Follow My Tracks

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…

Taking advantage of a warm summers night I went to the local playground that La Porte was becoming. I picked my way across a different section of the waste grounds that surrond the tin structure, gazing in through some tumble-down, slate roof buildings, but I had come out to do some macro work and so didn’t want to wander too far in.

I enetered down the creaking, dusty steps of the refinery, the dust falling to the floor sounding like whispers from under the stairs. The inside was bathed in a golden afternoon light that gave the place a surreal dreamy feel, but one that could quickly turn to nightmare as the darkness flooded out from the corners as the sun retreated over the horizon.

I crept into a new part of the site that I had missed last time and side by side in two wire cages stood great metal beasts. Their small black eyes narrowed on me and they stood perfectly still though holes in the wire made it look as if they had grown arms and tried to force themselves free. I wanted to photograph them quick before they moved but my macro would not do them justice. I tip-toed away.

There are a lot of tiny details that are deserving of attention and tonight was just the tip of the iceberg.

TTFN

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.

So Fridays – the day of the week that during term time is taken up with study and class and time spent in dark rooms with my hand immersed in chemicals. But now term is over and there are many long Fridays that lay ahead. A few of them are already behind and have been spend doing some constructive things (like sleeping) and slightly less constructive things (they’re too rude to type). But today I got up and felt that I had to achieve something greater. I don’t usually explore on my own but Leybourne Grange by all accounts was a low key place and doable on a day on ones own.

A foot path leads you to the site and after looking left, the right, then left again, I was over the fence and into the woods. The impressive thing about the grange it its scale, not in style or interest but the site’s vast size. It is a series of villas connected by a long looping drive all around the site. It is situated so close to the motorway that I am surprised that you cannot hear the traffic roaring past. There is only silence broken by birds in these woods… Or so I thought.

I made my way through a few of the outter buildings, taking my time yet aware of the fact that I was on my own, more or less in the middle of nowhere, and then breaking the silence was a crack. A gun shot? I couldn’t place the sound. I ignored it and went back to poking my nose into dark rooms. There it was again… I had finished in the building I was in and took a wonder in the direction I believed the manor house to be in. It should be noted that there is a girls school on site, on the other side of the site even, but when parents collect their children the drive out takes them right past the manor house. I crept round the outter drive to the long avenued pathway, lined with tall pine trees that I know would lead me up to the manor. I kept behind a line of trees but about half way up one has to dart across the path to keep the cover. As I did, I looked up and there was a person in hi-vis with a white hard hat and others walking around the site.I had been told that the building had been covered in scaff and yet I saw none – maybe this explained the cracks… Maybe not.

As I drew closer, still in cover, I could see that the manor was a hive of activity and the cars full of children had started to drive past. Damn. This would not be happening today. I packed up as quietly as I could and made my way back to where I had come in, leapt the fence and went back to the car. I had wanted to see the manor but there would be other, quieter days. As I walked I thought more on something that had occurred to me as I had crept along the tree lined avenue. It had reminded me of the stately homes my parents had dragged me to as a child on our holidays to Kent. Overgrown yes, but still holding something of its former grandness.

The manor house is a grand place and the grounds are vast and then it occurred to me, if history had been a little different, if this had remained the grand house full of treasure and not a hospital for those that society considered unsightly, then it may well have become somewhere that the National Trust might have taken on. What do organizations like the NT and English Heritage do but take the things we love, history, preservation, dusty objects, and the love of being able to have a nose in whats left of how others have lived, and present it to the masses? What makes urbex different? When asked we take the moral high ground on our activities, we go to document, experience and aid in preservation through our photos and yet most shudder at the idea of going to a stately home. Are they not the same?

What’s the difference? There are two main ones that I can see. One is that visitng museums, stately homes, castles is  socially acceptable, and whether we like to admit it or not, we like to separate ourselves from that mainstream of society through our activities, to be given odd looks and know that other people don’t quite know what to think of us or where to place us. We can get permission to walk round the stately homes, you pay a fee and walk freely. There is no rush. So we are adrenaline junkies, hooked on a ‘sport’ just like every climber, caver or other person that dares to think beyond the end of their road. Many explorers shun organizations like Sub Brit who cross those interesting lines of taking people places that few people would ever think to go to or know exist and yet they do so with permission… Why? Because we feel it’s conformist, stifled and again removes the thrill of making your way into a site where you know you might get caught.

The other difference is urbex is dirty. We like the filth, the mud, dust and cobwebs that slowly cover the sites we see. A museum, whilst it’s aims in part may be similar to our own and we use them to justify what we do, is a clean, near sterile place that separates us from our past and objects from history. We like to touch, to feel and experience the tactile like a child with its fingers covered in paint. There is something child like in coming home covered in dirt and scratches, knowing you have been somewhere naughty and got away with it.

An empty house tucked away in the forest promised a good day out. It is commonly known as Potters Mansion and relativly little seems to be known about the people that once lived in such a grand setting in the Sussex Countryside.

My dear Rikke has done a bit of a search and come up with the following:

“The history
Potters Manor House was built in 1904 by the classical architect Hugh Jokin. It nestles well hidden near the village of Nevertell just off the A40999 in Hampnex. The last inhabitants were a family of artisans and potters and for some reason, that we will probably never know, left the house with all its contents including many paintings and full wardrobes of clothes.http://www.amazon.co.uk/Book-Orchid-…/dp/0903554003

Possibly more history
I’ve done a bit of googling, and think I might have found out more about the people living in this magnificent house. Spread around the house are sketches, layouts and even early prints of the book “A book of Orchid Paintings” by James F. Walford. That name seems to be appearing several places, so I googled him and wow, looks like he actually had his book printed:

Furthermore I found some family history. James Francis Walford y de Borbón was born in 1913 at Paris, France. He is the son of Leopold Walford and Cristina de Borbón y de Muguiro, Duquesa de Marchena. He married Muriel Whitley (born 1906) in 1957 at London, England. I think this might be the right James F. Walford, as there are loads of French books spread around the house – matching the fact he is born in Paris and of a French family.”

A mere 90 minutes from the front door, but suprisingly hard to pin point. I overshot the first attempt to find it by about two miles, but a short trip up the road, skirt the edge of one field and we stood there infront of the house.

It at first doesn’t look that big but once you clamber over the pile of rubble and are through the front door the size of the place hits you. It is a warren of old, overgrown rooms, filled with paintings with eyes that follow you through the house.

Pieces of pottery and china lay scattered along side empty drinks bottles. Holes have started to appear in the floor and the damp and mould is well set in. A great many books lay in piles around the house and hint at the lives of the former residents. I can find hundreds of art post cards but not a single photogragph. Are these portraits of the people that used to live here that lay around the room? The lay in odd places and their eyes follow you as you walk around, unable to do anything to prevent the decay, you feel as if they should scream and tear themselves from the canvas in an attempt to save their home and see us off.

A broken record player stands crooked in the sitting room, a leg is broken, the arm extends, feeling for the music that isn’t there – equally banished to a silent existence. Exploration is about the silence, the quietness that is only broken by footsteps. We arrive and leave in silence and this is maintained through our stay less we are caught and here even in such deep countryside, we are cautious about breaking the peace that has fallen over the house.

In a bedroom we find objects that hint at the woman who may have left here, loosing her hair, clining to the past and now unable to see her favourite artworks in person, has nothing but the post cards that hint of neither texture or brushstroke. Her house would have started to crumble around her. The luxurey in which she and her family had once lived had turned to ruin and imprisoned her.

We photograph the remains of lives and of times that are more than forgotten. Not all exploration is a look at epic buildings. The Potters Mansion is an intimate look at scraps. It is more detailed and colourful than a great turbine hall and tells a more personal story. It is more voyeristic. The owners are long since dead and we now rifle through their home.

I photographed, always aware that this was a very personal trespass and yet I could not stop myself. The grey clouds rolled in across the blue sky and darkness drew in. It was time to leave.