Huge black crows cawed incessantly amid an otherwise thick clinging silence as the building sank into the lush green vegetation on the banks around it.
The old brick outhouse stood in its own space at the back of the parish church hall, razor wire covering the old corrugated roof, red with rust. A stark iron railing surrounding the building kept intruders out. Bypassed by visitors attending jumble sales, coffee mornings and wedding receptions, no-one could remember a time before the building was there, but many couldn't recall it being there at all. The tall chimney gave out emissions of water vapour, smoke or toxic fumes, no-one was certain.
The studded black iron door, rust laden, was larger than expected with a heavy iron frame and ancient padlock, but strangely the door handle was shiny and new.
Grass grew around the walls, but the path to the door was well worn although no-one saw anyone enter or leave.
Was it just an old boilerhouse, or was it an elevator shaft leading down to the old welsh mines and caves beneath and then onward to hell itself?
As I stood there watching, enthralled, the door slowly creaked open on its rusty hinges. I held my breath. From the dim insides appeared a figure. Dark and encrusted with soot. It was the boilerman, carrying his sandwiches and tea. The crows hopped around waiting for lunch.
It was just an old brick built boilerhouse, sitting in a car park.
The old brick outhouse stood in its own space at the back of the parish church hall, razor wire covering the old corrugated roof, red with rust. A stark iron railing surrounding the building kept intruders out. Bypassed by visitors attending jumble sales, coffee mornings and wedding receptions, no-one could remember a time before the building was there, but many couldn't recall it being there at all. The tall chimney gave out emissions of water vapour, smoke or toxic fumes, no-one was certain.
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| The old Boilerhouse |
Grass grew around the walls, but the path to the door was well worn although no-one saw anyone enter or leave.
Was it just an old boilerhouse, or was it an elevator shaft leading down to the old welsh mines and caves beneath and then onward to hell itself?
As I stood there watching, enthralled, the door slowly creaked open on its rusty hinges. I held my breath. From the dim insides appeared a figure. Dark and encrusted with soot. It was the boilerman, carrying his sandwiches and tea. The crows hopped around waiting for lunch.
It was just an old brick built boilerhouse, sitting in a car park.
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