Why do People with Mental Health Issues Stop Taking Their Meds?


It’s only Wednesday, but this week has already been pretty rough. A lot happened on Sunday, and the memories have been making me feel sick with shame ever since. I’m finding it impossible to talk about with anyone, so perhaps articulating those thoughts in this blog will prove cathartic.

On Sunday, I wasn’t myself. For those that don’t know, I suffer from borderline personalty disorder.

Although I’ve been pretty darn happy lately, I’ve also started to feel like a failure. I’m experiencing doubt in my abilities as a writer, and having recently graduated, each job rejection is a blow to my self-esteem.


Sunday was a culmination of self loathing caused by career and relationship worries, and lack of medication for a couple of days (which causes insomnia, which never helps my state of mind).


On Sunday afternoon a friend encouraged me to take a walk. I wandered down to the docks, next to the River Mersey. Water always gives me a sense of peace, and growing up on an island, I always had easy access to it if I needed to blow off steam.

When I’m down, it’s a comfort to know I can end it if I choose to. I never would, but sitting near the ocean, or walking over the 100ft bride in my Welsh hometown is like a backup plan if it ever gets too much.


Next to the Mersey I jumped the railing, just to get that little closer to the water. I didn’t want to sit on a bench, with strangers walking right by me. I wanted to be alone. There was a little gate, with stairs leading down to the water.

I sat on the stairs, huddled against the wall and rocking back and forth. A jet ski kept whizzing by as if it were looking for something.

A security guard appeared, followed by two more. I broke down, frozen to the spot for a few minutes, before announcing I was going home. They muttered into their walkie-talkies, watching until I was out of sight.

I sat under a tree next to the big wheel to compose myself. Two police vans waited nearby, but I told myself I was being paranoid.


I didn’t even notice two policemen, then three, surround me. I hyperventilated. Why wouldn’t they go away?

They lead me to a police van and I calculated whether I could outrun them. Even in that state, I still cared very much what all the tourists watching thought of me.

One policeman was kind, and told me a story about a colleague who had had mental health problems.

The other said I was giving him attitude because I wouldn’t state my name. I eventually admitted  I was just tired and not feeling myself, probably from lack of meds. His response was ‘but WHY would you not take them when they make you better?’ He was impatient and couldn’t fathom why I would make everybody’s lives more difficult.

It took a long time to convince me to willingly go to the hospital, as opposed to being sectioned.


Being escorted by police through the hospital was the most humiliating moment of my life.

My friend Justine came. I had calmed down a lot by the time she arrived, and the crisis team were happy to let me leave. Justine fed me pasta with avocado and we watched girly TV.

My beautiful, amazing boyfriend abandoned his weekend trip a day early, despite my telling him not to. I feel terrible about it, but seeing him walk through the gate at the train station meant the whole world to me. I can’t believe how fortunate I am to have someone who doesn’t walk away from me at my worst.


Today I’ve been feeling pretty lonely, so I tried to find some resources exploring why don’t people want to take their medication? FYI, I take antipsychotic and antidepressant medications.

I used to have a schizophrenic friend who would skip his medication at regular intervals, and I would wonder exactly what that policeman had wandered.

So, here are my reasons:

  1. The conviction that I’m suddenly cured.

2. Feeling so good, you wonder whether there was anything wrong in the first place. Maybe I imagined the whole thing? Did I even deserve those uni extensions? What if I needlessly wasted 12 days on a psychiatric unit whilst someone else was busy topping themselves? Better check, just in case!

3. Exhaustion. It’s hard to express just how zonked I feel a lot of the time. Although medication has been a blessing – when I’m taking them and stable, I’m the me I was always meant to be – they also take a lot out of me. I’m still exhausted after a 10 hour sleep, and it takes HOURS to wake up because my mind is so foggy.


So, this week has been a  bit crap. I feel fragile. I missed deadlines writing for a digital content agency I’ve only just begun work for – something the regular me would never do. I’m mortified that I effectively got fired for the one thing I’m supposed to be good at.

BPD often feels like taking one step forward and two steps back.


I often convince myself that people only like the medicated part of me. They don’t like ME, only the edited version they think they know.

So what’s the point of anything? Nobody REALLY loves me, so nothing really matters.


Obviously in a good state of mind I know this isn’t true, but in my own little world, I believe the harsh thoughts.

So it’s been an eventful week. I’m still a bit shaken and need time to process, but as usual – I’ll be okay soon.


Urban exploration in Lancashire


Today was a little less remarkable compared to other explores, but interesting nonetheless. First up was a garden centre near Phill’s house, abandoned in 2013:



According to the Warrington Guardian, the 66 year old bipolar co-owner attacked his business partner during a psychotic episode, choking him before attempting to topple a statue on top of him – before abducting the manageress. Because of his age the courts decided not to whack him in prison. DRAMA.






The place appeared to have been abandoned around Christmas time, with broken decorations scattered about.


The manager’s house was on-site, but we didn’t get many photos in the darkness; here’s a record of someone else’s visit. Phill showed me a photo from a previous visit which quite clearly shows a human silhouette and proper gave me the heebie jeebies.








According to Phill, the place had deteriorated a lot since that previous visit; copper piping  ripped out, no  fish left in the pond. I found this video of it in a previous life.






Next we found a bar-hotel which had only been abandoned a year or two. We had a good explore around the exterior, but climbing up the fire escape we seemed to trigger a motion sensor and had to scarper.





Next, Phill wanted to check out this cottage along his daily commute he’d been keeping an eye on it for several months. We didn’t attempt to get inside. Isn’t it pretty even in this condition?



Another location he’d previously visited was Daresbury Hall, a former Georgian country house in the home village of Lewis Carroll. During the second world war it was used as a military hospital, and then by a charity (now known as Scope) as a residential home for the handicapped.

It had recently been ruined in a fire (STOP BURNING STUFF, FUCKWITS), so here are photos from his previous visit:


We didn’t spend much time at the hospital, which had two security guards’ offices attached. We didn’t even see security guards, never mind have to outrun them!




Inside the hospital were the remains of a £750,000 cannabis farm, complete with police tape and evidence bags.

On the hospital grounds, a huge home had been semi-built on the sly by the dealers. According to Phill, the previous security guard had been in on the farm and alerted the family to a raid, who were able to slip out and never identified.


It was too dark in there to bother taking many pictures, but believe us that no expense had been spared. Sauna… Dressing room… Marble… Elevated beds to make the most of countryside views…


Here are pics Phill took on a previous visit:


Hopping over fences on our way back to the car, we unexpectedly came across a series of miniature train tracks:




I would love to hear about your adventures in the comment section. In the meantime, you can follow our adventures on Phill’s Instagram.

Festival No.6: a review


Every single person I know who had been to Festival No.6 had unwavering opinions of it being an incredible weekend. Based in the Italian-style tourist village of Portmeirion on the north Wales coast,  organisers promised it to be the best festival location on earth. I’d somehow neglected to visit in my 24 years of living fairly locally I and was very, very excited.

Anyway, back to the beginning. The shuttle service from Bangor was £10 EACH WAY. Y’what mate? We split a taxi with several other savvy party people, which at £70 still worked out cheaper, and the driver happily stopped off at Maccies. Belter.

On arrival at Portmeirion I was blown away. These photos really don’t do the view justice:



‘I am not a number’ – Portmeirion served as the location of 1960s TV show The Prisoner.

It was all a bit downhill from there, really.

The rain!

By Welsh standards, the rain wasn’t that bad. “Adverse”, No.6 later called it. Usually I’m pretty well prepared for festivals. I had glitter, wings and fairy lights (why aren’t Pimp My Tent competitions a thing?) but I’d forgotten wellies and waterproofs. Big, BIG mistake.

There’s a general consensus among bloggers that you should only say nice things, because who will risk inviting you to review events or beauty products for free otherwise?! But basically I’m not a kiss arse, so there.

Festival organisers treated this wet thing falling from the sky as if they had never encountered it before. Every single festival I have ever been to has laid down hay, gravel, bark chippings or steel sheets to ease walking, but inexplicably, they failed to do this.

The campsite in particular became a swamp, as did the main arena. I fell down several times, and as har har lol as it was the first and fifth time, wading through mud that deep is exhausting and also dangerous.

How it was supposed to look.

Word came that the park & ride had flooded, leaving vehicles submerged. Local farmers – apparently not “employed” as No.6 claimed, but voluntarily – used their tractors to drag cars out, many of which were later written off.


Did I mention that organisers inexplicably chose a flood plain as the location of the park & ride? In a statement, they claimed that ‘although showers were forecast, there were no advance or flood warnings…’  Did you not just use your noggins?


Unhappy campers even created a Facebook page to air their grievances.

By Saturday, I was cold, wet and on the verge of abandoning ship and swimming home. To make matters worse, Lucy made me watch the Kaiser Chiefs.

But then a guardian angel in the form of a family friend showed up with fancy woolly socks, wellies, AND waterproofs for me. But oh no, she did one better. She drove us to her mother’s house, where we showered and dried our clothes and I wore Nain’s dressing gown. I felt like a new woman!

Back at the festival I remembered that the world record for cracker-eating is two in one minute, and because we just happened to have access to crackers we attempted this record, and failed. Unfortunately there are no photos for your viewing pleasure, but here’s me blowing up Lucy’s mattress instead.


Wandering between the late-night tents alone, I met who I came to think of as my “festival boyfriend” during a Craig Charles Funk & Soul set. I asked whether he fancied a snog, and the rest is history.

Unfortunately, another criticism is that there were too many damn people, with an additional 5000 tickets reportedly sold. We became lodged at a key entry point between the main arena and Portmeirion village for 20 minutes. How much would a metal barrier to separate those going in and out have cost?! Meanwhile, the village itself was so rammed, we didn’t actually go inside any of the venues because it was such a faff.

The best area of the festival for me was the woods, with its various folk and dance oriented stages such as Audio Farm and Gottwood. Popular with the younger crowd, it was unfortunately closed at 8pm each night supposedly to stop people drowning in the lake and whatnot.

The woods are the best part of festivals – there’s nothing better than sitting under a tree with your new mate and sharing a bottle of straight vodka to minimise the need for toilet breaks – and I reckon closing before dark is a right mistake. If organisers invested in staff to keep everybody safe and lights to make the place snazzy, it’d be spectacular.

Wander through the woods long enough and you’ll  access the cliffs. I’ve always thought Porthmadog was a bit of a dump but we spent a long time just taking in the views. In the forest we bumped into one of the London poshos from the taxi, high as a kite, who told the festival boyfriend that I was a wonderful woman who he should treasure forever.

The highlight of my weekend was watching Noel Gallagher with the boy, singing our hearts out to Half the World Away in the pouring rain. I’ve always been team Blur, but it was honestly a magical experience destined for the memory bank. Oh, and he was joined by Paul Weller.


As a boutique festival, I had expected portaloos to be of a decent standard. They were pink, to be fair, but the decent standards stopped there. These were amongst the worst toilets I’ve ever experienced. Cleaners weren’t hired, as is custom at many festivals. Or maybe they were, but it was only the glamper wankers privileged to hand sanitizer?

I actually ended up missing a lot of the acts I’d planned to see – Blossoms, Bastille, Dr. John Cooper Clarke and so on – because there didn’t appear to be any programs on sale. Download the app, everybody told me. But my phone is the kind that lasts 20 years with the enviable features of a flashlight and Snake.

As a result everybody needed their smartphones recharged after two hours, and No.6 had conveniently supplied an extortionately priced phone charging stall. Sly.

La Compagnie des Quidams and their herd of creepy luminous horses at the Central Piazza on Sunday eve.

In their greed, over-selling and corner cutting, No.6 have lost credibility with many fans. Instead of spending all that money on a legion of shiny No.6-emblazoned 4x4s, organisers should maybe invest in a bale of hay and other luxuries for 2017.

They seem so concerned with reaching their ideal demographic through the “glamping” bollocks, they’ve forgotten that the majority of people who go to festivals are young, skint and just want a boogie. We don’t care about the Michelin-starred 7-course Dinner At Clough’s, or the fact that our tent comes with a doormat/sauna/personal stylist and has only ironically been named the Titanic.

It’s unfortunate that the weather put such a damper on the weekend, but I still had an amazing time. The festival boyfriend is now my real-life boyfriend!

Because of the location, and the hope that organisers have well and truly learned their lesson, I would definitely recommend Festival Number 6. Let’s just hope that next year it falls on that one day a year when summer occurs in Wales, eh?


Green Man festival: a review


Last weekend me and my pal Jonny went to Green Man festival in the Brecon Beacons, the ticket for which I’d bought purely to see Warpaint (again).

We didn’t leave Liverpool until around 8pm on Thursday, when I was already drunk as a skunk. I puked twice on the way down and it tasted exactly like the BBQ Pringles I’d just eaten. And we almost killed fox.


Despite kipping in the car and pitching on the Friday morning, we still ended up 20 seconds from the festival site. We were woken from our power naps by the unfortunately named Deep Throat Choir.


Mountain Stage

The first thing we noticed was the kids. Kids, everywhere. Oh God, we thought. The clientele appeared to be made up of old hippies, young hippies, and hippies with kids.

A medium sized festival, it is known for being one of the cleanest and most peaceful in the UK. The festival places a large emphasis on recycling, so every attendee paid £1 for a plastic cup with their first drink purchase and carried it around for the weekend.

Wandering about the grounds, I found the Fairylove stall I’ve raved about in a previous post. By day two I’d caved and bought this amazing rainbow bra. You’ll never wear it again, you say? Already have around Liverpool🙂


Because they cost £30 – £5 less than I’d originally thought – I figured I could afford to finish the look off with some £60 wings. Here’s Jonny modelling them, along with his new wizard hat and pants which I glimpsed a silhouette of his bollocks through:


There were lots of lamas. I’m not sure why.


The festival grounds provided plenty of nooks and crannies to get up to no good, and we found this LED cube whilst exploring.


Toilets are always a festival talking point, but these were the best I’ve ever experienced. Not sure if that’s down to cleaners or half the festival being made up of mums. We salute you!

It also rained a lot, but what would a Welsh festival be without rain? Pointless, that’s what.

The biggest crowd of the weekend seemed to be for Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros. I wasn’t familiar with them, apart from that song off the advert, but I had so much fun. Such a great live band!



Charlotte Church’s Late Night Pop Dungeon were on in the Walled Garden, comprising of unusual covers and mash ups. Charlotte Church! Sequins!! Operatic Happy Together!!! So much fun and not even in an ironic way.


The act I was most looking for was Meilyr Jones, member of Welsh band Race Horses (formerly Radio Luxembourg).


My Maths teacher gave our whole class Radio Lux singles when I was 13 because his son was a member, and it’s still under my bed many years later. I caught both of Meilyr’s sets, one of which was the worst kept secret and Green Man and went on until 3am.

Not only is Meilyr a pleasure to listen to, he’s a wonderful entertainer. He’s bashful and smiley and makes polo necks work. He first addresses the audience in Welsh instead of pandering the the non-19%. Here’s a clip of him on the Mountain Stage. Wela’i chi yn Lerpwl mis Hydref!

Considering I literally came to Green Man to see Warpaint, I was disappointed. Although they were phenomenal live, as always, their performances are wearing thin. If I just wanted phenomenal music I would listen to it on Spotify. But the point of live music, for me, is the performance. I never thought I was bothered about audience interaction, but Warpaint bummed me out to the point that I became quite bored. Not one smile, too much pouting. Bah!



Green Man hosts the Chai Wallahs, the largest independent music venue touring the UK festival circuit. Giving insight into the UK’s alternative and underground music scene, we spent a good deal of time here. It’s a place you can dance like a lunatic or perch on the floor and rest your muddy feet.

On the last night we observed a group of teens, all of whom looked no older than 16 but more likely 14. One girl had scribbled ‘look into my eyes’ on her t-shirt, cutting out eye holes where  to expose boobage. We were disturbed.

Anyway. Highlights included Will Varley, who had a lot to say for himself. My favourite lyric was ‘If you know where you are when you wake up, something’s wrong,’

Rews, meanwhile, were are an alternative all-girl rock band from Dublin. Great to see girls rocking AND smiling!



The last act of the weekend were Belle & Sebastian. I was reluctant to watch because they’ve never done it for me, but Jonny was adamant that they’re an amazing live band. And what a show it was. Great visuals, great performers, great stage presence. I didn’t stop dancing.

Fans were invited onstage, to the point a stage manager appeared and scolded the band. Cue mutters of “Hillsborough” from the audience.


The end of the night was marked by the ritual burning of the Green Man, which everybody had tagged with wishes during weekend (Jonny wished it could be Christmas every day. I wished for ‘peace, love and lemons,’ obv). I was bursting with a wee and nobody joined us for the national anthem – mainly because we only knew the first couple of lines – but it was a magical moment. Top fireworks, too.




How a Flirty Photoshoot Improved my Confidence

A couple of years ago, never would I have considered getting my kit off onstage or in front of a camera. I would literally rather make love to a cactus.

I’ve become somewhat desensitised to topless women over the past couple of years thanks to having them shoved in my face whether I like it or not.

I felt pretty having had my hair and makeup done professionally – that was, until my friend Rachael emerged after her makeover looking a right bird.


As an actress, Rachael knows how to rock the camera. I wasn’t nervous about getting my kit off, but I was bricking it about the actual posing. I HATE photos. I don’t do seductive or sensual, it’s either smiling or no photo. I was literally shaking with nerves despite the glass of fizz and the photographer had to help me fasten my suspender belt.

The shoot was less terrifying than I’d expected. The photographer told me exactly where to place each limb, so I slowly relaxed.

Going back to view the 40 or so photos a week later was nerve racking. What if I was the exception to the rule and they really couldn’t make me look attractive/thinner/etc etc?

Some were terrible. Of the 11 I chose, I still wasn’t keen on them all. But I blown away by these two in particular:

Lowri Astley_0255aLowri Astley_0256

A few others were nice too, although they have a vague brothel vibe.

Lowri Astley_0246Lowri Astley_0261Lowri Astley_0266

I was so, so excited to get home and post the photos onto Facebook. I never thought I could look so nice.

For the most part, comments were positive. It was a huge confidence boost hearing how lovely I looked.

But by the next morning, I was contemplating taking them all down because of messages like ‘I just wanna take those god damn tassels off your nipples and lick them crazy!!’

Maybe I was asking for it by posting them. Becoming interested in burlesque has made me very liberal towards bare skin, but despite that I’m actually a right prude and too polite to tell anyone they’ve offended me in case I hurt their feelings.

People can appreciate my photos, but that doesn’t mean they’re entitled to me.

Lowri Astley_0247

People also commented that they were unprofessional and I would never be able to write for children’s television. My answer to that is: right now, I do not write for children’s television. Maybe I’ll get there someday, but I’m not going to avoid doing things I want to do now on the off-chance I’ll do something else great in the future.

An old (male) friend unintentionally upset me by asking what I got out of posting the photos online. Wouldn’t keeping them for myself have “fulfilled” my hobby?

I am personally not that interested in seeing them, therefore I’m not that arsed. You’re free to do as you please with your own Facebook. I appreciate that it’s part of what make you a more “free” spirit than most women… you seem to give the impression that you want other people to validate what you do, and am curious as to why.

Wasn’t it enough for me to know in my heart of hearts that I looked good? He was like a dog with a bone and I felt terrible about myself. Was everybody secretly calling me a slut? Or snickering about the airbrushing and how disappointing I looked in person?

After a pep talk from a friend, I decided: screw them. They weren’t there to see the 30 photos where I looked like a beached whale and wanted to die of shame.

Lowri Astley_0270a

I am proud of my photos. I did something that scared me and felt empowered. I am 24 years old and probably not going to look this good again, so why should I hide my body? Why are women – who make up 50% of the global population – made to feel like their bodies are something to be ashamed of?

Showing off my figure doesn’t mean that I’m promiscuous and welcome creepy comments. It means that I can celebrate myself despite my flaws, and the only thing I would go back and change is to put a smile on my face – because regardless of spots, stretchmarks or cellulite – everybody is beautiful with a smile.

Lowri Astley_0267









Cirque: a review


Where: Queens Rd, Manchester M9 5FF

Opening hours: Saturday 8pm – late

Myself and a friend made a weekend of visiting Manchester recently, stopping off in the Alternative & Burlesque Fair at the 02 Ritz before getting dolled up in preparation for Cirque. I had been dying to visit a cabaret event in another city for ages.


Cirque is an independent champagne house based in a gorgeous listed building boasting original Victorian features and vintage furnishings. Promising to incorporate a whole host of unique entertainment by the venue’s in-house dance troupe, we were excited to see the weekly show Cirque la Vie.

We had pre booked in order to receive £5 entry and a free shot, quoting Manchester Bar Offer. On arrival, nobody had noted our names. They let us in for £5 anyway, though I suspect this was because the place was empty. We did not receive a shot. 

With just us and the staff, it was downright awkward. We wasted time taking selfies against the unusual interiors and were assured by the compère that she would be performing in here at 10pm.


10pm came and went. Eventually the place filled, though every single person headed to the VIP lounge on the top floor.

Confused and wondering if we’d misheard the compère, we figured that the entertainment must take place on the top floor. We went in – the room was packed with a great atmosphere – but were swiftly given our marching orders.

We waited downstairs at the empty bar, feeling silly. A member of staff told us that the singing take place upstairs after all, presumably because there were literally only two of us on the poor people floor.

We went up, feeling quite humiliated. By this time we already wanted to leave but it seemed a shame, having looked forward for so long.

The compère/singer was an excellent performer and I enjoyed her set very much.

The rest of the entertainment, unfortunately, fell short. I have watched a lot of burlesque, as well as performing it onstage. But this was so disappointing. Costumes looked more hen party than professional. The soundtrack was something you’d find in any mainstream club on a Saturday night. There was no humour of creativity, no slow and sensual movement.  No flirtation. Intricately choreographed but lacking passion.

Although they were undoubtedly good dancers who would would surely impress those who had never witnessed burlesque, I felt that the vibe was more stripper than burlesque.

The fire performer were decent, but the highlight of the night was a flapper girl duet.


We had expected performances to be staggered with breaks to socialise and buy drinks, but they came in quick succession so that the entertainment was over well before 11pm, meaning we had no reason to stay. We discussed the event with various people outside, who also expressed disappointment.

I so wanted to love this event, but we were in bed by 12:15. Although I wouldn’t visit again, people who aren’t familiar with this type of entertainment shouldn’t write it off. As a hen party or girl’s night out, I’m sure it would be brilliant. The space itself is fantastic if you’re looking to hire for a special event.

It’s just a shame that somewhere selling high end drinks fell short on the entertainment which attracts customers in the first place.

Have you visited Cirque? What’s the best cabaret club you’ve been to? Let me know in the comments!

Another Wednesday, another explore

Plan A was a convent in Lancashire, which had been knocked down by the time we got there and replaced with fancy houses that stood empty because nobody could afford them.

Plan B was St Joseph’s seminary down the road. Opened in 1883, its grounds boast a large greenhouse, cemetery and gorgeous lake.


The building itself is riddled with cameras and alarms, and we staked it out for a long time.





Can you spot the guard?

There appeared to only be one security guard…


We crept up on him. Notice how he’s no longer in his chair. He’d somehow managed to creep up on us – literally about 25 ft away – without even spotting us. Amazing.

Eventually we just risked it and walking right past the cameras. Still nothing. All previous entries had been boarded up. It’s such a stunning building and we were desperate to get inside, but my climbing skills weren’t up to scratch. Here’s a report from someone who did make it in.

From then on, we were on the lookout for some TOADS (Temporary, Obsolete, Abandoned and Derelict Spaces).

We found an abandoned cottage near the car and went to investigate. The view was phenomenal and I got the obligatory corn field shot.




I even saw my first swede field! A swede, growing out of the ground! Day = made.

We scrambled across the overgrown garden to have a gander through the windows. What we saw was mostly furnished, which is my favourite kind of discovery. At first we wondered whether it was actually abandoned. Maybe someone just really hated gardening? No photos exist of the back garden, but the brambles were taller than us.



An adorable old lady came to greet us, excited at the porspect of someone finally moving in. She explained how many people had stopped to ask about the cottage over the years, which had once been owned by an old man with a “strange son” who died approximately 20 years ago.


On our way to an abandoned garden centre or Camelot we passed an abandoned mansion. Searching for a parking place, we were distracted by a high-walled bridge, and on peeking over the edge on our tippy-toas because we’re both short stuff, spotted an abandoned mill.

Upon further inspection it appeared impossible to reach, so we embarked on a mission to find an alternative route.



After half an hour’s clambering through plants taller than us and plenty of brambles (just for a change), as well as completing other obstacles, we were there. The mill looked beautiful alongside the river.


Although the door was wide open, our guards were up in case we encountered squatters. A poster suggested the place had been out of action for around a decade.



There was roll upon roll of herbal supplement stickers unravelling all over the floor, leading us to gather that the place had most recently been used as a factory.



We’re pretty sure we were the first people to rediscover this place. Although some buildings had suffered the general deterioration that occurs with lack of central heating and whatnot, there was no vandalism or graffiti and even the copper pipes remained intact. Exploring always gives me the heebie jeebies, so it was easier to relax knowing there was no security or anyone else here.



We found a pair of overalls and a cute woolly jumper on our travels…




We sat up here, listening to the river and watching the rain for a long time.

Then we found a dead pigeon.



We figured that this path was to keep visitors out of harm’s way.



This was labelled the printing room and had yet more stickers.




*Someone* couldn’t resist giving the fire extinguishers a go.

Although it was a brilliant find, despite the brambles, trying to find a way in is often the best part. Not so much out though. What I learned: it’s really scary climbing over a spiky fence that is alarmingly close to your vagina.

Back at the car it was getting dark, but we decided to quickly check out the abandoned mansion which we’d all but forgotten about. Unfortunately the phone had died we didn’t get photos.

On a huge plot of land, there was a winding driveway with an overgrown garden which was probably gorgeous way back when. The home’s architecture gave the place an Addams Family vibe.

Inside was  little disappointing, having suffered extensive fire damage and vandalism. Most of the floors had collapsed.

However, some period features remained including arched windows, stone pillars and a carved staircase. What made the visit worthwhile, though, was a huge antique fireplace adorned with a carving depicting a ship at sea. Such a tragedy that only a cartoon enjoying a biffter was there to appreciate it full time.

Images by Phill Gaffney.