Dulais Rock

On one seriously soggy July (because this is the UK and we don't have summers unless there's a global pandemic) I decided to nip by this quirky but dilapidated drinking hole known as the Dulais Rock. Pubs aren't exactly my favourite kind of urbex spots, unless of course I have personal nostalgia associated with the place, but it really was bucketing it down, and my plans in the area had been rather weather dependent, so had flopped faster than Prince Andrew at an 18th Birthday party. 

I was determined to get some kind of adventure out of the day, so soaking wet as I was, I made my way here. 

Although I wasn't particularly optimistic about the amount of shelter I'd get from this place. 

As far as pubs go, it does have a unique design, with its cute side balconies, and a frontage giving me dog-face pareidolia. It dates all the way back to the far flung year of 1658, and that is pretty incredible. 

(Photo credit: Stephen Roberts)

Here's how it used to look, back in its glory days. A keen eye might notice the old AA symbol on the road sign. 

But wait! We can turn the clock back further for even more bonkers revelations!

(Photo not mine, obviously)

The pub had a moat! How cool is that???? 

Who the hell had the idea of removing this in favour of a carpark? Isn't that what happened to Hitlers bunker in Berlin, because they wanted the area to be as unremarkable as possible? What kind of monster would give the Hitler treatment to a pub moat? Shame on you!

Despite the changes, it's hard not to be impressed by the history here. When Queen Victoria was born, this building was here and already old. When King George was born, this was here. When Queen freakin' Mary was born, this was here, just about.

According to rumour, Oliver Cromwell also stayed here, hiding in the Priest Holes during the Civil War. One of the seats allegedly even had a metal plate stating that he had sat on it. But this rumour is easily crushed because Oliver Cromwell died in 1658, the same year that the pub was built. Maybe he took the time out of his life to play hide & seek in here really quick before getting back to his busy schedule of suffering from malaria and sepsis. But even then, it wasn't even a pub.

Back in 1658 the Dulais Rock was apparently a servants quarters for a nearby mill, the remnants of which still exist as a National Trust property, featuring a pretty nice walk to a small waterfall. It's entirely possible that this building was also a mill. In 1722, John Llewelyn claimed that "some years ago" he had rented out some land near the old mill for the construction of a new one for grinding wheat. This "new mill" is commonly believed to be the Dulais Rock. 

It probably wasn't called the Dulais Rock straight away, but that is just a hunch. This may surprise people but most British pub names (red lion, golden cross, nags head, etc) originate from a time when literacy was lower. These names were pictures. The words came later. I have no proof that the Dulais Rock was ever named anything else though. The name shows up on Victorian maps and stuff. It's just something that wouldn't surprise me if it was true. 

Slipping inside is pretty simple. The place is barely holding together. A well-timed fart will bring it crashing down.

I say that a lot about wrecked buildings. I wonder how many times I've avoided death by not having beans with my breakfast. 

I actually managed to find an older shot, pre closure, that shows this area, albeit from a different angle. 

(image not mine, obviously)

It's pretty bonkers. The two framed pictures from my photo are in the exact same place. 

Alas, the pub is a little too wrecked. A collapsing ceiling has completely taken out the bar. Someone once said "last orders" and didn't realise how right they were. 

There was once a sign above the fireplace that had allegedly been there since 1658 but has since been yoinked. It contained the "rules of the tavern," and it said "Four pence a night for a bed, two pence for horse keeping, No more than five to sleep in one bed, no boots to be worn in bed, no razor grinders to be taken in, no dogs allowed in the kitchen, and organ grinders are to sleep in the wash house."

It's a shame it's gone, and I can only hope it's been taken legitimately and is in the hands of the owner. 

If anything the sign provided a fascinating insight into culture in the 1600s. I'm quite intrigued by the fact that five people would share a bed, but also that the street musicians (referred to as organ grinders) weren't allowed an actual bedroom. 

Here in the doorway we can see the huge pile of rubble that encompasses the other half of the building. The corrugated iron on the floor was, I assume, once on the roof as a temporary attempt to keep out the elements. 

It's not the most exciting place in the world, from an urbex perspective, but just take a moment to consider how many people have drank here over the centuries. Generations upon generations of memories have happened within these soggy crumbling walls. That's pretty incredible. 

There is a grizzly rumour associated with the pub. Allegedly back when the mill was active, someone delivering metal had a fling with the landlords daughter and she became pregnant. Her father disapproved and she hanged herself in the bar area. She is said to still haunt the pub. 

But I've been unable to verify the story of her suicide. It could be bollocks. But it certainly could be possible. There was a time when unmarried pregnancies were a huge taboo. 

But the pub is still remembered as a jolly place to be. Sometimes bands would play here, and it had its own skittles alley around the back. It also hosted a clay pigeon shooting group, and there's a group on Facebook dedicated entirely to showcasing the songs that used to be on the pubs jukebox. People remember it fondly. Even the pubs name, Dulais Rock, has been taken on as the name of a local ladies bowls club. 

Some reasonably famous names have drank in these walls too. The artist J M W Turner has been here. He painted the waterfall and the mill in 1796, as did John Ruskin in the Victorian era. 

They aren't as big as Oliver Cromwell, but hey-ho.

There's some bunting here for someone's eighteenth birthday. 

Now onto the best part of any abandoned building, the toilets!

Still in better condition than the toilets in some active pubs and clubs. 

My favourite part of the pub was downstairs! 

But with the building so precarious, surely only a fool would go down here. 

Well here I am. I was once again able to match this shot with an older one from when the pub was open. The angle isn't the same but that picture is still hanging on the wall. 

(image not mine, obviously)

According to an article from 2004, this downstairs seating area was created during a renovation, which claimed to be restoring the Dulais Rock to its "former glory." This is still a few years before its subsequent abandonment and so it's largely indicative of a succession of closures and re-openings. These renovations turned the Dulais Rock into a fancy restaurant and offered three hotel bedrooms. An advert in the papers also boasted that the skittle alley had been refurbished and was ready for party bookings. 

Perhaps not surprisingly, loads of people claim that the pub is haunted. 

One of the more... interesting arguments in support of this is that "nobody would abandon so many things." They say that the owners clearly left in a hurry. 

This is easily debunkable because the owner himself is still around to testify. It's also quite silly because nobody is THAT afraid of ghosts. This sort of scenario evokes scenes from Casper. In the real world, nobody abandons their home and all of their possessions due to translucent flying condoms. Real life isn't like the movies. 

But contrary to how I come across with my incessant mockery of "PaRaNoRmAl InVeStIgAtIoNs" in urbex, I am actually open to the supernatural. I have personally experienced some strange things in my life that I can't explain. But I don't think the paranormal occurs often enough to support as many youtube channels as it does, and even Ghostbusters knew that in order to get any ounce of plausibility, the characters would need scientific backgrounds. The movie with a giant marshmallow man knew that, so I'm not about to blindly believe Kev the Youtuber who failed GCSE English, and has a beeping thing that he got off the internet for £11.19, let's be honest. 

Proof of the afterlife would be the greatest scientific breakthrough in human history. If this stuff did happen with enough regularity that all you needed to prove it was Amazon Prime, then scientists would be on it. It would be scientifically observable. Ectoplasm would be on the periodic table. And someone else, not a youtuber, would be raking in the dosh.  

Having said that, I'm certainly open to people's lived experience. If someone says they lived here and some unexplainable stuff happened, then that is worth listening to, because they aren't getting anything from sharing the story. Youtubers, on the other hand, have an agenda. They want clicks and they want that ad revenue, and they'll have you believing every gust of wind is a poltergeist if it means you'll watch.

A family that moved in around 1993 claim that they were always being watched here, and experienced quite a lot of weird stuff, like rearranged furniture and the occasional voice. They claim to still have nightmares about this place. Subsequent occupants have claimed to hear footsteps on the stairs when nobody was present.

But that doesn't really make for good youtube content since stuff like that tends to occur exactly when you aren't looking for it. But I'm talking to a wall. I'm not going to bring down an entire video genre with one blog. If I thought I could do that, I'd teach men how to handle rejection, and topple the True Crime Genre.

Suffice it to say, I encountered nothing supernatural here. The only thing I can't explain is how it's still standing. 

Here we have the back room, which seems to be the least collapsed part of the entire building, albeit barely. . 

There's a little door here that leads to another room. 

This one is mostly collapsed but it's still possible to make out this tiny fireplace. 

And it's possible to get to the kitchen through here. 

Various reviews from 2006 to 2008 tell of how the food served here was very nice, and also how the fact that it only had three bedrooms made the stay here exceptionally peaceful. 

Alas, the pub closed in 2009. The council say that is closed due to "market forces," but some of the locals have said that the owners at the time raised the prices and made some unpopular changes.

And really I think that's a lesson for pub owners. Locals will stay loyal to a pub because they love the vibe. Sure, many people aren't that fussy, but your regulars, the locals, will always value the vibe as much they value the drinks. If you make changes to that vibe, you lose the regulars. 

The most recent owner did purchase the pub with the intent on restoring it. He says that the pub was intact when he first got it, but it had stuff missing. He spent £350,000 on refurbishment, but then someone stole the slate from the roof. He phoned the insurance company, they sent assessors around, and then withdrew insurance. With the slate gone from the roof, the elements got in and it was all downhill from there.

The poor guy then had a succession of break ins, and there was often vandalism and theft. He had a camera room to film such intrusions, but they broke into that and tossed the VCR into the river. 

He says that someone doesn't want him to open the pub, eluding to some conspiracy. 

But as an urbexer I know differently. See, it must be Hell to have property that has been closed and caught the attention of the urbex herd. Because many of them will travel across the country to see a place, and they will stop at nothing to get in, because they want that social media content. If that means destroying security cameras and breaking locks, they'll do it. They'll even livestream it. I see it all the time. Home owners contact urbex groups to say "Hey, stop breaking into my dead nans house please," and they're met with mockery. 

That's not to generalise all urbexers. After all, I am one. But it's a myth that urban exploring is done entirely by curious photographers who love history, taking nothing but photos and leaving nothing but footprints. Granted, it's really only the social media clout-chasing types that exchange their morals for dopamine and followers, and they are largely met with disapproval from urbexers with a more genuine love for the hobby. But there is a lot of them. 

And that's kinda why I don't feel shame for conveying my adventures through blog form in an era where barely anyone likes read. This is what I enjoy doing. People tell me I'll never be huge on social media, and that's okay. The people with loads of followers are the ones who will do absolutely anything to get them. Popularity is not worth my integrity. 

The value I get from urbex, from the adventure itself, the image capturing, the research right down to the write-up, comes entirely from my enjoyment of it. And that can be applied to any hobby, whether that's performing music to an audience or staying at home to build little ships inside bottles. Your enjoyment of it is what makes it worthwhile, first and foremost.

Of course, this logic only applies to passions that hurt nobody. If you're passionate about hurting people then you belong somewhere on a scale of therapy to jail. But that's not the point I'm making.

Lastly we have a couple of menus here, although my camera was having focusing issues. Still, it's a miracle that these things have survived. But they are soaking wet and any attempt at moving them will destroy them. 

And that's all I've got! 

In all honesty, I enjoyed this more than I thought I would. Sure, on the surface the Dulais Rock is just a soggy derelict pub waiting for a gust of wind to reduce it to a pile of bricks, but as I researched it I grew to appreciate the history, and I share the sadness of the former customers that this drinking hole is probably gone for good. If only I could go back in time. 

For the Dulais Rock, it really is the end of an era. As much as I would love to see such an ancient pub brought back to life, it's going to take some deep pockets to make it happen. And this really needs to be a passion project. Someone needs to actually care about restoring it to what it once was.

My next blog will be an old summer camp with loads of history, and I'm really looking forward to it.

In the meantime, the best way to stay updated with my blogs are through my social media, albeit begrudgingly.

I'm on Facebook. I don't know what's going on with the algorithm there but I think it only shows people stuff that it knows they will hate. I don't see any of my friends posts anymore. Just "recommended" posts with World War Three through Seven in the comments. Its the most toxic platform at the moment, by far. 

I don't know if that's just the only type of person left on Facebook, but if I look at the comments of pretty much EVERY post that I come across, nobody likes anything they're seeing. Everyone's arguing. I don't really understand why people are using an app that ruins their day, and I honestly worry what people are doing behind the scenes with the algorithm that makes it exclusively show people stuff that makes them so mad that they start fighting with strangers.

I think the problem is a bit of both. It's both the algorithm, and the fact that those are the only people still using Facebook. The most bitter, humourless creatures on Earth are just congregating on Facebook, and Facebook is catering to them for engagement. It's worse than Twitter. I don't say that lightly either. I mean, there are extremely racist, horrific people on Twitter, but even they are cheerier company than the people on Facebook. Granted, their cheeriness usually comes at the expense of their least favourite race, and I don't agree with it, but they are at least smiling! People on Facebook aren't even necessarily racist. They just hate everything. They've made up their mind that they want to argue with someone, so they go on Facebook, and the algorithm is like "here's something to moan about."

So anyway, enough ranting. I am on Facebook and Twitter, and Instagram too. But I really want to get back to the old days where people followed people because they wanted to see their content. Cara and Vero are Instagram alternatives for photography and art, without reels or stupid algorithms. You see who you follow, and I think that's great, so I am there. I'm also on Blue Sky, which seems pretty cool.

Find me on these places so that we can ditch the algorithmic hellscapes.

Thanks for reading!

Hotspur Press

On one of my many jollies up north, I decided to swing by this colossal relic, casually plonked on the side of the road, oozing the smell of pigeon shit and developer neglect, but with "Percy Brothers ltd" and "The Hotspur Press" written on the side in big friendly letters, relics of a family enterprise that has long since crumbled. 

But while the Percy brothers did have this place at the turn of the 20th Century, it stood here for a full century before that! And even before that, the Littlewoods Factory stood here until it burned down in the late 1700s. It was on this charred, vacant land that a man named John Fairweather decided to build his cotton mill. And really, can there be a more ironic surname for someone owning a factory in the Industrial era? 

This building, named the Medlock Mill, was a major employer in its time, and fixed to its wall was a sign marking the boundary of the township of Manchester. That's pretty cool. 

(Photo not mine, obviously)

Check out that old-timey font. It breaks my heart to say this, but the sign was yoinked sometime in 2017, suspiciously around the time that the building closed for good. Popular theory is that the owner of the building took it before vacating forever, or that one of the artists renting it towards the end of its days took it. The council were notified, and they didn't give a shit. We can only hope that whoever nabbed it did so out of a desire to preserve and own a piece of history, because one thing is for sure- the rapidly approaching developers won't give a shit either. 

So John Fairweather owned the Medlock Mill, and according to my sources, so did "subsequent heirs." That's too vague for me. I like to find the details. I want to know what colour socks he was wearing when he opened this place.

Alas, such details elude me. But I can at least tell you about his life. 

He was born in 1776, so he would have remembered the earlier mill, albeit barely. He married his wife Ellen in 1832, which is unusually late in his life. He was in his fifties, perhaps determined to make something of himself and get rich before settling down. Ellen was twenty years younger than him and everything still worked downstairs, so in 1834, William Fairweather came into the world.

And then John passed away in 1846. 

 

Slipping into this building was rather easy. This door was unlocked. But that wooden stick there seems to be intended for holding it shut. Whoops. 

 

Once upon a time, this building was full of spinning looms, fuelling the cotton industry and the Fairweather empire. But in 1819 part of the cotton mill was used as a stable for the horses that took part in the infamous "Peterloo Massacre." 

The Peterloo Massacre was apparently the bloodiest political event of the 19th Century. It was the unfortunate outcome of chronic unemployment, an economic slump, poor harvest from the Year Without Summer (1816, although 2023 is a pretty good contender to the title), and the Corn Laws keeping the cost of bread high. At the time, only 11% of men could vote, the lower and working classes being the majority who couldn't, and people had to live under a government they had no say over. Understandably, if you make people miserable they're going to act up. There was an enormous protest and the powers-that-be decided that the sensible thing to do was ride their horses into the crowd and kill a bunch of people. Eighteen people died, and between 400 and 700 were injured. It was labelled "The Peterloo Massacre" because it took place in a place called St Peters Field, and the violence was compared to the Battle of Waterloo. But one person present, who had fought in the Battle of Waterloo, said that Peterloo was actually worse, because at least Waterloo was a battle. This was a slaughter! 

And the horses were kept in this building. How cool is that?

I suppose housing the horses that were used to answer civil unrest with cold blooded murder probably didn't go down well for John Fairweather's reputation. But he was soon to be hit with more shortcomings and controversies. 

In 1837, there was a huge fire in the mill, destroying the store room and engine room, taking about four hours to put out and causing about £3000 worth in damages, which is about £285,000 in todays standards. 

Some have said, in light of the earlier fire, that the land was cursed to burn. They say it poetically, but that hasn't stopped people about as poetically brained as a breezeblock taking it literally and spreading the myth that the place is actually cursed. If that's the case then the curse isn't doing a very good job. It's only been nearly 200 years since the last big fire. 

In 1842, some of the weaving staff were beaten up by a gang as they were leaving work, and at some point the Fairweather's were fined for breaking new legislation that limited the working week to 63 hours. It's unfortunate, but the only information about Fairweather's mill that has survived to the present day is negative. 

So presumably John Fairweather's son, William, is the "subsequent heir" mentioned in my sources. Intriguingly, records show him living elsewhere following his father's death. I don't know when Ellen died, mainly because there are too many records of Ellen's with the same name, and their deaths are scattered across the 1800s. But it would seem that William spent his adolescence elsewhere, reaching adulthood in the care of the Woodward family. 

Records show that he became an underclothing manufacturer, and later a shirt manufacturer. So presumably he was running the cotton factory. One source does say that Medlock Mill became an underwear factory in 1864, but this is unverified. That same source says that it was sold to the Percy Brothers in 1902.

But interestingly, another source says that it was sold to the Percy Brothers in 1888, after the death of John Fairweather. It's an odd claim given that he'd been dead for forty years. 

But whatever the true date things occurred, William Fairweather left the picture and died in 1910, and the Percy Brothers took over around the turn of the century, creating a mighty printing press that they named The Hotspur Press.

Subsequent myths would arise that this is where the Hotspur comics were made, but pretty much everyone who has ever worked here has debunked this. The Hotspur comic didn't even exist until 1933. Chances are the Percy Brothers were trying to evoke a connection to Henry Percy of Medieval fame, better known as the name the Scots gave him, Harry Hotspur. Harry Hotspur was a knight who led a rebellion against Henry VI and died in the Battle of Shrewsbury in 1403. His surname being Percy, and the Percy Brothers naming this place "Hotspur Press" pushed the myth that the Percy Brothers were his descendants.

And here they are, Thomas and John Percy. 

(Photos not mine, obviously)

It's really interesting to see how the Percy's went from humble beginnings to becoming successful businessmen. When Thomas Percy was a little boy, his father was a grocer, although he would later become a coal salesman. At first, Thomas was the only boy in the family, having three sisters. His brother John wouldn't be born until he was fifteen, at which point he bamboozled himself an apprenticeship as a printer and compositor. 

Thomas was working as a letterpress printer in 1871, seemingly living independently while his brother John was at the family home. He was ten so he wasn't doing anything yet. He just sat around and ate. Thomas married Hannah Crook in 1874.

This table looks suspicious. Someone is definitely living here. 

So, we have two conflicting dates for when the Hotspur Press started- 1888 and 1902, but the answer may lie in a publication that mentions that their business includes Thomas Percy's two adorable children, Thomas Casson and Winifred in managerial positions. The Percy Brother's were a foursome, and one was a woman. 

A female "Brother." This is outrageous. If Facebook had been around, folks from the former cotton mill would be moaning "What woke nonsense. Industrial agers are destroying the country," and the Percy's would reply "OK, Loomer."

But Winifred and Thomas Casson were born in 1875 and 1877 so they wouldn't have been old enough to manage anything in 1888. But Thomas Percy did have his own printing business in 1881, and John was also working in that industry, so it's entirely possible that they began working here before Thomas's spawns reached adulthood. Winifred and Thomas Casson both show up working here in the 1901 census. Thomas Casson is even mentioned as being a manager, despite his youth. So it's safe to say that the Percy Brothers Ltd definitely existed before 1902. 

These steps lead down to the cellar, but really it's best described as a lower ground floor. People call it a cellar, and it always confuses everyone else because they expect something a little more subterranean. 

It's said that a lot of the printing machinery was down here, but it is long gone. The place has been plundered numerous times, and a lot of the equipment was actually auctioned off. 

But is there any truth to the myth that the Percy Brothers were descended from Harry Hotspur?

Well no. Slim chance. 

 

Harry Hotspurs lineage is colourful. One of his Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Grandsons, Henry, was involved in the gunpowder plot, and Henry's brother George was a colonial governor of Virginia, mingling with the likes of John Smith and Pocahontas, who in reality are nothing like how they were portrayed in the classic Disney remake of Fern Gully. 

Another of Hotspurs however-many-Great grandsons was in love with Anne Boleyn, but ended up marrying Mary Talbot, the daughter of the Earl of Shrewsbury, and Grand daughter of John Talbot whose widow has been mentioned in this blog about nine years ago when she raised an army to take Frankwell Quay in Shrewsbury. 

Following Hotspurs lineage upwards, he was the Great-Great-Great Grandson of Henry de Percy, and Eleanor de Warenne, the daughter of Henry III's half sister Alice. So there's royal blood here, and they continue to have grand titles downwards across the centuries. 

Whereas the Percy's of the Hotspur Press are of a completely different class. I've traced their lineage back to 1739, and they're all farmers, and their surname changes to Piercy. So I really doubt these bloodlines mingle. 

But still, the name of the Hotspur Press was clearly an effort to evoke this connection and it's not like people in 1902 could verify such claims, so who cares?

This is what I love about this hobby. I set out to talk about a big derelict factory in Manchester and its got me talking about the Battle of Shrewsbury, the Gunpowder plot, and Pocahontas. My life is wonderful. 

 

Here's the old goods elevator.

 

 

Winifred, didn't stop in the Hotspur Press for long, but she did marry a man named Herbert Hargreaves, a man who worked in a printing press. It's likely that she met him through this place, falling in love with one of her father's employees. Thomas's other daughter, Alice, also married a newspaper publisher, likely one who worked here. It seems a little too coincidental. They either met their husbands through the family business, or they managed to procure their husbands employment through the family connection. 

It seems John's own son Arnold may also have worked here, but 100-year-old cursive can be a bitch to read. 

Thomas died in 1921, leaving the Hotspur Press in the hands of his brother and son. John would pass away in 1936. Thomas Casson would eventually retire and also travel to Canada and back, before passing away in 1945. 

Winifreds offspring went on to become chemists. Her son Robert died in January 1935 when there was an explosion in his laboratory. Alice's daughter Gladys went on to become a music teacher. And while these aren't careers at the Hotspur Press, the education required to reach these positions wouldn't have been available to the Percy's a century earlier. They seem to be benefiting from the wealth brought to them by the Hotspur Press, and that is awesome to see. They truly did climb the ladder.

 

As for the publications produced here, the Hotspur Press is notable for spearheading women's suffrage in the 1920s by printing "International Woman Suffrage News." 

There was also "Focus on Fire," a fire training publication, and "Our Dogs," a newspaper about (big surprise) dogs. This was apparently edited by a chap called Denis Marples in the 1960s. There was a rumour around the workplace that he was the brother of the Tory transport minister, Ernest Marples, whose political career was riddled with corruption. Unfortunately his tendency to pay prostitutes to whip him while he was dressed as a woman far overshadows his financial corruption, which is a shame. Kinks are harmless but they sell more papers. It's only funny given how notoriously homophobic the tories portray themselves to be. Perhaps Rees-Mogg should also be whipped while wearing lingerie. 

Now nobody will be getting any sleep tonight.  

The walls of the Hotspur Press curve due to the building being built to follow the shape of the river, and that is pretty cool. This was once a hive of activity as numerous men operated numerous printing machines. But now the most noteworthy thing is this graffiti. 

Alas, this is the best graffiti in the entire place. It's all downhill from here.

There's still a few bits and bobs here, but I get the feeling these are remnants from the buildings last incarnation, as rented studios for artists. We'll see remnants of this throughout the building.

 

During World War 2, the building took a direct hit from a bomb, and the result can still be seen on the building today. Some of the upper brickwork is newer than the rest, reflecting the repair job. Apparently the destruction wasn't too severe. The fire was put out by the Hotspur Presses fire wardens, two female employees who were the only women in the business who were allowed to wear trousers.

It truly was a different time. 

But this leads onto an exciting chapter of the Hotspur Press history, because even though the Percy family have gone, leaving only their name high up on the building to indicate they were ever here, the latter half of the 20th Century saw the building staffed by people who are still alive today, and in some cases their children or grandchildren who remember stories and antics. This gives us an amazing insight into life inside the Hotspur Press.

Because the thing is, while some urbexers are content to regurgitate dates, when it was built, when it closed, and a brief summary of what a place did, my view has always been person-focused. Everywhere mattered to someone once. Wikipedia will tell us so much but it's the people, and their stories, that paint a picture of what a place was really like. 

Check out this photo from the 1960s, showing an 18-year-old employee with his girlfriend. 

(Photo not mine, obviously)

Look closely, and you can see that even though he's dressed up, his hands are stained with ink. 

And indeed the Hotspur Press did have a lot of younger people working here. Even from the very beginning, the Hotspur Press took on apprentices. After all, it was an apprentice program that made Thomas Percy successful, and now he was passing on that opportunity to others. 

Generally apprentices started as young as fifteen, although fifteen-year-olds would usually be the tea/coffee maker, at least until the next fifteen-year-old joined the workforce. 

A young chap called Bob allegedly worked on "Our Dogs" from the age of thirteen and stayed at the Hotspur Press for 47 years, taking a break to fight in the first world war. To give an idea of how dire working conditions were back then, a letter sent to him in 1916 says that the war makes a great change from the smell of the river and the nearby gas works. 

While I don't know the details, and quite possibly might find it distasteful to repeat them even if I did, Bob was said to have a malady from his time in the war that prevented him from having a normal life. But he still worked diligently. In 1948 he was compelled by his work mates to retire. He passed away 14 days later. 

The Hotspur Press also procured the contract to print Lancashire Life and Cheshire Life Magazines. It was thought that the future of the company was assured when they got this contract, and they splashed out on some new equipment, only for the publishers to decide to go elsewhere.

And beyond that, the list of publications printed here is huge. Numerous newspapers, magazines and books were created in these walls.

The one that wasn't, ironically, was the Hotspur comic.

 

This little cellar workshop is pretty interesting. It stood out because someone has decorated it in red stars. 

How intriguing. Let's slip inside!

Much to my delight, this little workshop contains the final remnants of the buildings industrial past. I don't know what purpose this would have to a printing press, but it's amazing to see. 

 

One of the last people to work here, the artist Richard Shields, claims that one night he decided to explore the cellar and found all the old machinery still here. I'm not sure if he was referring to this specific machinery or other bits that have since gone. He says he found a copy of the Daily sport sat under an abandoned cup of tea. As of 2007 the basement was a time capsule of 1995. 

I wonder if that's his shoe. 

This store room is pretty interesting. 

Check it out. The shelves are still labeled for different publications that were printed here. We have Rugby World, Chamber of Comm, Garden Supplies and Silk & Rayon. 

Back up to the ground floor...

Here we have the loading bay. 

Evidently when the Hotspur Press closed down, they auctioned off all of their printing equipment. 

It's so cool to think that this has been a loading bay since 1801. Horses would have once led wooden carts in here, and then taken cotton out around the country. And then nearly 200 years later, vans would be coming in to distribute publications. The amount of history here is immense. 

The goods lift was apparently installed in the 1940s but presumably they had an equivalent before then. 

The sticker on the door says "Atomkraft? Nein Danke," meaning "Atomic Power? No thanks." The smiling sun is a symbol of the anti-nuclear movement. I'm reasonably sure this was put here by the artists who rented the building in its final years. 

But prior to that, approximately forty compositors worked here in the 1960s. While I have little knowledge of the printing industry, I assume methods have changed quite a bit since the hey-day of Hotspur. In the 1950s and 1960s the compositors would allegedly assemble individual letters, like teeny metal pieces, onto a page, which was then inked. Paper would be placed over it, and a rubber roller would smooth it all out and transfer the inked impression of the text onto the page, producing a prototype newspaper page which could then be checked for errors, at which point the teeny letters could be modified if any errors were noticed. Quite clever really. 

One compositor was actually blind. Charlie Clark was allegedly the only blind compositor in the north. I'm not sure how he'd handle the modern process but back then it would be possible to feel the metal letters when arranging them. 

People who worked here, those still with us anyway, describe it as a terrific place to be.

The atmosphere was great. The banter was superb.  People looked forward to coming to work because they'd have a laugh. And because of the banter everyone was the butt of a joke at some point, even the managers.

I'm pretty sure this here was the binding room, which is where the printed pages were folded by machines and bound into book or magazines. This was typically staffed by women. 

This is quite obviously a managers office, albeit one covered in graffiti and smashed to bits.

It's quite possible that the man who sat in this room was "Albert Coleman" the composing room manager. It's possible that this was a pseudonym to protect the poor man's dignity, but the nickname "Coley" given to him by his staff would suggest some slither of truth there. 

Coley sure doesn't sound like the kind of man who would appreciate a cutesy nickname. He's described as quite small, a heavy smoker, never giving out praise and being obsessed with his job. In fact according to his employees, the only time he stopped talking about work was in 1966 when he became obsessed with the World Cup. In fact they say this was the only time he smiled.

If someone told me that J Jonah Jameson from Spider-Man was based on this guy, I wouldn't be surprised. 

 

But despite this, he had been in the business for a long time and his knowledge was immense. The staff respected him. They were shocked and saddened when he slumped over at his desk one day and needed to be carried out on a stretcher, never to return, passing away that weekend. 

Allegedly as he was being stretchered out, he gave an order to the editor of Textile Weekly, reminding them to send the prototype magazine to their offices for review. He was obsessed with the job right to the end. 

The best source of stories from the 1960s come from two apprentices, a chap called "Ron" whose real name is absolutely not Ron, and a Bob, who is the grandson of the original Bob who worked here. 

One such story is about a beer wagon that came past the factory and underestimated the sharp corner, losing several crates right outside the Hotspur Press. For the Hotspur workers, it was like feeding time at the zoo. They quickly rushed out, grabbed all of the unbroken bottles and even swept up any broken glass. 

Ron and Bob started around the same time, from the age of 16 in 1965 to the age of 21. Lacking a suit, Bob's father made him interview in his school uniform, which made him the figure of ridicule to the girls in the folding room.

But then just to show that nobody was safe, Ron interviewed in a suit and even wore it on his first day, earning him mockery too. 

A chap called Harold Perks was in charge of the Linotype room, and Bob apprenticed under him originally. Alas, Harold had a notorious lack of common sense. He had young Bob work on the tiniest font, which was considered inappropriate for a beginner. Harold got a bit of a bollocking from Charlie Penny, the "father of Chapel." Basically that's a printing publishers term for union rep. Charlie was described as ginger and responsible for the most cutting insults ever. 

Bob says that his time here shaped him from a callow youth into someone who could trade insults with the best.

Ron, on the other hand, went on to be responsible for many a managers grey hair.

The graffiti is rather nonsensical. It seems to be a combination of stoner scribbles and an actual attempt at planning something. I feel like there's definitely some context that I'm missing, and what's interesting is that it refers to this place as Medlock Mill. It's historically accurate stoner scribble. 

 

Here's some kind of watch catalogue. 

 

Besides working, playing pranks, trading insults, and stopping to watch rats scamper along the riverside, the Hotspur Press also had a social club that modern workplaces could certainly learn from. While it's common in the 21st Century for workplaces to have "nights out" that consist of getting bladdered and snorting lines, these aren't usually organised by the company itself. Nor does it sound very fulfilling. I suppose that's fine if it's your thing, but it doesn't really do much for workplace morale. 

The Hotspur Press had a social club that arranged darts, cribbage and snooker tournaments, and didn't exclude the ladies from these either. A couple of the men have commented that their female colleagues gave them some serious competition, particularly in the darts department, dispelling any myth that girls can't throw. The social club also arranged trips to Blackpool and Pickmere Lake. The shenanigans from these trips were legendary among the workforce and probably killed a relationship or two. 

There was an entry fee to these social events, and the money would go towards buying new equipment for the workplace. Like I said, the modern workplace could learn from this.

In regards to the chilled atmosphere and comradery, I have heard that this extended even to the cleaning staff. A man named Fred used to sweep the factory with the help of a man with a learning disability and a physical disfigurement. This man wasn't treated with any disrespect. He was as welcome among the team as anyone else.

This makes the Hotspur Press officially superior to modern healthcare work. 

 

Here we have an old artists workshop. Check out the floor in the foreground. The floor has a layer of concrete but it's crumbled away, revealing the original Georgian-era floorboards underneath. 

 

This wall seems to be talking about bands rehearsing here, which means it was scribbled before the building was abandoned, likely be the artists who rented the space. 

Of the more notorious workers here, there was a chap called Patrick, whose name I'm 99% sure is a pseudonym. "Patrick" caused some controversy when it came to light that he earned considerably more money than everyone else due to lying about his work experience. In actual fact he had a reputation for being rather useless and a bit of a blame shifter. On one occasion, he was correcting a typing error by rearranging the metal letters before the ink went on them. The mechanism that held these letters in place had little clips that needed to be opened to make the edits. But they absolutely needed to be closed again before the machine started back up. When he had finished correcting the typo, Patrick told the machine operator to start it up again. They did so, and the machine went boom. Those clips really needed to be closed, and Patrick had neglected to do so, breaking the machine. Patrick allegedly denied telling the machine operator to turn it back on, despite everyone hearing him do it.

I feel like every workplace has a Patrick. 

But not every workplace has a Ron, and I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. To "punish" Patrick, Ron waited until he was sat on the toilet, reached over the cubicle wall and pulled the chain, flushing the toilet while Patrick was still on it, giving him a wet butt and bollocks. Patrick allegedly came storming out, holding his trousers up. He took a swing at Ron but in doing so dropped his trousers and flashed the entire team.

Does every workplace need a Ron? I'm very much on the fence. 

Some graffiti is more artistic than others. I quite like this lone flower. 

The Hotspur Press had a woman called Edna who was allegedly tiny but had a voice that could be heard by deaf people from down the road. When she wasn't waking the dead with a casual conversation, she would use the lifts to take a toast trolley to every floor for the staff. Some creative workers would bring their own beans to go with the toast, but lacking the means of heating the beans legitimately, they used a water heater next to the hand washing sinks. These were cylindrical with a removable top. The workers would remove the top, slot in an opened tin of beans, put the lid back on, and after a few minutes their beans would be heated.

Patrick allegedly blew up a tin of beans, and the water heater, by putting the tin in without opening it first. From that moment onwards, staff weren't allowed food in the Composition Room. 

Every workplace definitely has a Patrick. 

Making our way up the building...

Well this room is a bit of a mess. The graffiti actually seems a bit more artsy than your traditional "Dave is Gay," penis doodles, or urbexer social media handles. Perhaps this was used by the artists who rented it in its final years. 

These people can actually spell. There's poetry here, or at the very least, there's creative intent. I'm down for that. If someone is going to do graffiti, make it interesting. 

It just seems somehow more decorative. Like someone spent a lot of time here and customised it accordingly to their tastes. Admittedly their tastes seem to be drug-influenced, but I would rather read some graffiti that has some creative intent rather than mindless tagging. 

The thirteen "Manc Commandments" made me chuckle. 

The rest is here for anyone who wants to read. 

I think it's absolutely worth touching on the many numerous workplace pranks of Ron. They went far beyond flushing the toilet on his unpopular colleagues. His behaviour ranges from loveable prankster to "I can't believe he's not dead yet."

 It was at the weekend that Ron was at his most dangerous, when managerial presence was less and everything was a bit more relaxed. 

At one point, Ron used the printing press to make a fake £20 prize ticket that he'd drop in the path of someone who worked at the nearby Dunlop factory, containing the phone number of his colleague, Adrian, whose knowledge of the world and the printing industry was deceptive in that he was often just confidently wrong. 
Adrian came to work on Monday ranting about the phone calls he'd been receiving all weekend from someone claiming they'd won £20, ignorant to the fact that his colleagues were all well aware of what had happened. Straight-faced Ron would then ask him pointed questions, under the guise of sympathy or reason, to encourage further ranting, while everyone tried to hold back their laughter. 

But by far his most notorious antic was stealing from the vending machine. See, the metal letters on the press were separated by thin strips of lead. Ron figured out that this lead was exactly the same height and thickness as a sixpence, and pretty easy to cut and file into shapes. Pretty soon he was producing fake coins to procure items from the vending machines. An act of genius, I must say. But he made the mistake of telling people and when the vending machine stocker-upper brought a pile of fake sixpences to the manager Coley, Ron got bollocked.

I do sympathise with this. At my last job, I discovered that if one purchased an item from the vending machine and pressed the right buttons, it would actually give out about six or seven items from multiple shelves, and read it as an error and consequently didn't even charge my card. I used to bring chocolate to my colleagues all the time. But I made the mistake of telling a woman on the night shift how to do it. I urged her not to over-do it, because a sudden absence of chocolate would raise eyebrows, but overnight the vending machine was cleared out and the powers-that-be noticed and fixed the issue. If you ever find a way to get free stuff from a vending machine, take it to your grave! 

This room, quite bizarrely given the vandalism in the place, still has the remnants of an old art installation. 

It gives this place a "still in use" vibe. I had the feeling people would walk in at any moment, discussing some exhibition plans. But no, I was very much alone. So let's take a closer look. 

 

Attached to one of the pillars is this printout of loads of famous and not-so-famous people. Among them are Michael Jackson and Hal 9000. It says it's an Albert Brocolli production. He was a real film producer but he's been dead since 1996. 

 

And above that is some sort of map or plan with some scribbles above it. 

On the table there's a lamp and stereo next to a map. 

On the lamp there's a sign that's clearly been taken from a crumbling monument in a graveyard. 

I guess the stereo probably played some audio that made the installation a bit more immersion.

I'm not really sure what the point of this installation was. The lamp over a table with a map kinda gives me war vibes. Perhaps the stereo played the sound of planes flying overhead. I don't know. So much of this may have been modified since then. 

What amazes me is that it's here at all when so much of this place has been smashed up.

There's some more art over here by the elevator. 

And there's this little plush crocodile in the window of a former artists studio. 

"Manchester School of Art" is printed on the beam. This was put here around 2012 when they exhibited their "Unit X" collaborative project, long after the printing presses had been turned off. I wonder if that whole thing with the map, lamp and stereo was part of that. 

There's a bra hanging from the ceiling beams. 

And some cheesy anarchist graffiti.

I dunno. To me, anarchy graffiti has the same vibe as Satanism graffiti. It's usually just there to make someone feel edgy but it's really more cringe than anything.

The window graffiti was a bit of a fun challenge to photograph effectively, seeing as the window behind it was causing some glare.

It seems to be political poetry. 

Or maybe it's song lyrics and I'm ignorant. 

Well someone smashed it. I guess that's one way to end a political discussion. It makes a bit more of a point than just laugh reacting to someone you disagree with on Facebook. 

This wall is covered in positive comments. That's quite nice. 

There's this "social declaration" on the wall. It's all about the need for equality and treating humans with basic decency, which is great. Although I do think such points need to be phrased better. The first paragraph nearly put me to sleep. If you want to win people over, you need to hold their attention.

But overall I do agree with the points made. 

I try to keep politics off the blog because I like things to stay light-hearted and fun here. 

But I think saying that I want everyone to be treated nicely still keeps my political leanings ambiguous. On Facebook I get called a lefty snowflake for saying that we should treat everyone with respect, including women, and I also get called a Nazi bigot for saying that we should treat everyone with respect, including men. I'm just the villain no matter what I say, so just leave me to my blogs and abandoned things. 

 

 

This was apparently the old composition room. This is where Ron and Bob worked. Looking at this place now, it seems weird to think that all these stories took place here. 

As you can see, there is a balcony above this area, and two sets of stairs. This was often Ron's "base of operations." He would jump up and down on this balcony so that a cloud of dust would descent down to the immaculate pre-print area below, ruining any work that was down there. A manager would then run up the stairs to find the culprit, and Ron would run down the opposite set of stairs and pretend to be hard at work. 

How Ron kept his job is a small miracle. I've heard stories of strict management. A man was once reading a newspaper next to the printing machine, and the manager came over and told him that he could read the paper at home. Taking this as a simple command to put the newspaper away, the man did so and got back to work, only for the manager to return and say "I told you to read that paper at home. I meant now. You're fired."

And yet somehow Ron, the super villain of the Hotspur Press, kept his job. 

He even went to Spain with another apprentice, and ended up coming home a whole week late. The other apprentice had a year longer than Ron to his apprenticeship, so they kicked him out and kept Ron. 

That little scamp had more lives than a cat. 

He finished his apprenticeship, went on to work for Manchester Evening News, and then made menus for cruise ships before heading to America where he became an actor. 

Bob, meanwhile, went on to work at the Daily Express and gained an interest in IT, understanding that the future of journalism would be electronic. He ended up as a software developer.

 

 

 

Of course it's also worth going into the health and safety aspects of the Hotspur Press back in the 1960s. The conditions here would raise some eyebrows today! Lead was stored in ingots above melting pots, sending fumes throughout the building. Alongside that were the fumes of solvents, and ink fumes that have since been found to be carcinogenic. 

The linotype machine, that actually produced the metal font letters used by the printing press, would occasionally spurt molten lead into the air.

And there were the occasional horror stories of girls having their hair ripped out by the machines. The workers hands were covered in ink, and smoking was rife. It was a different world to the clean, sanitised, health & safety oriented workplaces of today.

But it does sound more fun, if you don't mind the risks of smoke inhalation, poisoning, burning, scalping, cancer, and being tormented by Ron. 

I quite like this. It's making a point but it's funny. 

People don't like being preached to. They want to smile. You make someone smile, you have their attention. 

At the back of the composing room is a small kitchen and some toilets. 

Still in better condition than the toilets in some pubs and clubs. 

This could well be the room where the staff used to heat their beans in the water heater. 

This wall is covered in names, all spread out. Presumably there was once artwork hanging here, associated with each name. 

To the outside world, the Hotspur Press still made an impression. It's situated next to a river, and on a pretty regular bus route. Every day people on the bus would look to see what colour the river would be, because it had a habit of changing colour. 

The rumour was that the Hotspur Press were disposing of their disused ink in the river, but they were quick to blame the Dunlop factory across the road. 

The culprit was actually a dye works further upstream. 

It sounds very bad environmentally, but it's an interesting insight into the city in the 1960s. 

Ooooh... J K Rowling would have such a twitter rant if she could see this. 

There's an old safe at the back if the building. 

It was also here that I ran into a squatter, whose room I didn't photograph for obvious reasons. He was pleasant enough. He said that the owners knew about him and were actually happy for him to be there because he kept the place secure. 

Apparently I'd nipped in during the narrow time slot that he'd been out, so that was fortuitous. He said he was happy for me to explore the building as long as I let him know when I was leaving, so he could barricade the door behind me. 

That was absolutely lovely of him. Thank you for not just stabbing me in the face and feeding me to the rats. 

Heading up to the top floor...

 

The top floor allegedly had a canteen, snooker tables and a table tennis table. Originally it just had a small pool table but the social committee saved up enough money for a large one. 

The canteen was run by Charlie Penny the ginger union guy, and Edna the loud toast lady.

 

Now it's all wrecked, but it would have once been full of life. 

Alas, all good things come to an end, and somehow this thriving workplace transitioned into the death trap we see today.

The typically copy-paste urbex report says that the building ceased functioning as a printing press in 1996, and this has been regurgitating by the mainstream media, whose ability to fact-check is less reliable than the McCanns are at babysitting. 

Streetview from 2008 shows the Hotspur Press not only open, but with a man standing outside having a smoke.

(Photo credit: Google Streetview)

But there is some truth to the 1996 closure rumour, in that the Percy Brothers Ltd packed up around then. They seem to have had some financial issues around 1983, and they did move out of here "officially" in November 1996, with the secretary and director resigning a month later. But evidence suggests that they were renting their space to little start-up companies before that. 

A "Mr Krell" worked here from 1975 to 2002, with his company "Krella Productions." He says that when he left, the printers were very much still active.

A company called John Sherratt & Sons were here as far back as 2002, and quite intriguingly, they have a director called Mr Westaway, who also seems to be a key figure in the modern day Percy Brothers Ltd. So they're two businesses, but the money goes back to him either way. Sneaky.

Other companies rented the space, including the publisher and bookbinder, Activision Post Production and George Woodhead & Co ltd. The latter was operating here as far back as 1979. 

And finally, the artists moved in. One such artist, Richard Shields, said that the press folded in 2011 due to the recession. But he said that the empty factory could be brought back to life by artists, designers and craft people. 

We've made it to the balcony above the composition room. 

This is where lovely Ron ruined many a compositors day. 

And for what it's worth, we have a picture of it before it was derelict. 

(Photo not mine, obviously)

On Christmas 1968 Ron made some home brew beer up here, and the container burst, spilling beer down onto peoples heads. The guy was a terror, but a loveable one. 

 

Someone has strung up a few fairy lights. I imagine it would have given this place a very nice vibe back in the artist era of the building. 

And that brings us to the final era of the Hotspur Press, which has been evident by all the art dotted around. 

Various minimum-effort urbex "reports" say that the building was taken over by squatters, and while it is true that the building did, and does, have squatters, the mistake urbexers make is assuming that these homeless people were the artists that used this space. Consequently whatever art that remains here gets dismissed, and even the word "art" gets phrased sarcastically by people who don't understand it. But these are the same people who leave social media stickers in dead grannies houses, so they don't understand much, let's be honest. 

The owners were actually renting the place out to various artists as creative studios. They were here legitimately. From 2007 to 2017, Richard Shields rented a studio here for £210 a month, but he'd rent other parts out to other artists for about £35. Bands would sometimes use the area to rehearse too. 

The art community allegedly kept the lift door open on the top floor so only they could use it, which must have been frustrating for the buildings owners. 

Among the artists here were Chara Lewis, a lecturer at the school of art who had a studio here for five years, and Jess Rachel Sharpe, who has photos of her studio here on her instagram.

(Photo credit: Jess Rachel Sharpe)

I don't know how urbexers can call that a squat when it's tidier than their bedrooms, but hey-ho. 

Allegedly it did still smell of ink, and old printing machinery and bags of metal font did still litter the place. Richard Shields makes mention of how he'd venture down into the cellar some nights to see the machinery. He also freely admits his exhibitions descended into hedonism. He describes it as a boozy shitshow. 

It sounds like a blast. 

He does have a few videos that show what his Hotspur exhibitions looked like. I'll include one below: 

And I quite like it, although that really isn't my genre of music. To me that's just noise. But I don't speak for everyone and the world cannot cater to just one persons taste. If I was the kind of person who thought everything was objectively bad just because it wasn't for me then... well for starters I'd probably have a dog as my profile picture on Facebook.

In actuality I was happy to see the building still being used, although it looked pretty derelict even then.

The above video is his "Loading Bay" exhibition from 2011, and this was followed by one called "Crapism." He held a final one called "Retrospective" in 2016.

Richard Shields says that he felt at home here, and would sometimes sleep on the sofa of his studio. And for £210 a month, who can blame him? That's a pretty sweet deal. 

He has since produced work influenced by his time here, like Construction Crane. The crane was taken from a Hotspur comic that he found in 2017. 

(Image credit: Richard Shields)

But the art era didn't last. A survey was carried out on the buildings structural stability and it blew peoples minds a bit. Everyone thought it just needed some TLC. But no, it needed extensive reconstruction. Richard Shields wasn't privy to these discussions but he knew something was up. People were coming around in suits and having meetings, and he'd be eavesdropping.

In a moment of eerie coincidence, he allegedly found a pile of Hotspur comics, one of which depicted a large bird attacking two men who bore a resemblance to the owner and accountant. It had the caption "the firebird warns of death to come and the people must flee."

Allegedly, at that moment, the phone rang. The new owner was calling him. The artist era of the Hotspur Press had come to an end. 

There's a few more bits and bobs.

Including what appears to be a black man's head on a penis. 

In all honesty, by the time the Hotspur Press closed for good, it was falling to pieces and very unsafe. Chara tells of how she'd take people to her studio and the lights just wouldn't work, and people would look at her like she'd led them to their death.

The ceiling was also leaking, and artists would often come and find water pooling on their work surfaces. They would sometimes cobble together contraptions to divert water out of the windows.

The papers did eventually report on squatters being cleared out, but they weren't here for that long, and they're either artists who refused to leave, or a completely different community. They had a vegetable garden on the roof, and they really don't seem like a bad bunch. The media puts them in a bad light, but they claim to have been hosting charity events here, so I think this can be called into question. 

It is, after all, the mainstream media. If I had a haemorrhoid for every time they lied, I'd hear bubblewrap every time I sat down. 

Since then, there has been some effort to save the Hotspur Press. Developers seem to want it for student accommodation or businesses, but claim to want to preserve the front and the iconic vintage signage. An attempt was made to make it a listed building, and in a bizarre change of script, the developers started a campaign to "save" it by preventing its listing, so that they could demolish most of it and keep the iconic signage. 

Newspaper headlines celebrated the lack of listed status. This fannying around had stalled progress, and could have potentially condemned the site, according to developers. 

Condemn it to a mysterious arson, they mean.

But really I can kinda see the point. As much as I'd love to see the factory preserved, who would pay for that level of redevelopment? Waiting around for someone with deep enough pockets to save 100% of the building would just leave this place rotting a little while longer. At least a sympathetic redevelopment that knocks some of it down but keeps the best bits is better than having it collapse into the river in the years to come.

And lastly there's a little office that has a very makeshift home vibe to it. I think it was absolutely a managers office at some point, turned into an artists studio and now has clothes hanging up to dry in it. Very intriguing. 

As one final note to the history of the building, a band from Manchester actually named themselves The Hotspur Press, to pay homage to this building. 

I'll include one of their videos down below. 

It's not quite my taste but it might grow on me. 

But really, that's not the point. The Hotspur Press was a name given to the building by the Percy Brothers over a century ago, in reference to a man who lived centuries earlier, and that name has still been passed on. The name has lineage and continuity. That's what I like. 

It would be wrong of me to finish this post without including a view. 

And that's it for the Hotspur Press. 

Isn't that incredible? One day the son of a grocer procured an apprenticeship in a Victorian publishers, and impacted the lives of hundreds of people for the next century or so. It just goes to show what can be achieved if we give people a chance to excel in their interests. 

Yes, the place is very much a wreck, and it's pretty vast and empty, but when we get the stories of the people that this place mattered to, we can breathe new life into it. We can imagine it as it once was. We can relate to the people. And that, for me, is what urbex is about.

By uncovering the stories of people who worked here, I've been able to visualise the workplace as it was on a far deeper level. I only wish the likes of Richard Shields or "Ron" could give an actual tour, and point out all the places where their stories took place. 

Quite honestly, when I set out to do a blog on this place I wasn't expecting to enjoy the history as much as I did. My next blog is a pub, and that doesn't sound very interesting, but as this place has proven, the urbex world is full of surprises. 

If you like my blogs and want to stay updated,  the easiest way, albeit begrudgingly so, is via my social media. I am on Facebook but I hate it. It's an algorithmic hellscape designed to bait people into arguments and it has polarised the population and turned social media into a dismal place. I am on Instagram but I hate it because the algorithm doesn't actually show people to the people who follow them. I'm also on Twitter, but only when I remember it exists. 

Personally I miss the days when the Internet was fun and people saw what they wanted to see, and just had fun with their hobbies, and that's why I'm personally enjoying Cara, Bluesky and Vero at the moment. I just wish Vero would do something about their bugs. 

So yeah, the more people who jump ship to the smaller social media platforms, the closer I get to abandoning the shitty big ones. The future depends on you. Let's ditch that bitch, Zuckerberg. 

Thanks for reading!