SubscribeIt 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.
