Railway Station

On my way from Point A to Point B, my train stopped at a very active platform (Point A.5?) with a very derelict and run down train station. Naturally I decided that Point B could wait. Let's check this place out first!

Information was sparce, but I did manage to find some photos of it from the good old days of pre-abandonment. 

(Photo not mine, obviously)

This photograph was taken in the last week of October 1884, allegedly when the station and line were approaching the end of their construction. It was taken by a photographer from Warsaw named Konrad Brandel who accompanied the railway commission's technical inspection of the building.

What's interesting is that it's surrounded by railway lines, whereas today the lines are only on the far side. 

(Photo not mine, obviously)

This photo was taken in the 1930s, and things haven't really changed an awful lot. At some point between then and now the archways in the tower were bricked up, which is a shame. I bet the view from up there is pretty awesome. Nevertheless, aesthetically it's a really cool building. Look closely and you can see that the tower also had a clock. 

Let's slip inside!

Five minutes of ungraceful squeezing brought me into the old ticket area, where I was suddenly hit by the realisation that this was quite possibly a bleak vision of the future. The platform was still operating but nobody needs a human to buy a ticket anymore, so places like this are becoming increasingly redundant. This fate likely awaits many a train station. 

A century ago this would have had people lining up for tickets. Now it's just three empty windows decorated by screaming broccoli. 

The bricked up doorway here leads to the tower and the upper floors, which is quite infuriating. I guess this is going to be a ground floor mooch.

I've seen photos of the fire brigade hosing down the tower in 2015, so perhaps the powers-that-be decided to brick up access to the upper floors, just so that even if the ground floor was accessed, the trespassers would be kept downstairs. 

I've had conflicting sources of when the station opened. One publication from 1998 gives the official date of the line opening as 1882, naming the stations architect as Adolf Schimmelfenig. This is the information commonly regurgitated by a local museum, so at first glance it looks fairly legitimate. 

But then an issue of the Warsaw Gazette, dated January 1885, described the stations opening. Another magazine from earlier that month reported preparations for the opening ceremony, as well as showing the new train timetable. And of course, there's a photo from 1884 that I can credit to an actual photographer doing an inspection prior to the building being completed.

So as much as I hate to shit on a museum, the primary sources outweigh what they say. 

But that same museum also said that Poland has had very good relations with the United States for three hundred years, even though Poland wasn't really Poland for a good chunk of that time, and the United States hasn't yet reached its three hundredth birthday. They also claimed that the Warsaw Uprising was the largest urban battle of the second world war, completely dismissing the Battle of Stalingrad. But hey-ho. 

Here's where the station staff would have worked. Hopefully they had seats. 

It's interesting to note that when this station was built, Poland wasn't Poland as we know it today. It was divided among the Russians, the Germans and the Austrians. One source says that this train line provided a strategic route between Europe and the Russian empire, while another says that the Russians were very reluctant to open it because they wanted to keep their western territory in poor economic condition for as long as possible. 

Once the railway station was built, the area did thrive. One article talks of how "the most senior lord and lady" arrived here with their children to meet Grigory Zinoviev, who was a prominent Soviet politician and associate of Lenin. I can't find a date for the article, but since they were said to be discussing military stuff concerning Austria, I'm guessing it was during the first world war.

The article described how the station was decorated with flags and how the platform was made into a flower garden. It all sounds very spectacular. I wonder what "the most senior lord" would think if he could see it now. 

Onto the best part of any abandoned building, the toilets!

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

Beyond the ticket area and the toilets, the train station is pretty bland. It’s a shame. It looks good, but isn’t really. A bit like me.

 I'm guessing some of these rooms may have been offices. Apparently there were two restaurants here, one for first class passengers and one for peasants. I assume one of these was on the ground floor, but without access to the upper floors, who can say for sure?

During the first world war, Poland-to-be was the epicentre of the Eastern front, and everyone who had a chunk of Poland promised the Polish people that they'd have their independence if they helped. Russia eventually withdrew, and then the Germans were defeated and humiliated on the global stage, and Poland was temporarily independent as a result. 

This station apparently still remained important after Poland gained its independence although the second world war later diminished its use somewhat. I guess the Germans had other uses for the train lines. 

But it's apparently the fall of the Soviet Union that led to this station closing, due to ill-conceived railway reforms once Poland became free once again.

Which means this isn't a vision of the future at all. This is just a vision of what might happen if a power-mad nutcase annexes an entire country just because he's greedy.

Oh wait... 

Anyhoo... the station closed its doors for good in 2007, and it has remained derelict ever since. It's pretty sad. And with the platform still active and not relying on the building whatsoever, it's unlikely they'll ever do anything with it. 

In 2018 banners were hung on the station building, advertising its renovation. Nothing came from it, and the banners were eventually removed. The only change was that all of the trees were removed from outside. These are the same trees visible in the 1930s photo. They were still there, nearly a century later. I'm a little bit sad about that. I mean, if removing the trees was vital to the renovation, then I can see some argument for it. But the renovation didn't happen so all they've really done is make the area a little bit shitter. 

As I walked away, I looked up at the upstairs windows. This one was wide open, and I felt a little bit sad that I couldn't see what was up there. Perhaps I should come back with a ladder. 

In conclusion, this train station was a little bit bland and empty, but it might not have been, and finding out for sure is the "exploring" part of "urban exploring." It was totally worth having to get a later train to where I was going. This isn't the UK, so I knew another train would be along shortly, and wouldn't decimate my bank balance. 

Bland or not, just think how many people have passed through here from 1885 until 2009. It's incredible to think about. That's the sort of thing I always take time to ponder when I go to places like this. Everywhere mattered to someone once, and I try to put myself in their shoes.

That's all I've got. If you like my blogs, or if you just want to moan about them, then follow me on social media. I'm on the internet's toilet, Facebook, and I'm also on Instagram too for some reason. But far superior, in that you actually see who you're following and the algorithms aren't just trying to make you angry to exploit your engagement, are Bluesky, Vero and Cara. They're all adequate replacements for Twitter and Instagram, the latter two aimed towards creative people. I would like to see everyone just abandon Facebook and Instagram for these platforms someday. 

I can dream. 

Thanks for reading!

Monastery mill

A few years ago, I had a mooch around this tiny derelict mill on the grounds of a monastery, and for some reason I just forgot to blog about it. 

It's only small, but it's still pretty interesting. My last blog was awesome but humungous, so it's good to have some balance. 

The monastery itself was home to Benedictine monks. I'm no expert in all the different breeds of Christianity, but Benedictine monks follow the examples set by (guess who?) St Benedict, who died in 547. I think Benedictine Monks put a large emphasis on working for and with each other in their own little self-sufficient communities, treating their work almost as a sacred act.

So I wasn't at all surprised that a Benedictine monastery would have a mill on their grounds. What's odd is that I couldn't find anything on it. I had a brief gander at old Victorian maps, but there wasn't anything but woodland on the site of the mill.

But as it turns out, that was an act of idiocy on my part. The monasteries own website tells of how the monks first moved here in 1928, so of course I wasn't going to find something in the 1880s. 

But then quite curiously, the history on the monastery website jumped from 1928 to 1973, claiming that they were now living in a new monastery, and leaving me with a huge 44-year gap in the timeline. 

I decided to hunt down some more modern maps, and came across this one from 1975. On the site of this mill is a disused quarry with a handful of buildings scattered around. 

I'm guessing this is the last one standing. 

Incidentally the quarry wasn't on the old Victorian maps either. It was created, operated and closed all during the 44-year mystery window. 

Let's slip inside!

The interior is free of any vandalism or graffiti. It's a tiny ruin, and the decay is all entirely natural. Despite it's small size, this is a breath of fresh air in urbex. 

Predating this building by several centuries, the first mention of Benedictine derring-do in this area actually comes from 1096, when the land was given to the Benedictine monks by one of the sons of Walter Giffard. And this truly is exciting for me, because so often researching this blog takes me back to the 1800s, or the 1700s. Sometimes the 1600s if I'm very lucky. It's very rare that I end up casting my google searches back to 1096. But the thing is, I love history, and I love that I learn things through researching my blog, so any opportunity I have to learn about a different historic era is a good day for me. 

Walter Giffard was the first cousin of William the Conqueror, and he contributed thirty ships and a hundred men to the French invasion of England. And we all know how well that went. It's the first thing they teach us in Secondary School history. 

Walter's son ended up giving this land to the Benedictines. Obviously, they didn't hang onto it. A lot changes in nine hundred years. In particular there was that very messy dissolution of the monasteries in the 1500s. 

By 1888, the grand house on this land was the private residence of a chap named Thomas Dyer Edwardes, who was the father of Noël Leslie, the countess of Rothes. I'm going to include a photo of her, because she's worth a narrative detour.

(Photo not mine, obviously)

Noël Leslie became something of a hero as a passenger on the Titanic. She survived the sinking, and in a time of panic and disorganisation she took charge of her lifeboat and steered it in the direction of the Carpathia for over an hour until she handed control over to someone else so that she could comfort the other survivors.

But I digress, albeit awesomely. 

Noël's father became a catholic in 1924, and then invited the Benedictine Monks of Caldey Island to come live here in his big fancy house. This particular order of monks had been founded in 1895 by a chap named Aelred Caryle, who had given up being a medical student for a monastic lifestyle. But by the 1920s it seemed that island life wasn't economically viable for this little Benedictine community, so they sold the island and moved into the house here. Thomas Dyer Edwardes died in 1926, and the monks made sure that their first official act as new owners was to pray for his soul. 

Unfortunately for them, there was a legal hiccup. The death of the owner so soon after the gift of the deed invalidated the entire thing, and the house actually passed to his grandson, Malcolm Leslie.

(Photo not mine, obviously)

Luckily for them, Malcolm wasn't a сunt. He could have perfectly legally refused to sacrifice a historic part of his inheritance but instead he signed a new deed of conveyance in 1928, signing everything over to the monks. But due to death duties, he did struggle financially, and he had to sell everything in the house before handing it over to the monks. When they got it, it was completely unfurnished. Their first night in 1928 was particularly bitter, because they had nothing to sleep on, as well as no heating and no hot water. 

And then came the challenge of modifying the house for monastic purposes. There were thirty of them, so they had to divide the larger rooms into smaller bedrooms, and enlarge another area to make a refectory. 

There's some old machinery still left in here. The rubber belts are still on these old wheels.

I'm very happy with this find. I have no idea what any of it does, but it's pretty cool. 

It seems that early on the monks knew that their house was not fit for purpose, and it was decided that they would have a new monastery built on the estate. But because the Benedictines are all about their work, they decided to quarry the stone themselves, and build it themselves. It was very impressive, all things considered. But there was no rush. They built as the money came in. When it didn't, they just got on with life. As a result of this chilled approach, and with a world war getting in the way, things went very slowly. The foundation stone for their new home was laid in 1939, and in 1958 they told the media that they were looking to be finished in eight or nine years. 

I can't help but love their laid back approach. In 1956 when asked about the cost, the abbot just said "Let's put it another way. If God wants the abbey built then it will be."

There's a reason these guys often look fifty when they're seventy. They don't stress about the small shit. Whatever happens happens. 

I've pieced all this together from news articles from the 1930s, 1950s and 1960s, plus the map of the area from the 1970s. What we're looking at here is derelict quarry equipment, the contraptions that allowed the quarried stone to be cut into blocks, or cut the timber, or whatever. I have no idea precisely what I'm looking at, but I have no doubt that it was all used to build the new monastery on the estate.

The monks, when questioned about their use of modern technology, told the media "The evil was not in modern devices but the use to which they are put," a mindset that should apply to the internet era too. We have the entirety of recorded human knowledge at our fingertips, and people use it to argue on Facebook about black mermaids, strangers genitals, and flags. Are the humans okay?

Just look at this! Isn't this awesome?

When it came to building the monastery the monks were very quick to send their people out to get the required training. The articles from the 1950s told of how Brother Kenelm was a former bus conductor until he joined the monastery and became a qualified builder. Whereas Brother Emmanuel was a commercial traveller before he took his vows, and now he makes church incense. The vibe definitely seems to be to take men who feel like they are going nowhere in life, and give them purpose within this community. And my own misgivings about that magical sky twat God aside, I like what religion does for people when it's used for good. Just like the monks say about technology, the evil is not in religion, but in the use to which it is put. 

Although in regards to the monastery construction, the article said that "Those too frail or too intellectual for such work are given other helpful jobs like library duties, potato peeling or milking the cows."

Too intellectual? What an odd choice of word. "This man is too intellectual for these lowly builder jobs. Let's have him peel the potatoes."

I seriously hope the media misquoted them on that one. I guess it wouldn't be the mainstream media if they didn't insult someone.

The sad irony behind all of this positive productivity is that the brand new monastery, that was completed in 1972, has sat vacant since 2008 because it was too expensive to run, and now all the monks have moved back into the old house from the 1920s. 

Treesus Christ. 

And on that note, we're done. I'm a little bit miffed about that large vacant monastery, because I didn't know it was vacant until I researched this place. I've seen urbex posts on it, albeit from 2014, and it is pretty gorgeous, but articles from this month say that it is now being done up to become homes.

I've missed the boat. Fuck.

But such is the game of urbex. Win some, lose some. I've done stuff that other people will be kicking themselves for missing, too. That's life. 

Onto the next!

In the meantime, if you like my blogs, and want to get regular updates, or at least try to when I'm posting my hobby in an archaic format on websites that don't show your posts unless you give them money, then I guess try following me on social media. I'm on Facebook and Instagram. But these are algorithmic hellscapes that the world would probably be better without. So instead, follow me on Vero, Cara or Bluesky. These websites are small, but they are what Instagram and Twitter should be, and you actually see who you choose to follow. 

Give it a go.

Thanks for reading!