Dozens of rats scurried in all directions as we stalked between the bins. We peered over the railing into the stream below: the water levels were low. Green for go.
Tossing a wire ladder down, securing it on to the ironwork, I climbed over the fence and grabbed the top rung. The smell was nauseating as I neared the dirty water below, the squeak and scurrying of rodents disturbed from their routines, as I descended into their world.
With both of us at the bottom, we took a tentative step into the brown water: shin deep. I was beyond grateful for wearing wellies, although my companion wasn’t so lucky on that one: the vile water seeped through his trainers and lapped over his ankles
We carefully stalked through the water in the dark, avoiding making any noise. Although trying not to draw the attention of anyone on the streets above, we were probably being over-cautious: the city would be fast asleep at this time of night. The mouth of the tunnel soon loomed in front of us, and we crept in: a portal to the underbelly of Glasgow.
I’d found this tunnel a couple of years before, while frustrated with Covid travel restrictions. Unable to take part in my usual activities up in the mountains or down caves, I was forced to look for excitement closer to home. Urban exploring, or “Urbex” as the cool kids call it, was something I had never really considered until it was one of the only adventures to be had.
Rooftops, abandoned factories, breweries, power plants, cranes, tunnels, towers. They’re all part of the “sport” of finding places in an urban environment which people don’t normally visit. It’s not without risk: anything from injury to fatal accidents to arrest are possible. And the risks are very real: earlier that same day we’d had an extremely close call.
We were at a different site, investigating possible ways into a building. The sudden sound of an engine and headlights gave way to disbelief, then the realisation that we’d been spotted by security. The sinking feeling that we were about to be caught, as we stood out in the open. Finding cover was the only hope, but there was nowhere to go. A fast sprint to some weedy shrubs, our best bet, we threw ourselves onto the ground. We lay there, scared to breathe, with barely seconds to spare before the pickup truck appeared, scarily close.
If the patrol looked to their right we were done, as we lay about 2 metres away in plain sight. By some miracle though, they were more focussed on the left of the building where we’d been moments earlier. They drove past us, scouring the building’s exterior with a searchlight. There was no doubt in our minds what they were looking for.
But we made good our escape, albeit a narrow one. Waiting until they went to check the far side of the building, we ran from the exposed spot in the sand, and sprinted for cover. Through painfully thick gorse bushes, kneedeep water, and then into the forest, avoiding paths, our torches off, on high alert for any signs we were being pursued. This seemed to go on for an age, passing by eerie abandoned bunkers and infrastructure, all of which had been reclaimed by the forest.
Finally squeezing through a broken fence, and out onto the road. No true feeling of safety until we were back in the van, when fear gave way to laughter, relief, retelling the event on the drive home, replaying the scene. It was beyond lucky. But now here we were, hours later, out for more.
We waded into the heart of the tunnel, but this time I felt far safer: there was no way security or police would ever follow us down into this cesspool. We pushed on – even the rats had the common sense to stay out of here.
I ducked under a bit of low ceiling, accidentally splashing some of the vile water onto my cheek. Bacteria was the main worry now.
The deafening rumble of a truck driving over a manhole made us jump, resonating off the brickwork and booming along the tunnel. It felt like a big troll had awoken, echoing around the brick-lined passage.
So why were we here?
There’s a lot of reasons that people do Urbex as a hobby. Some for the adrenaline rush, others to find hidden beauty that almost everybody just walks past, some for the history that’s woven into the walls of buildings that have long been left to decay. For us, wading through miles of polluted brown water was a way to find a very delicate and beautiful part of the city.
This place was formed basically by accident: 150 years of water dripping between brickwork of a Victorian tunnel. Each drop of water carrying microscopic amounts of calcite from the mortar, which in this case formed a huge forest of stalactites, the scale of which is rare even in caving. It’s a place that can only exist because of the protection given to it by its obscure location. Well, that and the gross smells emenating from the pipes marked “sewer” that also run through (and leak into) the tunnel. That’s was definitely a bit off-putting, even for us.
But the reward is not a few measly patches of calcite: there are hundreds of metres of these incredible formations. For me, this place never disappoints, with a huge amount of variety: stalactites, straws, flowstones, curtains, stalagmites. Also a huge mix of colours, with iron and manganese dyeing the white calcite to various shades of brown, orange and black.
We spent a long while going through this amazing place, but having seen enough, and the air starting to feel a bit stale, we decided to turn around and make good our escape.
A bottle of hand sanitiser and a shower later, with a beer in hand, we could sit with the satisfaction of a day of excitement, lived to the full. It’s incredible how much adventure is hidden even in the most unsuspecting places: even if it does require a bottle of disinfectant for your clothes after.
