The Edgmond Pillbox

 

This will be a quick one. There's a lot of smaller stuff dotted around that hasn't escaped my notice, but has escaped my immediate attention while I typically favour larger adventures. But I have been making a point of trying to get around to these smaller places, and that has brought me to this delightful pillbox, situated somewhere north of Telford. 

For those of you who don't know, pillboxes are defence structures built in 1940 and 1941 as a precaution for possible enemy invasion. The idea was that people could fire at the enemy through the holes in the walls, from relative safety.

Most of them are at strategic points or outside military bases, which makes this one seemingly an anomaly in that it's plonked in the middle of nowhere, between a field and a country road.

 

But it's actually guarding a bridge. Bridges were points of interest because in the event of a land invasion, rivers and canals would make natural barriers and fallback points. So bridges were protected. Granted this ones easily overlooked because today the "natural barrier" in question looks more like a trip hazard than an obstacle.

 But if we look at old maps, we can see that this was once Edgmond Wharf, and part of the Shropshire Union Canal. It's now a shadow of itself, but in 1940 those pesky Nazis would definitely be taking the bridge, and probably getting gunned down from this pillbox.

 

But it's all hypothetical. As the war chugged on, it became less and less likely that the Nazis would invade the UK (If they had, we probably would have let them keep Telford, let's be honest) and consequently pillboxes were never actually used, except maybe by kids looking for a place to piss, shag or smoke. But this one being so rural, it hasn't even had that! There's a bit of graffiti but that's it.

 

 

I do have a soft spot for pillboxes, but I have to be honest, they aren't visually exciting. There's a door, and then it's just a quick stroll around a hexagonal box looking out through various windows. I can totally understand why these aren't everyone's cup of tea. 

 

 

 

But for me, these represent a visual reminder that there was a time when our safe little island of miserable tea drinkers actually had to contend with the possibility that we might be invaded by a foreign nation. In the UK, we really only hear about it happening to other people. We've never lived it.

Unless you're Celtic and about a thousand years old, but that's another story. 

From a patriotic standpoint, we can look at this as a symbol of just how prepared we were. We overcompensated big time, and the UK is covered in remnants of that effort. Better to have a pillbox and not need it, than be shot by a Nazi while out walking the dog along the canal.

But there's something about this that gets my imagination racing. It's a hypothetical scenario. It leads us to wonder just what would have happened if we had been invaded, and it's quite a scary thought when we can imagine these familiar, peaceful places being literal battlegrounds.

And that's why I love them.

 

 So that's all I've got. I said it was a quick one! There's minimal vandalism and graffiti in this pillbox so if you are a war nerd, it might well be worth a quick mooch. If you want something more exciting, then I've recently done some cool things on my travel blog.

I've also recently been interviewed by BBC Radio Shropshire, so by all means give that a listen too.

I would like to promise more exciting blogs on the horizon, but I feel that such a statement is unfair on the little pillbox, because I do like it, and sometimes it's nice to write something short and sweet. What I can promise you is more Telford in the future. The Nazis didn't invade, but I did. 

In the meantime, feel free to follow my social media accounts to stay updated on the blog. I'm on the main shit ones- Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, its deformed twin Threads, and the various attempts to make social media better, Vero and Blue Sky.

Thanks for reading!

Abandoned farm House

 

Today's adventure is a happy accident. The derelict house is almost completely masked from the street. Completely by chance, I happened to stand at just the right angle and caught a glimmer of brickage through a wall of leaves. It's been a long time since anyone gave this place any love, but it's still somehow wholesome.

 

 

The windows are boarded, but the door is unlocked, decorated with a plea for help and a warning not to enter, no doubt scrawled by the same bored teenager/middle-aged manlet. It's perhaps a few years away from being completely obstructed by brambles, but I shall not be getting stabbed my plants today.

 

 

Slipping inside brings us to this staircase with some Victorian-era floor tiles peeking out through the dirt. It all feels rather dated, reminding me of the house I grew up in more so than the characterless box I now inhabit.

I wasn't at all surprised to find that it was actually once on a wealthy estate. It still is, technically, but the big cheese of said estate doesn't live there and doesn't seem to care. In fact renovation of this house was curiously stopped some time ago when the owner decided that the land around it would be great to build newer houses on. So it seems that the plan is to let this one fall into ruin to make way for that.

The last occupants were a man called Reg, his wife, and their plethora of feline companions, and by all accounts they were rather lovely people. Such accounts are entirely from the 1970s but that doesn't mean they weren't here for longer. But I do know that they were the last occupants, and the house has been empty ever since.

 

 

The rooms are as I expected. Spacious, empty and almost indistinguishable in regards to what purpose they served, although presumably fulfilling the roles of lounge and dining room. This one definitely has dining room vibes. 

 

 Whereas this has a bit of a cosy vibe that makes me think it might have been a lounge.

 

The yellow room, with its sole extant work surface cupboard combo is almost definitely the kitchen.

 

 

And I'm really loving the wallpaper. It gives it some character. It's a hint of homeliness shining through all the trashitude.

 

 

There's still a hook attached to the ceiling beam, which probably once had a pan or something hanging from it, such was the norm back in the day.

 

 

There's also a set of stairs behind the kitchen wall.

But it's the pantry that I found particularly interesting.

 

 

Purely because there's actually stuff left behind here. 

 

 

These are the final remnants of Reggie and his wife's life here, left to gather dust. I guess when the whole place was cleared out, someone forgot to finish the pantry. But then why are books even in the pantry? That seems rather odd. 

But these books are very telling. "Husband in Training" by Christine Rimmer is a romance novel that was published in 1999. "No Way To Begin" is another romance novel first published in 1991.

 

 

"Finders Keepers," by Candice Adams, was published in 1985.

So it's given us a rough idea of how long Reg and his wife lived here. Even though most recollections of them that I could find were dated around the 1970s, they clearly survived to at least 1999. It's possible that they're still alive and have just moved out.

 

It's time to slip upstairs.
 

 

Through some additional digging, I found that in the 1940s this place was lived in by a man named Frank, who was the Butler of the estate. But soon he would be joined by the grand poobah of the estate too, a chap named Jock. 

 

Jock was born in 1883, and ticks all the rich folk boxes. His parents were cousins, he attended Eton school, which is basically Hogwarts for wankers, and at the outbreak of the first world war he avoided being sent to the frontlines by being ill.

But poor Jock was a bit of a misfit. His mother died when he was two, and his father was a bit tight on the purse strings, making him "the poor one" at Eton. 

Consequently when he did finally get financial autonomy he went a bit nuts. It was said that he'd rather make £10 crookedly than £100 straight. Ultimately he faced scandal when he nicked some paintings and his first wife's pearls in order to fraudulently claim insurance. Oh dear. 

 

Jock. (Photo not mine, obviously)

So already marked with controversy, and with another world war looming, Jock took his second wife to Kenya, where they joined the Happy Valley Set, a group of British aristocrats who had set up their own private paradise, notorious for their hedonism, dabbling in drink, drugs, sexual promiscuity and whatnot.

Jock was said to be slightly out of place in such a world of rampant alcohol and adultery. Despite the fact that his second wife was already unfaithful and not making a secret that she was with him for his money, even referring to him as a dirty old man, he seemed to actually be hurt by the attention she was getting. 

They'd only been married for three months when she had an affair with a man who considered himself the top dog of the Happy Valley Set, a philanderer and serial womaniser, specifically targeting married women. 

 

The affair was very public and Jock, hurt and humiliated, ended up giving it his blessing before resolving to return to the UK alone. Shortly after, the other man was discovered shot dead in his car. Jock was the chief suspect, but it's also been said that there's an over-abundance people who would also have reasons for wanting the man dead. Many referred to him as a first-rate shit. The story made waves in the media, with the whole subject of rich people killing each other over their own depravity bringing some much-needed juice to the British public in wartime. But Jock was ultimately found not guilty.

Despite this, Jock lost everything. He was shunned by the Happy Valley Set. His wife left him for another rich man, who Jock described as the most boring man in the world. He turned to drink and was then flung from his horse, resulting in him being encased in plaster with a spinal injury. He returned to England, alone. But his grand house, the seat of his estate, had been commandeered and repurposed for the war effort. 

With nowhere to go, he came here and lived with his butler.

 

So it kinda makes me see this place from a whole new perspective. It's a large house by my own peasant standards, but for Jock this must have been hell to adjust to. He was used to refinery and grandeur. Now he was sofa surfing with the working class. It's an interesting dynamic, and I wish I knew more about this period of his life.

 

Upon arriving back in the UK, Jock was questioned by police due to the theft of his first wife's pearls, which only really served to give him more grief on top of what he was already going through. For a rich bloke who was used to getting what he wanted, life in this spacious four-bedroomed manor house was a bit of a kick to the teeth, and he told nobody that he had returned, apart from his butler Frank, who had to deal with his depressed alcoholic employer moping around the place. It's not like he could really comment or even object to the sudden intrusion either, because Jock owned the house, the land it was on, and paid Franks wages too. 

In 1942 Jock went to his solicitor and put together a very flimsy will. To his daughter he offered "any trinket she desired," and to his son he gave a gold cigarette case, a gold watch and a shotgun, stating that he was to have nothing else because he was already amply provided for. As for Frank, the loyal butler who had put him up, he gave £100 (equivalent of nearly £4000 today) and some bedroom furniture, a subtle hint that maybe he wasn't impressed with his decor.

Jock then went to a hotel in Liverpool. He had previously come here with his second wife back when he was still married to his first wife. Perhaps this is something he regarded as his biggest mistake. He gave the hotel staff orders to not disturb him because he'd be looking after himself, and then he overdosed on barbiturates and died.

The story of Jock is a sad one, but it was all of his lifestyle choices that led him to that point. His story is one of self destruction, and in the end he knew it. 

Now onto the best part of any abandoned house, the bathroom.

 

,,

 Still in better condition than the toilets in some pubs and clubs.

,

 It's weird to think that rich boy Jock, head of the entire estate, has shat here.

 

 

While it didn't happen here, the nearby land was also the scene of a gruesome murder in 1835 that I want to briefly digress into. The victim in question was a girl called Mary, the domestic of the estates land steward, described as a remarkably fine girl with pleasing manners whose conduct had been exemplary. While the local papers at the time said she was seventeen, her gravestone says she was fifteen. I guess it's all rather immaterial now. She was a child either way. I know all the Royal buttlickers say that this age is perfectly fine when the person doing the letching is Prince Andrew (and not a brown person), but young is young. 

 

Mary had, at midnight, come knocking on her mistresses door requesting to be allowed to return to her parents home, because she had received word that her mother was ill and dying. Her mistress allowed her to go, but didn't inquire about where the message had come from. She heard Mary go down the stairs and out through the door. In the morning, they found the door locked and the key missing, presumably taken by Mary. There was also a ladder lying on the ground outside of her window, presumably the means by which the messenger had relayed the news to Mary.

Mary's mother, however, was perfectly well, and Mary was found dead in a field, having been duped out of the house. Her clothes were a mess, and the grass around was disturbed as if a struggle had taken place. She had bruising and scratching around her throat and thighs. The verdict was that someone had tried to rape her but not succeeded, and she had been choked to death.

An hour later, a labourer in his fifties named Thomas, sharing the same employer, was found hanging in one of the farm buildings. He was described as quiet, honest and hard working, of a rather reserved disposition, but in his pocket was the key that Mary had taken, so he was quickly concluded to be the culprit. His wife recalled how she had called him to bed late multiple times late into the night and he had kept on saying "I'm coming" but when the wife woke at 2am she found that he had left the house.

The story is recapped on Marys grave, which says "he escaped the punishment of the law by adding his own death to that of his innocent victim."

 

Interestingly in 1998 the great-great-great granddaughter of Thomas learned of his actions while researching her family tree, and was outraged to the point that she is now hellbent on proving his innocence. Which baffles me, if I'm honest. I've researched my own family tree too. My forget-how-many-great grand uncle was shipped off to Australia back when that was a thing, and I'm not outraged, because that isn't me or anyone close to me, so why take it personally? Any outrage seems to be far more ego-fueled than anything. It's as if she's personally insulted by the idea that she's descended from someone nefarious. But I hate to piddle on everyone's picnic, but we probably all are, somewhere down the line. Humans are great at being shit. 

Thomas's descendant has one small fact to bring to the table, that Mary was friends with Thomas's daughter who happened to be a victim of rape. She believes that Thomas caught the same rapist going after Mary, lost his shit, and the two had a fight. The rapist ultimately killed both, but made Thomas's death look like suicide to set him up for Mary's murder. The source of this information? Psychics and mediums, of course! People who are literally paid to tell you what you want to hear. 

Honestly this is really petty. If you're descended from a criminal, it's not a personal attack on you. Just live with it.

Ultimately the murder of Mary and the suicide of Thomas has very little to do with this house, but it happened in the vicinity and it's a good story, so I've included it anyway. 

Onto the out-buildings...

 

 

There's a room around the back which contains a couple of freezers, although why they're here when the kitchen is perfectly spacious is anyone's guess. 

 

 And of course there's barns galore.

 

 

And it wouldn't be true urbex without a badly drawn cock somewhere.

 

There's a sign on the wall about cow milking, but apart from that it's fairly ruinous. 

 

 

This part of the barn is just full of brambles and nettles and other pointy things designed by nature to hurt my feelings and ankles. But I don't need to go in there. I can see it all from the window, and it's nothing I haven't seen before. 

 

Aaaand that's all I've got. 

I actually really like this place. I know houses aren't the most stellar adventures of the urbex world. I say that as someone who once swam out to a capsized cruise ship, so it goes without saying that I like things to be a tad more exciting. But things like this make for a fun mooch. There's loads of places that are commonly trekked by the casual urbexer that I'll see during the most rudimentary Instagram doomscroll, and I'll know exactly what I'll see when I go there. This was a roadside find, completely accidental and off the common urbex radar, which I actually enjoy more. This means I have no idea what I'm getting into. It's very much like that military base where I stumbled across an entire horse skeleton, completely unexpected. And people were begging me to tell them where it was, and I just didn't see why. They weren't going to get the same "Holy shit" feeling that I did, because they'd know it was there. What's the appeal? I love not knowing what I'll find. I love an authentic adventure even if, in today's case, it is just a house. The next unexpected roadside find might be something awesome.

Sadly for the urbex world, all of the suicide and murders that loosely tie into the history of this place actually take place away from the house, so it's dodged the clickbait and cringey "paranormal investigation" labels thrust upon them by the trash-tier urbexer. Unless they lie, which is not unlikely. 

But hey-fucking-ho. 

Coming up next, I'm turning my attention to my travel blog with my invasion of Europe and a story that I can't wait to dig my teeth into. But until then, if you like my blogs and want to keep up with them, then my social medias are by far the best way. Although referring to social media and "best" in the same sentence feels like a contradiction in terms. But we live in an era now where people are tired of the shittery that comes with the usual webshites and their algorithmic hellscapes cancelling our reach and trying to sell it back to us, and consequently, we now have options. Vero provides something reminiscent of an old Instagram experience, albeit slightly buggy, so I can be followed there, whereas Blue Sky perfectly encapsulates a pre-Elon (prelon?) Twitter, so that's interesting. Some genius has even remade Myspace as Spacehey, so I'm there and still trying to figure out how I can bend it to my flavour of shameless self-promotion in a world that lacks the modern newsfeed of today. And of course, I'm on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Threads and Reddit. But I don't know why. As soon as these alternatives get big enough, let's jump ship. There is hope for the future.

Thanks for reading!

Derelict bungalow

Today I'm checking out this abandoned bungalow that we swung by for a quick mooch while we were in the area. It's got quite the ominous vibe, poking out of the foliage, practically invisible from the road unless you know it's there. And I know houses are controversial in the urbex world, because for some reason so many urban explorers are hell bent on finding the least decayed one, and that leads them to finding pristine "time capsules" that take us back to the far flung era of 2021, and then the owners family walk in, fresh from the funeral, and say "Excuse me, Mr Urban Explorer, kindly put down my dead nans brassiere," and then the urban explorer goes on Youtube talking about the psycho Karen selfishly trying to ruin their adventure. It's a morally dubious practice, ruined by morally corrupt imbeciles with the combined IQ of an Ikea flatpack wardrobe, and that is why I prefer the absolutely wrecked places. Nobody can misconstrue a wreck. Nobody cares about this place. It is abandoned in the absolute literal definition of the word. 

 

But that's not to say it isn't sad. Abandoned houses were still homes once, and are big glorified memorials to someones former life. They're absolutely deserving of the utmost respect. But when they've seemingly been left for decades, they do bring about a sense of intrigue. Why has nobody returned to take care of this?

 

Slipping inside was a piece of cake. The door is off its hinges and propped up against the hallway wall. The central hallway leads to five rooms, with two doors on either side and a fifth at the very end. The floor is covered in books, newspapers and other clutter. At no point during my time in this house did my feet touch the floor. Evidently the house has been ransacked. 

 

 

Check it out! This newspaper talks about President Bush coming to power. It says he's the 41st President, which means it's referring to George Bush senior, dating this rag at 1989. 

 

But if that's not an exciting enough relic, check this one out!

 

This one is from 1938 and it's talking about the Nazis, and Czech refugees. This is amazing!

Unfortunately it's been ripped a bit, so unfolding it didn't give us the full headline, but it's still cool to see. This is the final year before the UK declared war on Germany. The Nazis were swinging their dick all over Europe, and everything was reaching boiling point. This has so much historic significance. I can totally picture the occupant of this house, an average person with an average life, reading about all this and dreading that another world war was around the corner. It must have been a worrying time.

The first room is pretty dilapidated, with the roof caving in, and rubble all over the floor. There's a couple of books dotted around still, and a little table next to the fireplace, covered in ceiling rubble. At some point perhaps this would have been considered an abandoned time capsule, still fully furnished, exactly as its owner had left it when they passed away. But then nature got in, and humans looted the place, and over many years or even decades, it ended up like this.

But there's no graffiti and that is pretty cool. Apart from the fact that it's trashed, it's all natural decay.

 

Of course the defining feature of this room is the huge pile of newspapers on the table. Either this particular occupant was a hoarder or the Covid toilet paper frenzy drove this person to some desperate alternatives. 

 

There's a few more books over here in this box. These are all crime novels, with the most recent one being published in 1964.

Here's a newspaper from 1993. "Fifteen people were held after a huge police operation in Stoke-on-Trent against the deadly drug, Crack."

Was Crack a new thing in 1993??? That doesn't seem right, but this paper is phrasing it as if it's some new thing that few people know about.

There are some corduroy trousers hanging on the door handle, seriously decaying, with some moldly bits hanging down. But what's interesting is that two different colours are here. The side facing us is covered in dust, making it grey, but the side facing the window reveals that these are actually bright green.

The main attraction of this room is the stained glass windows. This place must have looked lovely once.

Across the hallway we have this similarly trashed room. It's really difficult to ascertain what this room would have been, because everything that's in this house has been randomly strewn all over the place.

 

 

But there is an ash tray on the table and I get the feeling that this is an authentic placement. Somehow despite everything, this has managed to stay where it was left. 

 

 

And on the floor there's some false teeth. Yum! Whoever lived here was obviously very old and probably a bit of a hoarder. Electoral registers indicate that one person lived here between 2001 and 2011, but 2011 is the maximum time they would have been here for. For all I know, they may have passed away as early as 2002. Given the date of certain artifacts, I definitely can't see this occupant surviving long into the current century. This house isn't visible from the street, in person or in streetview, and that includes all the years Streetview has to offer, right back to 2009! It's been abandoned for a hell of a long time.

 

There's crockery in front of the fireplace which makes me wonder if this was the dining area. That seems a little unusual given that it's the furthest room from the kitchen, but in a bungalow with all the rooms orbiting a tiny central hallway, all the rooms are within spitting distance anyway. 

Next to this we have the bedroom.

 

 

The bedroom is absolutely trashed, but in a really photogenic way. But again, it's kinda sad to see. All of this mattered to someone once. It's all that remains of someones home. It's been the backdrop of so many memories, but now it's truly abandoned. Whoever tore through here did so years ago, and everything has just been left. Nobody was there to re-secure the premises and tidy up.

I guess in a way the intrigue taps into a common fear humans have of dying alone, with no family to take care of things when you're gone.

 

 

The fireplace has a framed picture above it, but it's far too decayed and covered in dirt to make out what it's a picture of.

 

 

The bed is just as cluttered as the floor, absolutely covered in the former occupants belongings. 

 

 

Here we have some old VHS tapes, all of which are history documentaries, next to the autobiography of Christmas Humphreys. I've actually never heard of Christmas Humphreys but a quick Google search revealed that he was a British barrister who converted to Buddhism. His former home as also been converted into a Buddhist temple. His name is a bit weird, but apparently a traditional one in his family. He preferred to go by Toby, and that's absolutely fair enough.

 

Here's a magazine from 1938! It's a little torn up but still pretty cool. 

But now onto the best part of any abandoned building, the bathroom...

The bathroom is similarly trashed. Whoever ransacked this place seemingly tried to steal the bath.

The toilet has been ripped out too!

Here it is under the bath. Still in better condition than the toilets in some pubs and clubs.

What's weird is that there's still stuff in the bathroom cabinet. It just seems utterly bonkers that the house has been tossed about but this has remained relatively untouched.

Onto the lounge...

 

The lounge is pretty much more of the same. I can't even see the floor in here. I'm just walking on broken furniture and clutter. But there are still books on the shelves, giving us a glimmer of what this place used to look like. 

Curiously there's some rope in the corner tied to the remains of a cupboard and connected to the lounge window, preventing it from being pulled open. So evidently at one point there was an attempt at securing the building. But who did that and where are they now?

There's a record player propped up against the wall here.

Looking at the books, we have a few crossword dictionary's, thesauruses and a book of anagrams, all of which helps paint a picture of the kind of person who lived here.

Check out that big grey TV lying screen-down. It's so weird to think that within my lifetime, televisions were big enough to serve as a second settee at family gatherings. I love that we've advanced so far and so fast in some areas, but America still doesn't have crumpets. Our species really does have some backwards priorities.

 

Here we have a cassette box.

 

I have to wonder why it is trashed. I mean on the surface level, I'd say it's been looted. But everything is still here. Nobody has stolen anything. It's as if someone came here, decided to throw everything around, and then just left. It all seems rather pointless. 

A door at the back of the lounge leads into the kitchen...

The kitchen is tiny, and still has quite a lot of stuff inside.

Look at these shelves! Here's the time capsule! This cupboard is likely the closest thing in the whole house to how it was when the owner was still alive. Some of the cans are still sealed. There's still vinegar here, and that shit lasts forever so it's probably still good to put on your food. 

No I won't put that to the test. 

Most endearingly there's a hand-written list of recipes in the top corner.

And then there's this egg timer, which is still functional, as you can see. I tipped it upside-down before I took the photo. I enjoyed this little thing a little too much. In fact I almost nicknamed this place "Egg timer house," before quickly de-railing that train of thought before it got too far from the station. 

In urban exploring, places do tend to get nicknames, and they tend to be either attempts at sounding poetic but end up sounding cringe (Cavern of Lost Souls, Village of Bones, House of Tears) or they seem to pick one generic item from the house that numerous houses have, and name the house after that (Red Dress Manor, Fireplace cottage) And then there's also a weird abundance of "Murder Mansions," (except for the one house that actually did have a murder in it, but I digress) but I'm at a point now where such names just sound repetitive and dull. I have hemorrhoids that are more original than the British urbex scene. And prettier. I just want to call places what they are. This is a derelict bungalow. 

And there's one more final stop!

 

The door at the back of the kitchen leads out to this tiny outdoor-ish toilet. This isn't actually uncommon in old houses, to have a toilet next to the back door. But that tends to be in larger houses. It's a bit weirder here because this is a tiny bungalow where the other bathroom is literally three strides away, through the tiny kitchen and tiny lounge, and then right there on the left. At least it would be three strides if the home wasn't full of trip hazards. If there were no walls, and a person was sat on each toilet, the person sat on this one would be able to chuck rolled up balls of toilet roll at the back of the other persons head. 

 

So this shot is taken through the toilets external window, and my friend Lee has kindly decided to pull the door closed-ish in a hand gesture that does not look the slightest bit comfortable, because this door just perpetually swings open, obstructing my shot of this sump pump, which is very reminiscent of the ones we see in old ROC nuclear monitoring bunkers. It's used for pumping flood water back to the surface, which raises the interesting implication that this bungalow has a cellar.

But I ain't looking for it. There's no door leading downwards, so it must be a trap door somewhere in the house, and I can't even see the floor. Unfortunately we must call it a day on this place.

So to conclude, it's cute, it's wrecked, it's an abandoned house that actually looks abandoned, and that is actually a breath of fresh air in a universe where urban exploring as degraded to some mad race to showcase the most pristine "time capsules" by photographing places that have only been empty for a year and still have electricity. I'm not about that. Give me some actual decay. I want to see magazines from before I was born, not unexpired cartons of milk.

Oh God, is that the next urban exploring brag? "I was there before the milk went off."

But hey-ho. I'm talking to hear myself speak when it comes to the questionable antics of the urbex world. Nothing I say will change anything. The best I can do is enjoy the hobby in my own way and get on with my excellent life.

Speaking of which, I've got one more house to cover here before I'm focusing on my re-invasion of Europe over on my travel blog. 

In the meantime, to get regular updates about this blog, the best way is by following me on social media. At the moment I'm focusing on lesser-known sites like Bluesky and Vero, which definitely need a stronger userbase, but you can still find me on the usual dens of shittery, Facebook, Instagram, Threads and Twitter. Thanks for reading!