercing was pulled across enough for us to reach it. The risk of falling and being swallowed whole was great. Who knew what lay beneath, something with tentacles? Something with teeth?

We found ourselves in the smooth stone tunnel, the floor covered in a black bubbling sludge, the slime of the beast. We walked through the cuverd, carved worm hole for some great unending distance, a labrynth with no turnings, but no goal, dark step after dark step. We walked and lost time and walked more until the decision was made to turn around. The long road back lay before us, and we trudged back to the ladder, crossed the great moat-way and hauled our weary asses up to the hatch and back into the fresh air.

I needed a shower – it was time to go home. I made it to bed at 3:15 and the alarm would go off less than two hours later to wake me for work.

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.

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.