Alice in Drains

 

Sometimes I do something a little different, and try to persuade the world that I'm an actual photographer, not just a maniac with a camera. And to do that, I usually find a real human, with a pulse and everything, to be a subject. But I keep it urbex-related just because that's where I'm at my happiest. 

This is my second time working with Alice in this capacity. Alice is a photographer and accomplished urbexer in her own right. She taught me how to actually use a camera, and I in turn didn't get her killed when we used an air vent to access an abandoned tower with a six-story drop. Alice does an entire photographic series of portraits with a creepy rabbit head, so we decided to combine our themes. We've done it on the rooftops before, admittedly to a more superior quality than I have done with this. But the rooftops are easy. This is my first time photographing someone underground, with no natural light. 

Well, except here. But this is the tunnel entrance. 

To be clear, this is not a sewer. Many, many years ago it was an actual river, and the powers-that-be decided they wanted Shrewsbury to be there instead, and quietly shunted it underground. It's possible to access this tunnel from both openings, one upstream and one downstream, and sometimes it's possible to see frogs and fish living down here, completely unaware that sunlight even exists. 

But of the risks involved here, we can probably rule out the likes of campylobacter, giardiasis, or methaemoglobinaemia, which is terrific. I don't want anything entering my body unless I can pronounce it. 

It's a good thing I can pronounce penis.

Truthfully this whole photoshoot thing is a little bit silly, but then when something like this is right on your doorstep, you've exhausted the exploration of it and documented it to completion, what's left to do but have fun with it? Because first and foremost a hobby should be fun. You remember what fun is, right? I know this is the era of Facebook, where we're just expected to stand around lugubriously and complain about vegan sausage rolls, other peoples genitalia, and a bunch of other shit that doesn't really matter, but out here in the real world the whole point of life is to have fun. 

To be honest, despite having no natural light in this subterranean playground wrought with hazards and possible death, these came out alright. It's almost like I know what I'm doing.

I don't. It's *like* I know. 

As a quick disclaimer or cautionary warning, exploring structures like this is very dangerous. It's a passage of flowing water, with numerous drains joining on, and if there was any sudden heavy rainfall this place can quickly become a literal death trap. There are real cases of urban explorers dying in storm drains. The water can get pretty fast, the floor can be pretty slippery, and there may be debris flowing along and other hard things to whack your head on. I don't go underground unless it's been a dry day. There's no phone signal and no natural light, so if something goes wrong, it can go VERY wrong. 

 

I can't speak for Alice, although we are on the same page about a lot of stuff, but I sort of envision her rabbit character as a type of cryptid, or slenderman-ish entity that is glimpsed but never actually interacted with. People may see it, but if they turn their head or blink, the rabbit will be gone, vanished in a puff of someone else's problem. 

 

Naturally I will conclude with one of Alice's photos of me wearing the rabbit head.

 

It's pretty cool. Obviously Alice is a superior camera person to me, but the entire shot in contrast the opening shot also shows what difference a wide angle lens can do. I was very jealous. 

And that's about it. It's just a small one before I start focusing on my travel blog again. I have something kinda big coming up, which is great because my recent posts here have all been kinda small.

If you like my blogs and want to stay updated, then unfortunately social media is the best way. Because the big three (Facebook, Twitter and Instagram) are all algorithmic hellscapes with more bots than fleshbag humans, that seem to serve only to bait us into arguments. I'm trying to focus my energy more on the likes of Bluesky, Vero and Cara. Social media does need to change. The internet was never intended to be the misery factory that it has devolved into. It needs to be about sharing creativity and hobbies, whether that's photography, art, writing, or even showcasing a collection of something. That's the internet I want. So definitely give those last three a chance if you fancy taking social media in that direction.

Thanks for reading!

Wrekin Rifle Range

Doesn't this look deliciously ominous? Am I about to be shot to death? 

Nope! Sorry to ruin your dreams and leave you blue balled. 

This firing range hasn't been used since, allegedly, the 1980s, although there are conflicting stories there. The sign, which had curiously had the word "military" censored, is just a remnant of an era that feels very far away but actually makes up the last century of the Wrekin's history.  

This is the remains of the target trench, where operators would raise the targets for the shooters using some old mechanisms that are still in the firing trench, and still in reasonably good condition. 

So obviously I came up here on two separate days. I know this is the UK but the weather still doesn't change this rapidly. 

 

The rifle range can actually be seen on old maps as far back as the 1880s, which is pretty cool. Prior to that it was allegedly a horse race track, but the ground doesn't really seem suitable for it.

While these mechanisms are pretty much the most interesting remnant of the firing range, the range itself went all the way down the field, with some firing spots being on the other side of the road. Needless to say, when the firing range was active the road was closed, as were the public footpaths. There were red flags warning people, as well as friendly sentries who had the pleasure of standing around in all manner of weather turning people away, while their mates blasted plywood targets to bits. 

Today the area is pretty calm. The area really doesn't look like a firing range at all, at least not as they're portrayed by modern media. For starters, there's no school full of children.

But if it wasn't for these contraptions, we'd never guess that a century ago this area would have been a hive of military activity. Bullets would be whizzing by, and people would be down among the mechanisms, raising the targets. People hundreds of yards away would be opening fire, and the gunshots could be heard for miles. Often the chaps operating these mechanisms would use a stick to indicate on the target where the shot had hit, so that the shooters could make improvements, and it was a common sport to then try to shoot the stick from the operators hand as a bit of a joke. They sound like fun times.

 

The firing range was originally used by the Kings Shropshire Light Infantry, a regiment who apparently marched here all the way from their barracks in Shrewsbury. The three best shooters were then allowed to ride home on a truck.

The regiment was formed in 1881 and they were active in the Anglo-Egyptian War in 1882, Sudan in 1885, the Ashanti War in what is now Ghana in 1895 and the more famous Boer War from 1899 to 1902. It's pretty cool to think that people who were active in these conflicts actually trained on this firing range, although I doubt the target mechanisms were the same. They will have been upgraded over the years.

Here's a photo of the Kings Shropshire Light Infantry in 1898!

(Photo not mine, obviously)

So every man in this image has been here. Each man pictured has probably stood several hundred yards down the field, and pointed a gun at where I'm taking my photos. It's pretty cool. 

One notable member of this regiment is Private Arthur Nick Carter, who served with it from 1901 to 1951, serving in both the Boer War and the First World War. When he retired he was the oldest serving member of the British Army. He also holds the record for the most stripes for good conduct, awarded more than any other member of the British Army ever. They're visible in this image of him. 

(Photo not mine, obviously)

The Kings Shropshire Light Infantry fought in the first world war, and some went to Ireland for their war of independence in 1919. They also occupied Germany for a bit in 1924. And this was where they trained, and blasted the shit out of targets, bantered, and had a jolly old time.

Down here in the target trench, there are some steps leading down to a corrugated iron shed that looks like one fart could bring it toppling down. This was apparently where the targets were stored when the range wasn't in use. 

The firing range was apparently extended in 1928, and at some point it started also being used by the Shropshire Yeomanry. This was a volunteer regiment, usually consisting of regular workmen who took up a number of days training each year to learn how to act in concert with regular military forces. They weren't really meant for foreign service, being more of a home guard, but in 1900 a royal warrant was issued to get them serving in Africa during the Boer War. 

Here's a photo of the Shropshire Yeomanry in 1916!

(Photo not mine, obviously)

So in all likelihood, everyone in this photo has used this target range, and that just blows my mind. There's nearly twenty years between this lot and the photo of the Kings Shropshire Light Infantry. This lot could be that lots children. That's not to be taken literally, but to say that there is a generations difference here. 

The firing range opened itself up to the wider military community too. The Territorial Army were using it by 1937. I'm not a military nerd expert. I don't know the difference between the Yeomanry and the TA, although I'm sure someone will tell me at great length if I get it wrong. The TA is what we now refer to as the Army Reserve. 

The Home Guard also used the firing range between 1940 and 1944. These guys did vary from the Territorial Army, in that the TA were volunteers who supported the British Army whereas the Home Guard was a citizen militia consisting of people too old or too young to serve in the regular army. 

The firing range was also used by any units who were tasked with defending the various local RAF bases. And as my blogs have shown us, Shropshire has plenty of them! 

 

After the second world war, the firing range opened itself up to local cadet forces as well as the local "Wrekin Rifle Club." The territorial army continued to use it and so did military folks from the nearby Donnington base. The site remained popular with numerous groups from the 1950s right up to the 1980s. If I listed all of the acronyms that have used this firing range, this blog would just look like letter salad. It would look like I'd collapsed and faceplanted the keyboard. The military love their acronyms. 

 

Interestingly, I did manage to find the old 1966 byelaws relating to this firing range. It had some fairly interesting points, basically outlining that people should not pass through the "danger area" when the red flag was flying, or "cause or permit or suffer any vehicle, animal, aircraft or thing to enter into the danger area."

I kinda love their use of the word "Thing" in there. It's like they were trying to list everything possible that could be caused to pass through the firing range, and then just settled for "thing." The byelaws do go on to specify that any aircraft must stay above 1,700 feet. 

It also mentions that the road that passes between the 300 and 400 yard mark was closed to the public when the range was active, and that anyone caught on the firing range while shooting was in process could be removed, taken into custody or fined up a whopping five pounds, according to the Military Lands Act 1892.

In their defence, £5 went a bit further in 1892, and even in 1966, but it does look rather farcical by today's standards. 

 

Despite the threat of detainment and losing their pocket money, pretty much everyone who has ever shot here will have a story of having to stop shooting because a cyclist, dog walker, or idiot teenager ventured onto the range. It seems a good chunk of Telford's population believe themselves to be bulletproof. 

But the firing range was not without incidents either. According to rumour, a sentry lost his life in the 1950s when a bullet ricocheted off a tree and hit him, although I've not been able to verify that. Add it to the list of Wrekin-related legends, along with giants and big cats. How tragic, though. The perpetrator must have felt awful. 

A short walk away is another shed, completely collapsed and being engulfed by nature. 

And from the target trench, that seems to be it. But I missed a bit, so I returned with my partner on a foggier day.

As a quick tangent, one thing I've found amusingly weird is how many people on Facebook get offended by the word "partner." And it's always the so-called tougher generation, the same ones who are also offended by black mermaids, vegan sausage rolls and English grammar while accusing everyone else of being easily offended. Is "partner" woke now? Have I missed something? So much anger and hatred has been thrown at me for it, I can't help but be mildly amused and slightly horrified by the state of humanity. This is what too much social media will do to you, folks. 

But I digress! 

Towards the bottom of the firing range is this shack. It might not look like much, but it has an old sign on the front, almost completely swallowed by ivy. 

 

It's very difficult to get a good shot of it from down here, so I had to boost my partner up to it in order to get a good angle. Let's see if we can figure out what it says. 

 

Along the top, it clearly says "Wrekin Range," and at the bottom there's the acronym "RLC" for Royal Logistics Corps. The RLC support army operations with supplying, storage, maintenance, and in this case I guess they are the ones who ran the firing range. It is curious that the sign has been censored though. This hasn't just been obstructed by ivy. Someone has also painted over the text, in much the same way the word "military" was removed from the sign in the woods.

But given that this is situated right next to the road, I figured it would be relatively easy to go onto historic streetview and see the sign from a decade or so ago. 

(Image credit: Google Streetview)

Well the shed is in better condition but the sign is still obstructed. So I decided to ask a local Facebook group to see if anyone remembered what it said. 

Someone claims that from memory it says "Warning. When red flags are flying shooting is taking place. Paths are closed."

And straight away, I gave up trying to get any answers out of people. Just looking at that sign, it's fairly obvious that it doesn't say that. There's clearly just five words here, followed by the RLC acronym. And looking at my partners shot, it's fairly obvious that there's another acronym in there too. It's BOD or BOC, or something. Each one has a variety of military meaning, but I think it says "BOC," because that can stand for "Basic Officer Course." That seems like a good possibility. 

I can honestly confirm that foggy weather is the best time to see the Wrekin. It's deliciously eerie, and definitely gave me Slender Man vibes. But it's time to slip inside the shack. 

 

It is just a hollowed out shell now, but I presume back in the day this was where all the shooters could pick up their guns, load up, maybe have some refreshments, and natter before heading across the field to open fire on the target range. It's certainly seen better days.

 

Despite some claims that the rifle range closed in the 1980s, there are former TA members who claim that they were shooting here as late as 1994. I was told that the firing range closed due to the collapse of the soviet union, but since that had happened some years prior, I took it with a pinch of salt. But someone else has told me that in the mid 1990s, shooting was once again interrupted by people strolling onto the firing range, and this time someone contacted the MOD who realised that this was always going to be an issue and closed the range for safety reasons. A "feasibility study" was carried out by an independent rifle club, but the crown indemnity that enabled the MOD to close the footpaths and roads could not be granted to civilian clubs.

So it's the civilians fault, really. They had red flags and everything but people just can't help being idiots. What is it about Telford people and just wandering into the sound of gunfire?

But it must have been odd for the locals when the range closed. By all accounts, people were accustomed to the military presence here. People could hear the gunfire for miles around. When it stopped, the entire vibe of the area must have changed. But it did bring about a new hobby for the local kids, who would scour the now lifeless fields looking for old bullet casings and other remnants, which is kinda funny because the byelaws from 1966 explicitly forbade this. But hey-ho. 

The target mechanisms became a Grade II listed structure as of 2017, which is pretty cool. This shed? It kinda has crack den vibes now, but I do love how the ivy is slowly taking it back. 

That's all I've got for this. The Wrekin Rifle Range is an effortless explore. Anyone can stroll up here to see these remnants of the past military presence, although it does help to know where you're going. I've heard some people say that they had no idea these things were even here, despite living in the area. 

It makes for a good little adventure, and the area absolutely deserves more love and appreciation.

I'll be back in Telford in about eight blogs time, after I do some more European urbex over on the travel blog. 

In the meantime, the best way to stay updated on my blogs is to follow my social medias. I actually hate what social media is becoming, so I'm definitely going to use this opportunity to mention Bluesky, Vero, and Cara, which are all trying to be what the main platforms used to be back when social media was fun. I am on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and Threads, but I do hope that the emergence of new social media heralds the gradual decline of these algorithmic cesspits. And I'm not just saying that because Zuckerberg is sucking Trumps cock now. I don't care about that. Zuck's a businessman and Trump's just banned Tiktok, so Zuck is doing what he needs to do from a business perspective. Everyone is saying that Facebook will become a cesspit now. Look, I was once banned for "cyber crime" for posting photos of a church. My reach hasn't been the same since I got banned for my blog on the 1936 olympics. Meanwhile pedophiles and bigots are proudly proclaiming what they are, and people are getting banned for standing up to them, and it's always been that way. Can we stop pretending Facebook is a hub of integrity that needs to be protected? It's the toilet cubicle wall of the modern life, and it always was and always will be. Find me there, but please also find me anywhere else. The more reasons I have to post elsewhere, the less time I'm spending there. We all win.

Thanks for reading!

Madeley Wood Hall Icehouse

So this should be a short blog. Unfortunately there's more to say about this place than there are images to show, because it's just an ice house, situated in some small-ish Shropshire woodland. For those who don't know, an ice house was where food was kept in the pre-electrical era. In the winter people would put loads of ice in there, which would then last for quite a while, allowing for the storage of perishable food.

That's right. Today I'm talking about a rich person's fridge. 

But these guys are fairly historically significant. This was the fridge of the Anstice family, and they lived in a great big house that was only spitting distance from here, now tragically torn down but fortunately preserved through old photos. 

(Photo from 1912, so not mine, obviously)

It was a William Anstice who moved to Shropshire and began working with his uncle, William Reynolds. Their precise relationship isn't quite as straightforward as uncle and nephew. William Anstice's parents, Robert and Susana, were from Bristol but had eloped. Susana had a sister, Hannah, who was William's aunt, and Reynolds married her. 

But Reynolds dad was the brother of Hannah's mum, making them cousins. He was William Anstice's cousin as well as a marital uncle. And that's really to be expected at this point. We can't have a story about rich people without a sprinkle of incest. It saves money at Christmas when a couple share grandparents. 

Reynolds father Richard was actually a grocers apprentice from 1749 to 1756 when he left Bristol and married Lady Darby, daughter of Abraham Darby. The Darby's, for those who don't know, are the people who built the titular iron bridge of Ironbridge. The family claws are deep in the industrial pie. 

I'll throw in a picture of Richard Reynolds, just to fill out the blog.

(Richard Reynolds, husband of Lady Darby- photo not mine, obviously)

He looks like he's standing in a queue and thinking of murdering the person in front making smalltalk with the cashier instead of just taking their fucking shopping and leaving. We've all been there, buddy. 

But he was apparently a really nice guy. It's alleged that he gave away at least £10,000 a year to orphanages and other charities. He didn't stick around Shropshire for long, heading back to Bristol in 1804.

And that's okay. This story isn't really about him. It was his son, William Reynolds, who ran the prosperous Madeley Wood Company. He can be credited with inventing the inclined canal plane, allowing boats to be conveyed to different water levels. He had already worked closely with William Anstice's father, but it was William Anstice who took over his business when Reynolds died. 

(William Anstice. Image not mine, obviously.)

With William Anstice in control, the Madeley Wood Company went from strength to strength. He moved to this mansion in the 1820s, having his old home demolished to build a gasworks in 1839. So this was his ice house, the most prominent reminder that he was ever even here. 

It was here that William Anstice raised six children, William Jr, Joseph, John, Penelope, Robert and Charlotte. 

Joseph is notable for being a professor and a published author, but he died when he was just 28, just six years after being appointed chair of classical literature at Kings College in London.

His brother Robert died relatively young too, at the age of 40. He was ordained in 1846, and a gifted mathematician, publishing articles on combinatorics and the motion of pendulums, all of which are a little over my brainless head. It's said (and I don't understand a word of this) that he gave examples of two rotational Kirkman triple systems that remained the only ones known until 1971, but despite being unmatched until a century-and-a-bit after his own death, he was still modest, finalising his paper with the comment "too much space has already been devoted to such trifle."

He didn't live here as an adult, but he sure knew these woods as a child, so here's a photo of him too. 

(Robert Anstice. Picture not mine, obviously.)

William Anstice took over pretty much all of the mineral extraction in the vicinity, owning collieries, mines, tramways, brickworks and ironworks. He's credited with many of the industrial ruins that are scattered around the area, including the blast furnaces and brickworks at Blists Hill. An old publication makes mention of him building a furnace on "Blissers Hill" in 1832, and then two more in 1840 and 1844. 

Today, Blists Hill is a museum in the form of a rather quaint Victorian town. Visitors can walk around, mingle in a Victorian pub, visit a Victorian chemist, eat bread from a Victorian bakery, attend Victorian school and visit a Victorian fairground, and all the staff are in character and very knowledgeable. The only thing it's lacking is an accurate child mortality rate. 

But there's still a few bits and bobs dotted around that are remnants of the areas real life industrial history at the hands of William Anstice, and I'll include a few shots of my favourite bits, just to fluff out the blog a bit. 

 

One feature that fills me with intrigue is this old mine. I'd have to crawl but if that gate wasn't there, you'd have to pay me to stay out. 

 

 

An old inclined trainline. I'm pretty sure it's been restored, but the ruins at the top are pretty authentic. 

 

And by far my absolute favourite part is this old track heading out of Blists Hill to this beautifully dilapidated bridge. 

It goes right over the street and I would love to climb along it. According to old maps, this tramway would have led to the nearby Meadowpit colliery. 

But back to William Anstice's fridge!

 

Yes, it's easy to forget that this is what I'm talking about today, because this is literally all there is. And I know it's hardly the adventure that we're used to seeing here. 

But I kinda love it. It's tucked away in the woods, minding its own business, but it plays with the imagination a bit. If we didn't know that this was just an ice house, we could imagine that it's some sort of hobbit house or super villain lair. The truth is absolutely more boring than what this things aesthetic leads us to think. It's easy to imagine children playing around here, using this as some sort of fortress.

William Anstice died in 1850, and his son John took over the company, and also this house. John married his cousin Jane Poole, whose father was the brother of John's mother, Penelope Poole. The interbreeding is actually a common occurrence in this family. It's not surprising in these rich families but here we have the Telford Multiplier, so it's less family tree, more family spirograph. 

The 1841 census shows that John and Jane had originally been living in Much Wenlock, with their young children. George was  born in 1853, followed by another William two years later. Robert Henry would be born in 1843, followed by John Arthur in 1846, Elizabeth in 1849 and then Richard in 1850. And upon inheriting the business, John moved his family back into the house he had grown up in, along with his six servants who probably saw the ice house more than he did. 

(John Anstice- Image not mine, obviously.)

Curiously, John's second son William falls off the face of the Earth, not appearing in any more census data. It's possible that he passed away in infancy. 

John and Jane would have two more children, Laura in 1852 and another William in 1853, further supporting my theory that the other William died. And having birthed eight children, Jane died in the house at the age of 48.

Curiously of all her children, I've only been able to find shots of Laura, and none of the others.

(Laura Anstice- photo not mine, obviously.)

Laura may not be a big cheese in the Madeley Wood Company, but she grew up in the mansion here, so she absolutely deserves her mugshot here too. She once sat around the same dining table and bit into the same chicken that had been stored in this ice house. Thinking of it like that, it's pretty mindblowing. 

And then the home gained an additional member in 1859 when John remarried. His new wife was Sarah, and she was 23 years younger than him, being 26 when he was 49. At this point she was closer in age to his son George, who was 22. But at least she's not related to him this time, right? And whatever scandal that may have arisen from such an age gap seems to be overshadowed by John's industrial brilliance and his other philanthropies. It seems the Anstice's were rather saintly for a bunch of rich people. John's father had abolished child labour in his factories, and John himself would pay for his employees funeral expenses if any happened to lose family or die themselves. He even attended and wept at his employees funerals. He saw his employees as humans, and that is a rarity, even today. The manager in my last job made me take my father's funeral out of my annual leave, and it really didn't bring out my productive side for that company. There is a lesson there. I think if we're being overshadowed in humanitarianism by the freakin' Victorian era, the same one that threw people into lunatic asylums for being depressed, then you know society is fucked. 

John Anstice and Sarah had two additional children to add to their already considerable brood. These were John in 1862 and Helen in 1863. 

I don't know why he had another John. He already has a son named John, but I guess he wanted one named after him from his new wife too. I don't know what happened to this other John, but we do have a mugshot of his sister, Helen. 

(Helen Anstice. Photo not mine, obviously.)

John Anstice died in 1867. It was such a loss to the community that a memorial fund was raised and a community hall was built in his name, opening in 1870. There's also the Anstice Workman's Social Club, established in his name in 1866, and probably a whole bunch of other examples of the Anstice legacy sprinkled around the area. 

And the Anstice children seemingly had no resentment to their step-mother Sarah, who was almost the same age as the oldest of their entire brood. She remained a widow in the mansion here long into her older years, until the 1911 census reveals that at the age of 78 she just buggered off to Torquay. But for the most part, she had to raise Little John and Helen herself, with help from some of her step-children. It seems George, Elizabeth, Laura and Richard were still in the mansion with her, according to the 1871 census, and George would stay with her the longest. But the census data from the time does specify that he was deaf and dumb, so it's likely that Sarah was his carer as well as his step-mother.

But there is evidence that some drama and bad blood did emerge, and may even be the driving force behind Sarah's move to Torquay, because the only child who got anything in her will was her daughter Helen, who inherited all of her books, ornaments, linen, furs, pictures, horses, wine, furniture, clothing, diamonds and trinkets, as well as land in Torquay. Although it does say that her own son John, and her stepson Richard Anstice could live in the property in Torquay, if they paid rent to Helen. It is curious that they are the only sons who get even a smidge of recognition.

It's entirely possible that with the death of George in 1900, Sarah felt that nothing was tying her to this house anymore, and with resentment between her and her step-kids, she just fucked off.  

A quick stroll from the ice house is this little ruin, purported to be an old engine house, also part of the Madeley Wood Company and thereby just as relevant. It's all just a scar of the areas former industrial glory.

 

The Madeley Wood Company, without a leader after Johns death, was taken over by his brother William at first, but he died in 1881, and so John's sons, John Arthur and Richard took the lead. John Arthur was the mayor of Much Wenlock too, and he attended the coronation of Edward VII and Alexandra in 1902. 

According to the 1881 census, the mansion was still occupied by Sarah, still a widow, and her step children, George, John Arthur, Richard, and her own son John. The girls had all left to get married and have their own children. 

But by the 20th Century, after George's death it was only Richard who was actually living with her. John Arthur, while running the company, lived elsewhere with his wife Agnes. And then finally Sarah left for Torquay and wrote a very Helen-heavy will. It sure is intriguing. 

And then it all went downhill, both for the mansion and the company, and it was all heralded by John Arthur's son, the first of many bitter blows. And because he fought in the first world war, we have a photo of him too. 

(Soldier John- photo not mine, obviously)

Soldier John was born to John and Agnes in 1894. He fought in the first world war, and was gunned down in Turkey in 1915. 

Things apparently got hard for the Anstice's after the war. There was a bit of a mining subsidence that coincided with the loss of their son, and according to some unverified rumours, the mansion had a fire. 

John and Richard sold the company in 1918, marking the end of an era that had spanned several generations of their family history, and the mansion was apparently demolished in the 1920s, leaving only the ice house and a few other bits dotted around. 

And that's pretty much all I've got. It's not exactly the most impressive adventure. But my tales of derring-do are not quite derring-done. I'm tying up a few loose ends here in Shropshire while the larger adventures happen over on my travel blog.

Because while I do love a good chunk of history, and a good story, I'm not deluding myself. I've basically just written  an essay about a fridge. And how many of the Anstice's ever actually saw it? Surely this is the realm of the servants? But it still blows my mind that food was stored here, and that this food was eaten by the people I've spoken about today, stretching back over numerous generations. It's just a massive shame that the mansion didn't also survive into the present day. If not for the ice house, you'd never know it was ever there. 

So were the Anstice's neuro-spicy? Almost certainly. There's just too much non-conformity to societal expectations mingled with absolute genius in whatever they were passionate about, be it industrial or mathematical. Had they not been born to wealth, they absolutely would have been bullied in school and in their regular adult work life, by people with no personalities who live off their successes today, but left to their own devices couldn't even sharpen a pencil. If anything the industrial revolution shows us what brilliant minds can do if we let them be brilliant minds. But let's be honest, I'm talking to wall on that one.

If you like my blogs, then the best way to stay updated is to follow my social medias. 

And I'll be honest, I hate social media. I miss the old Internet of the early 2000s when everyone knew a bit of HTML and just made their own simplistic websites about whatever they were nerdy about and filled it with coding to make the cursor spew glitter when it moved. But now we've been herded onto these algorithmic juggernauts slowly eroding our attention spans and IQs. But I am on Facebook and I am on Instagram. I'm also on Twitter, Threads and Bluesky, which seems contradictory given the political divisiveness of today. I've been called a right-wing Nazi for being on Twitter and sitting with my legs open, and I've been called a lefty socialist for being on Bluesky and passing GCSE English. 

I'm just a blogger and an urbexer, and I want to post my stuff on the internet, okay? Not everything needs to be a war. 

So Bluesky, along with Vero and the newcomer Cara, seem to be attempts at breaking away from the algorithmic rage baiting and making social media about posting our stuff and enjoying our time again. You can find me there, and I urge anyone who is sick of drama to go there too. The Internet can be fun again.  

Thanks for reading!