Tales of the Urban Explorer: St Peter and Pauls Church

Derelict Churches, I am not a fan. If you want to see a church, just walk in and covertly take some shots when the vicar is not looking.

What’s the difference between this and something that’s been left?

In some cases, very little, especially if it’s a recent closure. Otherwise, if left for years, they can be relatively photogenic. With ‘St Peter and Pauls Church’, it lies flatly at the latter end of those extremes.

In all my years of exploring, this was the toughest entrance I have encountered. If you had offered me £200 to ‘do it again’, on the day I extracted myself from this church, I would tell you to fuck off.

Let me start from the beginning, as I have a tale to tell. @anidiotexplorers came up with the pin for this church, and simultaneously I was handed the location from @ninjakitten who informed me she was going to visit shortly.

I don’t know whether that happened, but if it did, then my sincere sympathies follow.

We approached the outside gates to see a couple hanging around, looking undecided.

Knowing ‘St Peter and Pauls Church’ was on the #TourBus I asked them, “Are you going in?”

They were undecided but thought better of it and informed me as such. After climbing the relatively simple gates, a portacabin was the next obstacle.

Could the sheer mass of brand-new razor wire be proving a deterrent? Surely not, and any hardened explorer worth their salt was expecting several lacerations if they wanted to get in there?

After climbing up the portacabin, thanks to a traffic cone that duly sank beneath my weight, I ambled on to the wall only to be met with a LOT of razor wire.

...***'How I straddled that and got away with it, I still don't know. Someone up there was looking out for me'...***

The next stage was to straddle it, knowing one false move meant the wire would attach itself to my jeans and would relentlessly stick.

Having a twelve-foot drop on either side was not doing my stress levels much good, and my balance is not what it used to be. Delicately moving one leg to the far side and hoping for the best, it was then a question of traversing the large drop.

Someone had placed a thick wooden pole in the corner, which did help, and once over the wire, I made it safely into the leafy, overgrown grounds.

The only way in to ‘St Peter and Pauls Church’ was via a small window which proved a pain in the arse. Head first, I managed to get through, knowing I would have to do all this bullshit in reverse once we were finished with the place.

On the inside, a plastic chair helped somewhat. If only my feet and arse could fit through first. What a luxury that would be.

We arrived in what looked like a small kitchen. It did seem like it had been empty for years and the sheer difficulty of getting inside, is what has saved ‘St Peter and Pauls Church’ from the usual mass vandalism.

This is the entrance window, great if you are flexible, very bad if you are me.

We wasted no time getting into the main area, and what a colourful scene it was.

Many churches look like this, besides the chunks of concrete scattered haphazardly on the ground just waiting to trip the unwary.

Not even a sniff of vandalism, spray paint, homages to Satan or broken windows, what a delight this was.

.. and no bastard telling you not to take photographs in ‘our church’ as the delicate colours may wash, or some other bulllshit like that (not that I take regular church shots).

With peeling wallpaper, it looks oh so much better and grittier.

Standing only, I’m afraid. No lazy arses in this church.

If wonder if he’s still there, or has been ripped down by some twat who visited after us. I don’t hear of visitors here anymore; perhaps the razor wire ripped someone’s balls to shreds?

2011, that’s a good decade before I placed my feet in here.

I take it back about the broken glass; there’s always some, no matter how untouched the place is.

Similar to the other board, it’s dated 2010.

Stealing is a sin, lad; I was just the same when I was a young critter. You may grow out of it (like me), or HM Belmarsh could be your future home, along with daily arse rapings.

A keyboard… and in very bad condition. Not a chance of a few strokes this time.

It’s not all about the public areas; the ex-vicar tends to live in these other rooms, and there could be all types of interesting shit waiting for us.

Hundreds of pounds, that gear, whatever he was ordering.

So much for the good condition church, the corridors upstairs were looking very derpy. Fortunately, we are very well versed in surviving such treacherous and deadly conditions.

Oh, the irony again, I think I will give the catering today a miss.

The living room before the TV was removed?

Some bedtime reading; it’s all very godly stuff.

Maybe the ex-inhabitant did have some life outside religion, a few novels, but nothing too violent.

Lots of floors, if it was a single vicar, then he had plenty of living space.

It was a little more grim on the top floor; this shell of a church must have been abandoned for years, with the state of it.

On the way down, we are treated to stained-glass windows, what else?

Danger! Of course, we never heed advice in buildings. Waning signs are to be disregarded.

It’s just a staircase, not even with big holes under the carpet, so what’s the big deal?

A Sacrarium (It’s not a normal sink — it’s a sacred disposal system for anything considered holy.)

Did the Muscat get poured down the holy sink, I wonder, a very sacred wine and possibly handed out as ‘The Blood of Christ’? I suppose that converts it into a holy substance.

Sunlight in wrecked churches, it’s tough to beat. Always explore religious sites when the sun shines.

It’s all gobbledegook to me, or perhaps Latin.

Nobody has been through that door in some time.

Real flowers, what do you think?

The Brasso has its work cut out for it, I wager.

A much nicer instrument, it probably still would work if only I could have found a working power socket.

We found our way up to the galleries...

... and found a load of hymn books. It’s to be expected.

This section was literally falling apart; it was at the extreme end of the church, well away from where the congregation usually sit.

The roof was caving in, and that’s literally curtains for this area. By now there will be little left of this section unless ‘St Peter and Pauls Church’ has been renovated.

I was dreading leaving this one. All that bullshit again, but like any long and daunting journey, it seemed easier once embarked upon.

The window was not such a twat, the razor wire seemed easier to navigate, and before you knew it, I was looking down at a smug @anidiotexplores who was wondering what all the fuss was about.

Here’s a bad picture of yours truly, courtesy of my comrade in tow, looking a little fucked and worn out.

Never again will I try such a place. That’s for the younger lads.

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