The art of Exploring
Decaying Buildings
By Kent Barker
It’s amazing what you can discover if you only ask. Though sometimes it’s a question of what you
ask and of whom. My father was famous
for getting access to unlikely places or events. As a cub reporter for the Evening News he was
sent to cover a royal birth and found himself corralled with the rest of the
press at the gates of the residence.
Determined to get some colour for his report he went back into the
village and found a van that was due to make a delivery. A word with the driver (and quite possibly
the passing of a ten bob note) secured him a ride in the passenger’s seat. “As I drove up to the front door at
Sandringham …” he began his report,
doubtless to the fury of his rivals.
On another occasion he noticed the local manor house in our village
was up for sale. He’d always been
interested in its history so he called the estate agents for an appointment. I think they were a bit surprised when the
entire family plus dog arrived in an elderly Hillman Minx and, after viewing
the property, proceeded to picnic on the croquet lawn.
Anyway this is a preamble to a recent adventure I had with my son,
Titus. He’s become fascinated with
redundant buildings and has hooked onto a number of ‘urban explorer’ websites where
people gain entry to some of these premises and photograph the ongoing
decay. Often graffiti artists have got
there first and so there may be intricate murals to view.
And they are not always urban.
He found a Victorian mansion just a few miles from my village that had,
apparently, been a girl’s school but had been left to rot since closing in the
1990s. I am, of course, keen to
encourage any interest in history or architecture in my offspring, but am a tad
cautious about trespass and possibly more alert to the dangers of decrepitude
in ruins that a 19 year old may be.
This could go back to the old mill my grandfather owned opposite our
house. The glass in the windows had long gone and the floorboards had rotted
where rain had entered. I had been
taught to walk only on the joists but may have failed to pass on this advice to
an elderly aunt whom I had persuaded to explore with me. I’ll never forget the sight of her leg
dangling through the broken board in between two floor joists as I went to
summon help.
So I approached the local Victorian pile with some caution. I’d been vaguely aware of its existence as I
passed by on the road, but I’d never been up the long drive and seen its true
splendor. The trouble was, ours was not
the only vehicle on the drive. There
were several white vans and a dumper truck.
Clearly it was no longer deserted and, by the look of it, no longer a
romantic ruin.
Titus was all for giving up, but somehow my father’s genes kicked in
and we walked up to a workman on his tea break.
A long conversation ensued about the house’s history and the restoration
project, cumulating in our asking if we might possibly have a quick look
round? Frankly I thought the request
most unlikely to be granted. Health and
safety would be cited, or the need to refer to someone else who wasn’t
immediately available. But no, the man
seemed proud of the work and happy for us to see it.
So we had a thoroughly enjoyable fifteen minutes examining the
partially completed building work. Titus
was particularly thrilled when he found traces of graffiti that hadn’t yet been
plastered over. I was thrilled to see
that someone was putting in the time and energy and above all the money to convert
a redundant mansion rather than knocking it down and starting again. It’s being turned into fourteen flats, but
the main architectural features, towers and turrets, arches and bay windows,
stairs and cellars, are all being retained.
It turns out that it had been built by a banker, Colonel Edward
Loyd, in 1853 who also created a lodge, a stable block and a kitchen garden, as
well as making ‘improvements’ to the
estate including ornamental lakes, an ice house and even a gas works. By 1867 the mansion was described as ‘replete with every comfort which wealth,
good taste, and judicious arrangement can ensure’‘. But the colonel died in 1890 and by the First
World War his home was being used as a hospital for wounded soldiers before,
later, becoming a school.
What luck that we were able to see it arising from
the ashes of decay -thanks to a kind builder who we’d had the temerity to ask!
No comments:
Post a Comment