Despite initial misgivings, we pressed up the brick tunnel, on the presumption that the level would drop further up, and we’d be spared the peril of this deep, strong flow. Within minutes, my thighs and ankles were burning, slogging against the heavy current. Footing was a constant issue on the slippery floor, and it didn’t do to consider too long the consequences of falling. With the current depth, going over would mean going under.

Onward we struggled, at a remarkably slow pace, passing glorious brickwork features that I really couldn’t shoot. I tried placing my big tripod in the flow, and it just juddered and fell. No chance. We did find some respite early on, when we exited the flow to find the point at which the Serpentine River flows belowground. Mere metres in, however, the clear water was lost in effluent flow. JD and I continued up the tunnel toward a particular triple-arch feature, which would also provide us with an exit.

Muscle fatigue was becoming an issue, and legs dragged numbly against the flow. This was like climbing stairs with weighted boots, and after a while, legs began to refuse to do as they were told. Keeping footing became more and more difficult. There were many close-call slipping moments, and I stayed upright all but one of those times. That other time, I went over sideways, and, well, saved myself from going over by plunging my arm into the flow at the side of the tunnel. My sleeve was soaked but I was otherwise spared. The latex glove on my hand kept my glove dry, in as much as I could tell. Much of my clothing was soaking in sweat by now, from the constant exertion, and I’m sure I smelled worse than the sewer did on its own.

I nodded at a friendly rat that scampered impressively just above the flow, clinging to the encrusted brick walls.

Finally, we reached the junction! A glorious triple-arched chamber, on the other side of which an exit awaited us. However, there was a problem. The flow was as strong as ever, with overflow pouring through each of the arches. While we contemplated our options, I decided to set up for a shot or two. The main problems shooting were that one simply couldn’t move around to light things up, and the camera couldn’t just be left sitting on its own. In the lull of a side tunnel, I set up the camera, stable enough at least for exposures, if not safe to leave, and JD and I swapped between lighting and camera duties until I’d managed to at least take an “I was here” shot.

So, how to get out? We couldn’t even get into the chamber thanks to the churning flow that just pushed us back if we tried, and the exit on the other side would require swimming through sewage anyway. Another manhole shaft nearby was an option, though, but situated in a terribly busy location in the outside world. JD climbed the shaft, perhaps seven metres, but returned in dismay: cyclists were running across the manhole regularly, and chances were we were going to kill someone if we popped it. And, so, we started back the way we’d come.

On the whole, it was a much quicker pace with the current, and in a short time we were back at a stone spiral staircase in the side of the tunnel, ancient and worn, caked with sediment. The manhole at the top, though, had not been opened in many a long year, and was not going to open for us, and so back into the flow it was, down to one other potential exit we’d passed. If this one didn’t work, we’d be going back all the way to our entry point.

Thankfully, though, it did, and daylight and fresh air were much more liberating than I’d realised they would be. We emerged amongst picnickers, and crowds walking along a lake. The manhole slammed shut, we walked to the lake’s edge, watching the happy boaters, and I rinsed my big torch and tripod, as well as the feet of my waders. It was good to sit down.

Leisurely, we wandered through the busy park, getting odd looks. It eventually occurred to me that we were sweaty and covered in filth. My poor backpack, which as been through a lot, was looking particularly worse for wear.

I caught the tube back to St Pancras, knowing full well how sore I would be in the morning. I stepped from the train, and walked through the maze of connecting tunnels, stairs, and escalators, until, a few minutes later, I finally emerged into daylight, and realised just how much exiting the tube complex reminded me of exiting the sewers. Take that as you will!

Running under an airport, and two docks, the tunnel isn’t really all that long – it’s merely an underground section of a predominately overground rail system. Well, it was, before it was rendered obsolete by nearby light rail services. It’s not hard to find, and, certain discouragements notwithstanding, not that difficult to access.

I arrived by light rail, and surveyed one end of the tunnel happily. Unfortunately, it was not a great point at which to gain entry, so on I went overland, and across the bridge that spans the docks, conscious that I was roughly tracing the path of the tunnel, which ran somewhere under the deep water below. According to railway history people, the tunnel was closed for a while at one point in its history for emergency remediation when it was discovered ships were dragging their keels on the roof…

This being London, things were relatively damp. It was drizzling lightly as I entered, and I could hear the gurgling of water through the drains that run through the floor. I did wonder where all that water was going – pumped out, perhaps? I imagine that without maintenance, this place would just fill with water. As it was, there was plenty of moisture dripping down the walls, and flowing across the track remnants. The rails themselves glinted wet with rust. If you like musty smells, you should visit here.

Maybe things degrade quickly in this environment, but appearances belied the fact that the tunnel has only been closed for a matter of years, not decades.

The central portion of the tunnel is glorious ironwork – perhaps the remediation mentioned previously?  By the time I reached that section, it had grown dramatically colder.  Cold water ran over my thankfully-waterproof boots, and a chilly breeze flowed past.  It’s not a long tunnel, at a little over half a kilometre, but it does carry a significant gradient.  Running around lighting photos warmed me up pretty effectively, though!

The thing with London is that while I gloried at the stunning brickwork, it’s just not unusual here.  Half the city boasts remarkable architecture from before Australia had seen western colonisation.  As the usual resident of a relatively young city, I’m just not accustomed to seeing such civil engineering wonders at every turn.

I’d been walking through Kowloon, Hong Kong for hours, navigating endless streets of stalls, with only a vague notion of where I was actually going. The sun was invisible in the haze, and hidden by the forest of concrete buildings, anyway. Not so much the mirrorred glass city where I was, just lots of super-dense grimy concrete monoliths, jutting into the sky. In the bustle of the daytime commerce district, I found myself noting the way signage changed down particular streets, and where the market stalls were. Now and again, I’d get a glimpse of the mountains in the distance, beyond the concrete canyon, and this was enough to orient myself.

Sunset was gradual, and just a dimming of the overall ambient light, until the neon overpowered any natural light source. Once the sun was gone, so were my landmarks. Anything distant became either darkness or a blinding neon blur. Now, the obvious question is, why not just remember where you are? Where that became an issue was in trailing through gargantuan meat markets and electronics bazaars, exiting blindly onto some random street.

So, my new landmarks became the stores and stalls. A familiar broken breadstick here, a grimy fan suspended there. Such things are one-dimensional, of course, so while I’d gain a line of navigation, it was fifty-fifty sometimes whether I’d have the direction right. If not, a further landmark would flip my mental image a hundred-and-eighty degrees, which was a strangely unpleasant sensation to my dehydrated and sleep-deprived brain.

But, by such methods, I got where I needed to go. Of course, I could have just used the GPS in my phone, but where’s the fun in that?

Yes, the sexy chest waders, the finest, cheapest pair BCF or some such place had to offer back in the day. As far as keeping me dry, they’ve done well, even in the shot here, where you can clearly see that I haven’t done them up fully, and they’ve fallen down. just as well I realised this before I waded back to the deep bit. I do like having a pants-fallen-down shot, though.

Another random excursion took me back to a well-loved location that has seen a few topside alterations. Both the entrances to this that I would usually use have been inadvertently made more difficult in recent times, which is unfortunate, but obviously not insurmountable.

Not the most carefully-composed or lit shots I’ve ever taken, but it’s always fun.

The green horror that shows up under even the most stretched white balance is the result of some strange fluorescent monstrosity of a lighting system positioned nearby.  Still, the crumbling brick, the chain, the… whatever that is in the foreground there, combine to make a fascinating location.  I really do wonder what the history of this section of river was.

The last vestiges of what this area once was are gone, of course.  The wooden wharves that once lined this entire reach of the river have been gone for decades, and what elements still hung on have been subsumed by riverside development.  Riverfront land is a valuable commodity.  Still, that chain, what purpose did it serve?  Boats aren’t moored by chains, and it’s set into the wall, anyway, not onto a breakable bollard, so that makes no sense.

Then… what?

If anyone has any idea, let me know!

Way up, things are detached, and it’s a different environment completely. Just a few stories though, even one, and while the visual perspective changes, you’re still in the thick of things, still in the sphere of influence of the sounds and smells and vibrations of the regular, street-level world.

Just don’t get too cocky, and end up sheepishly finding a security guard to let you out the now-closed-and-locked entrance through which you arrived…

The rumble of commercial exhaust fans came and went, but it was clear this section was no longer at all active.  No air movement in the shaft room, nor through the labyrinthine concrete corridors that lead to it.  Occasional filter bays along the way were long neglected.  It seems this system is no longer connected in any sensible way to anything much at all.  Of course, there is still a way in, though it’s incidental, and fairly obviously not built for human traversal.  Whatever works, though!

Unfortunately, the shaft itself currently boasts a floor of stagnant water – maybe the upper section breaches the real world after all, and lets rain in?  I’m curious, after thinking about this, and will have to see if I can find any remnant of it aboveground.

On a chillly night aboveground, it was quite pleasant in the warm, enclosed environment.  Anything not wet is covered in dust, however – there are probably better places to hang out with friends. :)

This place once housed a large-scale timber operation, among other things, situated in a solidly industrial district.  I have no idea how long it’s been since the last tenant moved on, but things are looking a bit worse for wear.  Another vandalism-free site, though.  While I doubt that anyone is particularly worried about the security of this particular complex, the district itself is patrolled heavily, and I doubt it would be worth the effort for casual destruction.

There isn’t much here, though – just steel.  Big, empty shells that really tell nothing about the site’s past.  If not for the old business signage, I’d have little idea what for what purpose this place had been used.

It’s all very generic, and I’ve no doubt the infrastructure that remains would suit any number of purposes.  I may well drive back past in a few months to find it all up and operational, with the weathered old signage replaced by something new.

It’s nice to find a place that hasn’t yet been ravaged by vandals!  The saving grace here is location – it’s very exposed, and the neighbours probably wouldn’t put up with too much.  I imagine it’s only a matter of time before it’s either reclaimed and demolished, however – it’s prime real estate.

I’m fairly sure that last time I passed by here, the pools were full of water, so either someone’s doing basic maintenance to prevent mosquito breeding colonies forming, or all the pools have cracked and drained.  Let’s hope it’s the former.  At least the pools were always fenced for safety, even if the water was kind of green by the end.

I notice these people love palm trees!  And why not?  They certainly add something to the feel of the place, even when it’s falling into decrepitude.

So, it was a different sight for me, if nothing else.  I’m not sure it was that inspiring, photographically, but it was a worthy place to spend some time by the light of an almost-full moon.

The size of this place is deceptive – the jutting, dated front is merely the most visible part of a building which widens significantly a little way back from the overgrown entryway.  It’s a big place. 

So, being quiet types, and seeking to be inconspicuous, the two of us on this trip walked a little way through the darkness towards our destination, trying in particular to not to attract attention from the busy, active premises adjacent, which sees a lot of traffic, even after dark.  Boots treading quietly up roads with broken entryway signage, breath visible in the cold night air.

As we got closer, though, it was apparent that something was afoot.  Flickers of light from within the building caught our attention, and voices were audible.  They were not quiet voices.  Crunching and crashing sounds were soon evident, along with yelling and squealing.  There were probably about eight of them in all, just about driving age, and they clearly didn’t share our concerns about attracting attention.  From our vantage point in the adjacent business, we listened to their progress through the building, watching torch light flashing out smashed windows, and waited for them to leave.

The concern, of course, is that nobody wants to be held accountable for the actions of others, and so we contemplated whether we’d be better off just coming back another night entirely.  By this time, though, we were fairly commited, and so we sat it out until the small crowd of youths had gathered in the car park – not of the old building, but the car park of the adjacent business - thrown some bottles around, and driven away, detonating some kind of fireworks on the way out.  If messing around in the buildings hadn’t attracted attention, the detonation, sure would.  But, oh well, such is life – we went in, regardless, and kept an eye out for visitors.

This was my third visit, and somehow I’d previously missed half the main building, including a ruined function room with tasteful orange velour columns – “porno decor”, as my companion dubbed it.  Years of somewhat destructive visits like the one we’d just intruded upon have left this place a ruin, but it’s still fascinating in many ways.  Shooting it is another matter though – I really think I need to come up with a more useful approach to this place than I currently have.  Thought required.

Needless to say, there was no security, no police, just undue paranoia and caution on my part.  I imagine nobody is really paid enough to chase people around a building like this, anyway.  I wonder how regularly groups of would-be-partygoers run through here, like this?  The neighbours must hate the place.