So, on the hottest day of the year I venture out, back to the island. I had a couple to do.
Dressed like a tourist.(short sleeved thin polo shirt, stick with me)
What was I thinking?
Anyways, get off the main roads, always the best bet.
HELLO
I mean really? I just gotta find somewhere to park up, don’t want to be seen as loitering ffs.
So, just under an hour later I made it, the signs were misleading they failed to warn me that I would end up “lost”. (Google maps wanted to keep sending me back to the lane, FUCK OFF!).Field after well hedged field blocked my way, doubling back up and down slopes. To say I was becoming frustrated would be an understatement!
At last it was in my grasp, hands and knees SAS style through a bramble and hawthorn hedge.
I can do it
I can do it
I did it, fuck me! Now I have just got to get in the place.......
and that involved getting to the back as the front was a no no,
Yup more hurty vegetation.
By the time I made it to the backdoor I was sweating like a blind lesbian in a fishmongers
No rip stop jacket on, those hawthorns had done their work, what’s a bit of blood compared to salty sweat in the eyes, wiping with a soaking tee shirt failed: then due to the coldness inside my glasses steamed up and I walked into shelving unit I was beginning to feel slightly pissed off.
Tbh I was taking snaps blind, relying upon live view, not much treasure within, mainly “estate agent” shots.
It was only when the snaps were uploaded I really got to see how creepy the place was, love it.
A few invoices from 1975
A couple of bikes and some low hanging spider webs that I kept walking into
Upstairs was in retrospect also suitably grim
So my time here was done, the struggle back did not fill me with enthusiasm, I was feeling that in my current state of disarray I made stig of the dump look like brad pitt.
I thought I’d try and find an easier way back to civilisation, I turned left and enjoyed less harsh undergrowth, over the years doing this I have become immune to nettle stings, which is nice.
Clambered over the gate for a parting snap and followed the over grown rutted dirt path, that eventually oh shit led me onto the driveway in the garden of a rather splendid looking des res.
Stop look listen!
Silence (no dogs). Proceed.
Oh crap someone is cleaning the X3.
The vision of pure beauty appeared, (think Anita Rani when she is in her late 50’s). Obviously not dressed for receiving visitors in her crop top, spray on lycra shorts and bright pink wellies.
I don’t know who was more startled by what they were looking at!
“Whatch yam doing”, the accent was totally at odds with the vision, broad really broad West Midlands accent hit me like a force 10 gale.
Answers thought.
A)”Walkers, the herd is coming this way, we need to move it now” a la Daryl Dixon
B) “Lady, I just been t’ hell and back and you are standing there asking me that”? A la John Wayne.
“Shwmai” I meekly offered, “Rwy'n ceisio mynd yn ôl i'm car, mae'n ddrwg gen i fy mod i wedi dod i ben ar eich eiddo”
“Nope yow can guess I’m not local” she laughed, “ Tham arm looks nasty, yam should get it cleaned, stay there“ and off she retreated round the bungalow.
Thoughts
A) No point in running, I don’t run, I’m too old, I walk quickly, but have no clue how far to the car, besides, that’s the act of a guilty man. I ain’t broke no law.
B) Please come back dressed in a nurses uniform, I said a silent prayer to the goddess Lakshmi
The prayer wasn’t answered, she returned with a 30 something floppy haired, lose chinned, jug eared, tosspot mincing his way towards me ( sorry, rewind, that’s just the little green man raising his head).
She returned with a 40 something debonair rugby player built giant
His name was Dylan
Dylan was her husband
He was also the local vet.
As he swilled my arm and put some TCP on it, shit I hate the smell of that stuff! applied a nice big plaster suitable for a horse, we sparked up a conversation in our mother tongue about urbex (i came clean), the old house, empty for 30 yrs since the son who inherited it, sold off 95% of the land to other farmers, when his father died, intending to renovate said house, then promptly got himself killed on a motor bike.
We chatted about the scamdemic
we chatted football.
i was good to go, apparently less than 1/2 a mile to the car.
the kindness of strangers
and just for those who don't know, this is the beauty of....Ms Anita Rani
Jai Ho
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Did she understand your, 'Rwy'n ceisio mynd yn ôl i'm car, mae'n ddrwg gen i fy mod i wedi dod i ben ar eich eiddo'. Without translate, I am fucked... as we English are lazy bastards when it comes to languages.
My dog hates the smell of TCP, he runs a mile.., you should carry a bottle with you, all these crawling through brambles you do. I get injured a little sometimes, but not to that extent.
we must suffer for our art!! in normal circumstances i'd be squealing like a girl, it must be the adrenaline that keeps me going.
i guess she might not have understood, but i think it may have reassured her that i wasn't an outsider so to speak.
for the uneducated and lazy bastards! i apologised for being lost and ending up in her garden!
This was a fun adventure story with a twist ending. She sounds like a nice site after facing them brambles and nettles.
As for the house i was wincing when you mentioned walking into those nasty spider webs. I saw ye pictures thinking id hate to walk into those only to find out you actually had.
Looking forward to your next urbex. Nice that the guy was cool with your hobby. Still trying to picture the lady in spandex and and a singlet. I think im doing a pretty good job judging by the tingling sensation.
thanks, glad you enjoyed my pain!
i must admit my little soldiers was ready too!
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