SUSO

Are Urban Explorers diehard trespassers, or quixotic historians chasing stories that the masses leave to rot?

W / OLLY ZANETTI
P / ANDRE PENTEADO

During the 80-odd years it operated, over 350 people escaped – or as staff once preferred to put it, ‘wandered away’ – from the Severalls Lunatic Asylum in the Colchester suburb of Mile End. So why, a decade after its closure, are two (seemingly sane) men spending their Saturday afternoon scrutinising the fence enclosing the site and its derelict buildings, trying to find a way in? Simon Cornwell and his pal Ian are ‘urbexers’, urban explorers fascinated by the gradual decay of abandoned buildings. Left empty by their owners, and atrophying limbo-like between past uses and uncertain futures, such buildings are littered with surreal traces of their former selves; memories, artifactual and otherwise, scattered ghostlike about them.

And so Simon and Ian scour the fence, looking for a gap through which they can slither. One fencepost is held in place by only a metal strip. It’s too tough to force by hand, but would be no match for a pair of decent wire cutters. “Urbexing’s not about cutting fenceposts or damaging property,” warns Simon. “We never even carry tools.” This has a lot to do with ideals: visiting an abandoned building is like visiting the countryside – take nothing but pictures and leave nothing but footsteps. But partly, too, it’s an act of pragmatic self-preservation. “If we force our way in we can be done for breaking and entering, which is a criminal matter,” continues Simon. “Otherwise, it’s civil trespass, and we’d just be escorted from the premises.” So they move on, inspecting other possibilities.

Though the terminology may have been different, as Simon notes, “People have been urbexing since we first built permanent structures.” The career track of John Harris, a writer and curator in his mid-seventies who now specialises in architecture, was borne of the urbexing he did in his youth. In 1946, a teenage Harris became interested in the crumbling country houses that covered rural England. Requisitioned by the army during World War II, the houses were run to the ground and ultimately abandoned. As documented in his autobiographical book, No Voice From The Hall, he hitchhiked around, searching out and investigating these once magnificent piles.

Glasgow’s Milk Crate Gang were one of the first groups to pioneer contemporary exploring. Operating in the 1990s, their expeditions took in the city’s long defunct train tunnel infrastructure, a remnant of the early twentieth century’s industrial era. The Milk Crate Gang were the first to recognise the role of the internet in urbexing, posting pictures and notes from their missions online.

However, following hostile media reports, the Gang is no more. Having been approached by an apparently sympathetic reporter from the local paper, they were horrified to discover a highly critical piece, accusing the group of endangering themselves, trespassing on private property and encouraging others to do the same. Stunned, the group disbanded and their website closed. For many urbexers the wound is still raw. Simon, therefore, is keen to dispel any myths. “There’s more to urbex than people sneaking into derelict buildings for kicks,” he resolutely points out.

So what drives him then? “It’s about going where others don’t go, seeing what others don’t see.” The aesthetics are important. Like other urbexers, he goes everywhere with his camera, taking pictures and putting them online. “Realistically,” he says, “buildings have to change. But the romantic in me would love to see them left to decay. It’s certainly better than bulldozing them.” In countries like France, decay does take place, but not so this side of the Channel. “There seems to be something destructive in the British character,” says Simon. Valuable original features are ripped out by dodgy merchants, and vandals destroy what remains with mundane graffiti – ‘Willy,’ as one such scrawler helpfully informs us, ‘is better than vag.’

But for Simon, there’s more to it. Nine-to-five he is a computer scientist, and his inner IT geek shows in his approach to urban exploration. Ian has recently got hold of the plans to the Severalls complex and, as he and Simon tour the fence, the two look eagerly across at the buildings. “I’ve been here before, a couple of years ago,” says Simon, “but that was without the plans. The exploration was pretty haphazard. This time, we can look around and know exactly where we are and what we’re seeing.” This, for Simon, is where much of the interest lies. Deconstructing old buildings, and working out who did what, and where.

And when it comes to asylums, he knows his stuff. From whole buildings to minor details, Simon is full of information. It’s clearly a subject he’s read up on, and during urban explorations he takes on the role of historian of the unconventional – spotting narratives ignored by the mainstream. And it’s not only narratives. Through his explorations, Simon has built up an understanding of the minutiae of the everyday lives of those inhabiting the buildings he visits. “I’ve seen patients’ names on doors, even old patient records,” he reveals. It’s little surprise then that his website impressed the British Library who, as members of the Web Archiving Consortium, now take a regular, permanent, snapshot of it.

"Realistically, buildings have to change. But the romantic in me would love to see them left to decay."

Like John Harris, Simon is against the destruction of architecturally important buildings. Harris was driven to action by the discovery that, in 1955, one country house, the like of which he visited in his youth, was being demolished every five days. The obliteration of this strand of Britain’s architectural and cultural heritage was exposed in the 1974 exhibition ‘The Destruction of the Country House’, which Harris co-curated. Almost overnight, such demolitions stopped and the campaign group SAVE Britain’s Heritage was founded.

Simon’s campaigning has been a little more low key. Fearing the loss of another asylum site, he wrote to English Heritage to advise its preservation. “I knew nothing about the paperwork or anything like that. I just wrote to them, listing the reasons why I thought it should be protected.” Developers who owned the land disagreed, and in the end English Heritage sided with them. They justified their decision by claiming the features he described were not unique and therefore not worthy of preservation. Ironically though, the only other place they can be seen is at another asylum, also due for demolition.

John Harris and the Milk Crate Gang don’t represent the whole urbexing world, however. Simon describes himself as, “On the outside of the outside”. Urbexing scenesters communicate through forums such as 28DaysLater, and post details of their explorations on personal websites interlinked by the Urban Exploration Webring. But unlike the wacky pseudonyms most urbexers use, Simon is willing to put his name to what he does. “I don't mind being seen publicly as a serial trespasser, as I feel the ends justify the means. Taking pictures from a site before it's changed or gone forever - particularly places which were secretive, either from social stigma or military necessity - means there's some record. I often get e-mails from a site’s ex-employees or residents who are pleased I did it.” Because he uses his real name, he must also stick to the rules. "I've been to places where I can't get inside so I walk away."

Today, Severalls’ main site looks to be one of these places, as security has tightened significantly since Simon’s last visit. Only a few small villas that once held private patients surrounding the site are accessible. The poor fences are a double-edged sword, and fire damage indicates that others have been there first. “Vandals, or perhaps an insurance job,” Simon speculates. The buildings are still eerily beautiful, with bedside lamps protruding from walls and, though the light fittings are long since gone, many switches remain in the ‘on’ position. “That’s quite common,” Simon notes, “the corridor lights would be left on, and the last one out would shut off the electricity at the mains.” As we drive to another site, this time a piece of World War II invasion defence architecture, there is palpable disappointment that Severalls remains untapped.

Surely this fascination with old lunatic asylums is a bit perverse, especially given the horror stories of people’s treatment within their walls? But as much as Simon is interested in asylums, the buildings found him rather than the other way around. Across the UK, around 100 asylums have been closed in the past 20 years, and few alternative uses have been found. Many sites have been snapped up by developers, although preservation is a low priority. For the urban explorer whose beloved buildings were due to be demolished and replaced with identikit suburban housing, the so-called credit crunch is offering some reprieve.

"I don't mind being seen publicly as a serial trespasser, as I feel the ends justify the means."

As security tightens, urbexing’s asylum era looks to be drawing to a close. For now, at this World War II site, it’s easy to get in. The multimillion pound security fence is just for show, and ends suddenly in a patch of bushes. Simon’s never been here before, and he regards the once foreboding concrete structures with curiosity and excitement. But why? “It’s inexplicable,” he says, “there’s just aspects of urban decay I find interesting, and I enjoy the freedom of not having to stick to some tour.” Many other urbexers put disclaimers on their websites, advising others not to get involved. But Simon’s keen to share the magic. “Be sensible, take responsibility for yourself, and don’t damage anything.” ‘Enter if curious,’ he says on his website. ‘We do.’

www.28dayslater.co.uk