Abandonment

 

Although I had never been to this Scottish village before, all I could sense was my goal and consequently, my surroundings were all but a blur. The blanket of grey above me diffused the sunlight and gave all the buildings that did stand out around me in a grey hue. My mind was racing, thinking about all the images that I had seen on internet and I glanced down at my sketchy map the buildings around me soon metamorphosed into a mess of greenery, nothing could be heard in the air apart from the crescendo of birds, as if every single species of bird had emigrated to breed here in some field outside of Cardross. Behind me, a faint roar soon became a clattering and a milk tanker passed me was I going to be in trouble for trespassing? Was the milk tanker on its way to the forlorn building, which had now found a new use between me seeing it on the internet taking the initiative to see it in the flesh? Was I that unlucky? The tanker disappeared into the greenery and there I was, left on my own once again with my plastic bag holding my camera, gloves and notebook in the middle of a maze of greenery, interspersed with the odd black and white profile of a cow. The driveway continued and according to my map, it was to split somewhere soon, but where? I began to feel uneasy. Was I in the right place? I was meant to be meeting the architect of the same building at six thirty that evening in Glasgow, another world away from this place.

 

My heart stopped upon seeing the drive fork roughly a hundred meters further up. I instinctively took the right fork and there stood the remains of an abandoned lodge to my left. I climbed into the rubble to find any trace of the former inhabitants, yet there was none. I followed the drive, a line of abandonment curiously slicing a well kept golf course in two. I knew that I was in the right place, that a host of abandoned structures including a piece of iconic Scottish architecture was ahead, but where? I began thinking about situations where I may not find my way in, or where a guard may have been postedor where I may not even come out alive. The golf course soon disappeared behind me and once again I became swallowed up in overgrown greenery. Thorns tore at my jacket as I walked on, and ahead of me an ornate crumbling bridge led over a stream.

 

Welcome to Hell.

 

My heart stopped and scurried up into my throat the harsh, black graffiti plastered over the once ornate and cared for surface clawed at my sanity, and stupidly my journey continued, and the drive teased me as it wend its way two and fro through the greenery when would I see the building?

 

Welcome to Hell.

 

A cruise liner, abandoned in the woods stood right ahead, its broken concrete surface gliding towards me as if I was a dockside bollard to tie it to. A tall gate reared its spiny, sharp tentacles high into the air as I approached, reminding me that I was trespassing. Its solidity gave the crumbling concrete edifice a sort of sugary, temporary texture. The aluminium gate clattered gently as I clumsily climbed over it, snagging my bag in the process and making me aware that I was in a dangerous situation if other people were there in this lawless space. The concrete ziggurat climbed into the air above me and my fear of being deprived of my existence by vandals and squatters evaporated into a state of euphoria. The birds screamed as I infiltrated a dark narrow slab set in the side of a curvaceous wall which towered over me, some of its render crumbling. Inside a dank sweet smell momentarily strangled me as my eyes dilated, and a spiral staircase led upwards before the space threw itself open. There I saw a space which I had only seen through pixellated images on a London computer screen. The damaged altar came into view, with two candles which had the appearance of stakes, jammed into the concrete. Layers of graffiti surrounded me, the previously blank, maintained walls were being used as canvasses for communication. All around me the crumbling structure begged for attention, and I had to stand in the same spot whilst I looked around, as though I was stuck in the freeze-frame of a disaster movie. If I pressed play, the spaces around me would convolute and crumble all around me, covering me and trapping me in the horror, not allowing me to return to normality. 

 

A bird whooped in the dank space, sending shivers through my momentarily weakened spine, and faces began to appear in the damaged face of the altar, sending me walking briskly through the space towards the remains of a staircase, its wooden steps smashed away, revealing only the inclined reinforced concrete support. I gingerly climbed the remains of the steps and found myself on the first floor, looking down at the altarpiece. Parts of the wooden flooring below me had been stripped away or burnt, and I balanced carefully as I snatched at the air with my digital camera.  Peering into the dilapidated study bedrooms I could not believe that students of the Church once slept here. The bedrooms themselves ranged from being reasonably intact, to having had their floors and walls stripped away. I stood in one of the rooms, thinking about abstinence from intercourse on the behalf of the priest who would have once studied here. Looking at the remains of a shelving unit hanging from the bubbling remains of a chipboard partition, I wondered what was placed on those shelves. The space was now an anarchic art gallery, functionless and without an obvious authority in control. Exiting, I almost found myself swallowed up by the blackened wooden floor, and managed to sidestep onto a crumbling beam before being involuntarily sacrificed before the desecrated altar.

 

Two memory cards and hours later, I found myself on the roof of the ziggurat after having scaled a crumbling partition wall in what was once a shared bathroom. My brown pumps clawed at and broke the white tiles as I crawled through the shattered skylight. High up there I was at my most vulnerable, yet also at my most secure, with stunning views of the Clyde in the distance. Looking down at the secured gate that I had clambered over, scenarios rushed through my mind involving local gangs, appearing and then trapping me there on the roof, before torturing me and throwing me to my death. To my death on the crumbled concrete floor of a dying building before continuing their rampage and creating dialectical still lives by sending shelving units from study bedrooms crashing over the altar below. I shook my head, flummoxed by the infiltration of this once sacred space by elements normally associated with urban grit. The wind howled through the damaged buildings as I clambered carefully over the gate, the dilapidated cruise liner began floating away, and reality hit me before my adrenaline ebbed away. Fresh memories of my visit tweaked at my sense of fear, and suddenly I could sense a palpable foreboding atmosphere as welcome to Hell rushed by to my left. I could sense something behind me as I found my way to the main road, and I knew that I would not be heading back there for a long, long time.