Lincoln Grange Nursing Home

(DISCLAIMER: As an overall nice human being, I do not force entry, vandalize, steal, or disclose means of entry or location if it isn't obvious. I do this to protect locations and respect them. Trespass without forced entry is a civil offence rather than a criminal one, which isn't worth acting on unless one causes damage, steals, has ill intent, etc. I simply photograph and leave everything as I find it. I do not condone breaking and entering, and I do not condone what I do. I'm a danger to myself and a terrible role model. )

Today we're heading to Lincoln Grange nursing home near Ironbridge! *cue dramatic music.*

Now, if you read any other blogs from Shropshire, you'll know that I came here with my friend Michael, who writes Moments With Mike, and my time-traveling daughter from the future, Syphilis. Michael recently had an incident where one of his pictures was used without his consent by our local newspaper. The same newspaper recently got in touch with me, asking if I'd like any of my photos shown in the local paper also. The offer was hilarious, because they have done articles about me in the past and it was quite insulting to numerous people, most of all the people of Shropshire whose intelligence was severely underestimated. But as a result Michael has given me permission to copy and paste his legal disclaimer into the sidebar here. I love that the newspaper is still lurking around us local bloggers and miscreant adventurers, because I personally think that they could benefit from our content. But should they? That is the question. The underground tunnels in Shrewsbury are, in my opinion, very newsworthy, but I'm reluctant to collaborate. That's not to say that my last newspaper publicity didn't benefit me greatly. There has been a phenominal rise in the views here, but it was undignifying to everyone involved. But I shall avoid this rant bait, though it's painful to do so for a tangential writer such as myself.

Commencing with Lincoln Grange, Michael, Syphilis and I made our way around the exterior of the building, finding the doors locked and the windows firmly barricaded. 

I actually didn't take as many exterior shots as I would have liked, and there's a reason for that! I usually photograph a location after I've been in it, or on it, or under it. This is because there's no point in photographing exterior shots for the blog post before I've even confirmed that I'll be able to do a blog post on it. And we spent a lot of time lurking around the exterior of this nursing home, and we just couldn't find a way in! I could have taken some exterior shots as we left, but we'll get to why I didn't.

There were some adorable garden gnomes though.

We have here the remnants of the sign by the entrance, refering to this place as the Milbrook Day Centre, established in 1996. Beneath is a little disclaimer that reveals that the creation of this sign was an activity between staff and the service users, which is quite nice.

And here we have a floor plan. Useful, if we can figure out a way in.

I did get some exterior shots that show more of the building, but they are from higher up. You see, this place had a water tower and I couldn't resist my inner chimpanzee. 

 So check out this complex. It's huge! It was actually constructed in 1875 to be a workhouse. In the late 1800s, the mentally ill would work here in exchange for care and medicine. Now, in this period of time the "mentally ill" were treated very differently. In fact the term "mentally ill" was a lot broader and included eccentrics and non-conformists, and anyone else whose ability to live freely was inconvenient to society. If someone was slightly odd, or different, then a diagnosis of "Mentally ill" provided their family with an excuse for their behaviour, and also meant that society could extract them from the world and contain them in a place where their differences couldn't bother anyone.

No doubt had I been around in these times, I too would be in an asylum for the crime of being different, which might sound favourable to having my head kicked against a doorstep but probably isn't. But we all know someone who would be considered mentally ill by the standards of the times. So it's worth reminding ourselves of this progress, especially at the moment when Britain is becoming a place where people are feeling the need to mark themselves as "Not a racist" so that people know if it is safe to sit next to them on a goddamn bus, in a world where Nigel Farage is using propaganda that is practically shot-by-shot the same propaganda used by Nazis prior to the rise of concentration camps and people are somehow okay with this. Some would say we're slipping backwards. If you need a ray of positivity that says all is not lost, look at the treatment of the mentally ill back in the day. We've still come a long way.
And then of course, today we have the internet, and through it the world is slowly opening its eyes. The mainstream media and the powers that be are not the loudest voice anymore. Everyone is being heard, and our words will long outlive us.

 In 1930, the workhouse was converted into the Beeches Hospital, under control of the NHS. In 1996, the building became the Lincoln Grange nursing home when it was taken over privately. The Milbrook Day Centre was apparently something separate that just so happened to be part of the same original workhouse. Milbrook was, apparently, a drop-in centre for people suffering with dementia.

Lincoln Grange, meanwhile, was remembered by staff and families of former residents as a good place to live. The bedroom doors were decorated to look like exterior doors of flats, to give it that homely vibe. However quite a few people have said that there was a darker vibe lingering from the workhouse days and the building itself is believed to be haunted.

But we didn't see anything spooky. The scariest thing at Lincoln Grange on this day, was me.

Apart from the loss of the isolation block and workshops, and the addition of the nurses quarters, the layout of this place is more-or-less identical to the old workhouse, and as such is one of the most original workhouses still standing in the UK.

During the research, Michael found that there were contradictory dates for when this place closed down. Some say 2007 and others say 2013. Of course, given that Milbrook and Lincoln Grange were different services, it's possible that both dates are true. Michael has in fact confirmed this to be the case- Milbrook remained open longer than Lincoln Grange. Both places are empty now and I think they may even be approaching demolition.

The view from the water tower was pretty awesome too, and it was a good day forthe scramble up there.

Oh, what's that? Why, that's the power station I snuck around earlier this year! I guess this article is doomed to be riddled with rant bait. As you may or may not be aware, I snuck around that power station after it had been decomissioned. I managed to get some photos from the interior of the actual cooling towers but was caught by security and escorted from the premises. They were quite angry at me but they were just doing their jobs. The local newspaper, however, ran a scandal article attempting to make it look like just about anyone could get in (they could not), and making the security look really, really lame. They quoted my blog quite a lot, in an interview format which annoyed me a bit. Luckily at the time I already had a faithful following of readers, and a lot of people actually said "Hey, they didn't interview you, they just quoted your blog and made it look like they interviewed you." If you're a long term reader you've probably noticed that I've since become a lot more careful with how I phrase things on here. This is because the newspaper twisted a lot of what was said to push their agenda. They also focused on the fact that no security were pictured in my photos. Of course they weren't. I wasn't there for them. I didn't take any of security guards but that doesn't mean they weren't there! So in a way my pictures were twisted to push the agenda, as well as my words. So it was a lesson that I have learned from and I hope others will too, about how the media will twist facts to serve their own agenda. This is happening all over the media. If you want an open mind, and a happy life, STOP reading newspapers. It's very difficult to be happy and read a newspaper. Although some might sat that sounds like a challenge. Take my advice, if you feel like a challenge, start with something easier like coming out Jewish at a Hitler Youth rally, and work your way up from that.

Luckily, and I pride myself on this, the majority of my readers are actually free-thinkers and I had a lot of support during this, and my view count has increased by a frightening number. But still, I feel that I, and the newspapers, owe the security at Ironbridge power station an apology. I doubt the newspaper will apologise for twisting the truth to make you all look like a bunch of Elmer Fudds but I am sorry. You're a bunch of hard workers who got caught in a scandal you didn't deserve and it's on my mind to this day. 
I have since rejected all of my local newspapers requests to run my pictures, and several thousand people in Shropshire now question the validity of everything they say, so ultimately they are the ones who really lost out.


And now that I've fallen for that rant bait, it's out of my system! Where was I? Oh yeah, on top of a really, really, creaky and unsettling water tower! Now, not a lot of people could get up here. I've been rooftopping for around six years so I have the climbing experience. But even so, it was scary in its instability, and far from the wisest thing I've ever done. Regardless, having gotten up there, could I really turn down a chance to get inside?

The interior of the water tower was quite bleak. 

But down below me on ground level, casually letting me get on with my monkey business, Michael and Syphilis persisted in looking for a way in. I returned down to join them. We concluded between us that getting in was impossible. We don't force entry, after all. That's how we stay on the right side of the law. We merely utilise existing entrances to appreciate the world behind the scenes that goes otherwise unnoticed by the human race.

Michael came to the realisation that the trick with adventuring these places is to get in after someone less respectful forces entry, but before it's so overlooted and vandalised that the location loses its more appealing traits. And it's true. All one has to do is visit an abandoned site multiple times to see it. I've blogged about Calcott Hall, Vanity House, Christmas House, and Camelot twice now, and each time the places are different and there's less to see. And then of course, the ROC posts represent this beautifully simultaneously. The one that I explored which was pristine had been broken into maybe a month before I got in, whereas the likes of Nesscliffe, Church Stretton and Cockshutt have been open for years and are trashed. 

Anyway, ten minutes after Michael had mentioned this, we were shocked to see someone looking at us from the upstairs window. It really made me jump at first, given that this place is boarded up tight and there are stories of ghosts. But in this case it turned out to be a group of tracksuit-clad human beings who had found a way in. Instantly, my instincts were to be careful. We were off the beaten track, in a place none of us were meant to be and the last thing any of us wanted was trouble, but to my regret trouble is precisely what I expected. And to my surprise and delight, the group called down to us "Want to come in?" 

 Now, it's possible that they broke in, but when we asked them they said that their means of access was already open, but made to look like it was barricaded so that they could assure themselves of return visits. Very clever, if that is the case. The tracksuit-clad humans proved to be completely okay with the fact that they were talking to someone dressed like an out-of-work magician in a Dr Seuss hat, and gave us no trouble. They showed us how they'd gotten in, and then scurried off into the depths of the building to do their own thing. Our own descent into the building was slower, as I wanted to photograph everything.

According to the map I'd photographed previously, I was in the unit of the nursing home called Boscobell. I'm not sure what defined Boscobell from the other wards or what decided which residents belonged where. Presumably they catered to different needs to make the care home more person centred but I don't know for sure.

But here it is!

 The bedrooms typically had enough room for a bed, and furniture, and each one curiously had a sink and a mirror, but no ensuite bathrooms. I suppose residents were to do their teeth brushing, shaving, make up, and whatnot in their own rooms but shared communual bathrooms, of which there were many.

 This room had an eerie imprint of a palm tree on the wall. On closer inspection we found that this was where decoration had once adhered to the wall to give it a beach vibe, and that upon its removal, damp and mould had clung to the remaining adhesive to give this shadowy imprint of the past.

 The first bathroom we found had an oceanic decor.

 The rooms and bathrooms were quite samey but carried with them an eerie vibe. This place definitely felt lived in.

 This seems to be a large space for a solitary toilet. Some toilet rooms had showers though.

 This toilet is in a peculiar location, in the cupboard under the stairs. Did Harry Potter live here?

 It's hard to tell because it's written in biro, but this noticeboard contains a bunch of written messages from the staff of Lincoln Grange. One saying Goodbye to Lincoln Grange, another curiously saying "I love Beeches," indicative perhaps that the care home retained staff when it became Lincoln Grange and that some of the older staff remembered it more as the Beeches. One curious message reads "We came and conquered," which is probably written by urbexers. The largest message reads "Who had my stereo off Owen?"

Poor person. I hope they get their stereo back. 

Michael beat me to the lame safe pun. But don't worry, I'd strike again.

Around this point, the tracksuit humans came back to find us. We'd heard them banging and smashing things up in the upper floors, much to our annoyance, but now they announced that they had figured out how to turn the electricity on. Their lack of subtlety was bugging me, because they were jeopardising our entire adventure. But since they were the ones who got us the adventure in the first place I was a little more tolerant of them and advised them to knock the electricity off if we were still inside by sunset. The last thing I wanted was to light up an abandoned building for everyone to see. 

The tracksuits scurried off to continue their own activities. Michael, Syphilis and I continued ours. It sure was unusual but nice to have two groups of very different people inhabiting an abandoned site but have some mutual unspoken respect for each others own personal interests, neither condoning nor condemning our differing reasons to be there, simply accepting that we're different and getting on with it. Although the bangs and smashes resonating around the building didn't fill me with joy, let me tell you. I was wondering if there would be much left to see by the time we got upstairs.

 We came across this large hall, the purpose of which is lost on me. This is a care home. I've worked in a few in my time and never come across anything quite like it. For starters it appears to have a  childrens play area, and a kitchen area as well as two small gender-labeled toilet cubicles, none of which had a urinal. Surely, if the toilets are monoaccomodating and identical then a gender label is redundant. Could this be a visitors hall maybe?

The coolest architectural feature was this little chunk of the hall. It had obviously at one point served as a chapel for the workhouse. It still retained its stained glass windows. 

As we continued our adventure, we discovered what appeared to be a communual area separated into two segments, the first being blue and containing a mini kitchen, before expanding out into what I presume was a dining area or lounge.

I wasn't expecting it to still be fully furnished. In fact I was more amazed at what was left. 

At this point, our friends in the tracksuits ran back to us with exciting news. They had discovered a cellar. Now my mind was leaping to all kinds of possibilities. What would a nursing home keep in a cellar? And if this building was as old as it was, surely the cellar would be ancient-looking and awesome to poke around in. The tracksuits led us back the way we had come, to the central hall with the chapel whose windows to my relief were still intact in spite of the tracksuits emitting smashes and crashes wherever they went. They led us through a door that I had actually completely missed, through a large kitchen area and to an area marked several billion times "Staff Only." It was here that we found the way down to the cellar, protected by a door that was lockable from the outside. Michael, also suspicious of the tracksuits, decided to wait above ground just in case they pulled a prank like locking me in the cellar with Syphilis. They themselves did not want to explore the cellar with me but did request that should I get any ghosts on my camera, that I show them. 

Sadly, no ghosts appeared in the cellar, and this was before Pokémon Go so there are no Gastlys and Haunters either.

 The cellar was flooded about ankle-deep in what I hoped was water. Down here was all kinds of junk and given the age of the place, and my own experiences on how history is often just stored away underground where nobody can see, I did wonder on the age of the objects down here too.

Back above ground, the tracksuits got bored of us. We did, after all, move slower than they did because we were photographing everything. And so we were alone when we backtracked back through the staff-only areas that we'd passed through to get to the cellars.

And just in case there was any dispute that these were staff-only areas, Lincoln Grange really made sure we got the message.

 

And yet, my arrival had been foretold. 

The kitchen, while lacking most of the actual catering equipment, retained a lot of signs, and other bits and bobs, including a retro telephone. 

 Striving to keep order amongst staff in a care home was Ricky Welch, whose presence and hard work have now passed into the stuff of legends.

Michael pointed something out- This is meant to be for emergency use but lets be honest, dialling 999 on one of these things while in a rush would have been quite tedious. 

 There was a ladder up into an attic, but there wasn't a lot up there.

We continued on with the adventure, into the unit called Wilverhope, which was pretty much identical in layout to Boscobell. The bedrooms, toilet and shower facilities were the same.

 Now I'm interested by these baths. I've worked in care homes, and let me tell you, when one of these baths breaks, it will usually be quite a while before the home it's in will get it repaired or replaced. They're expensive things. And lets not forget, the care industry is one of the industries out there renowned for not letting go of money easily. Mainly because it doesn't have that much anymore.  I imagine this bath is probably broken, or else it probably wouldn't still be here.

Not sure why this toilet has a cage rather than a lid.


We were about to head upstairs when we noticed through the windows that the tracksuits were now outside, running around in the yard doing whatever it is they do. Some of them had made an attempt at getting onto the water tower. They were being increasingly vocal and I knew it was only a matter of time before they got someones attention. Sure enough, just as we had finished on the ground floor and made our way upstairs, the tracksuits came running in to find us. They'd been spotted, they announced, and the person who had spotted them was talking about calling the police.


And here was me with an entire upper floor yet to see. But at the same time, it was nice of the tracksuits to tell us, and invite us along in their escape. Naturally I promised that if they ran out of the nursing home, we'd be right behind them. And as they dashed off and the door closed behind them I turned to Michael and Syphilis and announced that I was staying, because if whoever called the police saw them all running away then they'd tell the police that the intruders had escaped and the police would simply leave the area without checking. 


Michael and Syphilis were naturally nervous. And so was I. I'm also an addict and I had a whole upstairs floor to check out. But while I'm fine making decisions that put my own safety at risk, I was slightly uncomfortable that my impulsive decision could impact on others. This is why I usually explore alone. But I was thankful that my friends stuck by me because, like I said, I was nervous. However ultimately we weren't committing any criminal offence.

 The upstairs was yellow, and seemed a little more trashed than the downstairs, with picture frames lying smashed on the floor, and more shattered glass. Was this the work of the tracksuit gang?

 Another one of those super expensive care home baths.

 We came across another communual area, much like the one downstairs, with its mini kitchen.

 This noticeboard has quite a bit of information about caring for people with dementia, so presumably this floor was a dementia ward. It was really nice to read this, as it showed that the staff here were caring, and wanted their colleagues to be as informed and reminded of the facts as they possibly could be.

 Syphilis was stood by the window, watching outside with concern as the tracksuits still lingered about causing some ruckus. It was stupid of me to assume they'd just leave if we didn't follow, because ultimately they'd concluded that if we weren't afraid, they didn't need to be either. Nevertheless, I'm the sort of human who makes light of scary situation. I noticed the clock next to her feet and said "You look like you need a hand."

 Now, Michael isn't as accustomed to my sense of humour as Syphilis is. If he got the pun he didn't show it. Syphilis and I have been best friends for several years though, so you might even say she was having a smashing time.

We found a second communual area, but this one was a vibrant shade of orange, and significantly more smashed. As usual, there was a bar-like kitchen area but this room had something interesting- a piano.

The stool must have come from elsewhere, because it clashed with the piano itself. The actual piano seat we found in the doorway of a large bathroom, which contained a solitary ordinary bath.

We found an elevator, with a collapsable ladder leading up into the elevators machinery.

 Now keep in mind, I've been exploring for over six years, and before I'm lynched by my local newspaper, I don't condone climbing into elevator machinery. I'm an experienced professional but this doesn't make it any less dangerous.

We were on the final stretch of Lincoln Grange now, and quite frankly, with the ruckus the tracksuits were making outside I was going to be quite relieved to get this place behind me. There was one final curiousity.

 What's with all the flowers?

And as a final note before we conclude, here's some artwork by one of the residents. I've blurred out their names for confidentiality reasons, but it was nice to see this hanging up in their former home. Just so you know, the service at Lincoln Grange moved to another premises and presumably so did all of the staff and residents. The building, meanwhile, is left as a reminder of the lives that once resided and worked here.

So what became of the tracksuits? Well, we exited just in time to watch them get caught by the police, who had a dog and everything. This is why we didn't stop to take exterior shots as we left. But the police knew we'd been inside there too. The tracksuits, however, in an unexpected moment of honesty, informed the police that they had shown us the way in, therefore relieving us of any accusations of forced entry. They also informed the police that we had not been with them when they had been smashing things, therefore relieving us of any accusations of disrespect and vandalism, and they informed the police that all we were doing was taking pictures. The police were really understanding. We hadn't broken the law, you see. Simply walking into something that is abandoned is not a criminal offence. All the police asked was that we didn't go back in, for our own safety. And that is a reasonable request. The police tend to be reasonable if you are reasonable to them. I've seen videos from "urbexers" where they'll get quite abusive to police and security guards, and then brag about it online, so really it's no wonder that people frown when you tell them you're an urban explorer. I avoid the term, because it categorises me in the same box as people I'd never associate with. I'd rather be judged as an individual.

But speaking of judging people, what have we learned? The tracksuits easily could have relieved themselves of all responsibility by blaming the destruction on us. They had been honest though, and we didn't trust them at all during this adventure. Syphilis had even been photographing them vandalising just in case they did try to blame us for anything. But they didn't. They were honest. And thinking back to how they'd come to alert us when they were spotted by a local farmer, they were honest throughout, and while I do not condone what they did, they weren't in any way hostile. I think the lesson here is that even though someone is different, it doesn't make them bad. All us human beings are just jigsaw puzzle pieces that make up this huge picture of the human race, and some of us click together better than others. But just because your piece doesn't click with another piece, it doesn't mean that one doesn't belong in the puzzle too!
 So never judge a human based on how they look or what their interests are. I am guilty of this, because I was apprehensive of these people based on how I've been treated in the past. But I think after a while, an outcast outcasts themselves. Take for example nightclubs for a very specific style of human. Let's say, a place frequented by alt-crowders, goths and the like. In the past I have frequented these places out of fear of not being accepted in other places, and to my intrigue I have witnessed people dressed in tracksuits enter these places with innocent intentions, and been glared at by the alt-crowd for the crime of looking too normal. Whereas I personally go wherever I want, and I don't fear being outcast because I own my weirdness. And when you own your weirdness, the world conforms to you. So the lesson here is not only to avoid outcasting people, but also to avoid outcasting yourself in the process. It is wrong. In the case of the tracksuits at Lincoln Grange, they were okay. Not my type of human, but okay.

And I got away from yet another adventure, eager for the next. See, I told you all my tangential rambling would somehow be relevant.

Which brings me to something I've never done before. I have a backlog of blog posts. These are adventures from all over Shrewsbury and Shropshire, of various kinds. So what do YOU the reader want to see? Do you want to see an abandoned place? Do you want to see rooftops? Or do you want to see underground tunnels? I have fresh content from all three genre's of what I do. Get in touch and tell me what you'd like to see next. Leave a comment here or contact me on the social network. You can find me on Twitter and Instagram. Also feel free to share the blog if you like it, and if you can afford it, please donate to the go-pro fundraiser in the top corner of the blog. No pressure though. I don't want to put anyone out of their way just because I'm in a minimum wage job. 

Thanks for reading. Stay awesome!