Tour Report: Brick Factory "City Forest"

At the end of March 2021, we visited a dear friend in the German state of Mecklenburg-Western Pomerania. Naturally, we took the opportunity to explore a few abandoned sites in the surrounding area.

Our first destination was an abandoned brickworks, about an hour's drive from our friend's home.

The region has a long tradition of brickmaking, thanks to its rich natural clay deposits. Clay has been extracted here since as early as the beginning of the 13th century, and the brickworks itself can trace its history back to around the 16th century. Its heyday came much later, towards the end of the 19th century, when industrialisation transformed brick production on a much larger scale.

Over the decades that followed, the works grew into a sizeable industrial operation. Like many brickworks, it relied not only on the clay pits surrounding the factory, but also on a narrow-gauge field railway to move raw materials and bricks around the site. Some of the locomotives once used here survived long after the works themselves had fallen silent.

After the end of the GDR in 1990, the brickworks finally closed. In the years that followed, some parts of the site were given new uses, but most of it was simply abandoned and left to decay.

When we reached the former factory grounds, our first task was to find somewhere to park. Fortunately, this proved surprisingly easy. Parts of the surrounding area are used for recreational activities—there is even a climbing park in the nearby forest—and consequently, there are several parking areas in the vicinity.

From where we left the car, we only had to follow a small path through the woods. Before long, the remains of the old works appeared between the trees.

There were a few concrete barriers intended to prevent vehicles from entering, but there was no real fence or continuous perimeter anymore. The site had, quite literally, been left open to the forest—and to anyone willing to walk in.

The factory buildings were in a sorry state.

Some structures, including the old ring kiln, had been completely demolished, while others had only partially survived. Judging by what remained, we suspected that at least some of the old bricks had been salvaged and reused as building material elsewhere in the surrounding area. There was something strangely fitting about that: bricks that had once left this place by the millions were now becoming part of something new, while the factory that had produced them slowly disappeared.

In some places, we were slightly puzzled by the condition of the site. Certain areas looked as though someone had actually cleared them out. After I later came across photographs taken in early 2019, I began to suspect there might be an explanation.

In February 2019, a 14-year-old girl was seriously injured in an accident on the abandoned site. I suspect that the rescue operation and the investigations that followed may have resulted in certain hazardous materials being removed. In particular, asbestos-containing debris that was clearly visible in some of the older photographs was nowhere to be seen during our visit.

The further we ventured into the former works, the more obvious its decline became.

Many of the roofs had collapsed. Machinery and technical equipment had largely vanished, leaving behind little more than fragments of the industrial infrastructure. Walls stood without buildings, buildings stood without roofs, and in places it was difficult to tell where the factory ended and the forest began.

Nature was steadily reclaiming everything.

Fortunately, spring had not quite arrived yet. The trees were still mostly bare and the undergrowth had not yet awakened, which made exploring the site considerably easier. A few weeks later, the same paths would probably have disappeared beneath a wall of thorny vegetation.

Despite the destruction, there were still plenty of fascinating details to discover. The remains of the old production facilities, fragments of brickwork and concrete, and the traces of a once-busy industrial complex offered occasional glimpses into what this place must have looked like when it was still operating.

Some of the surviving structures were difficult to identify with any certainty. Decades of decay, demolition and vegetation had erased much of the original layout, leaving us to piece together the function of individual buildings from whatever clues remained.

One particularly intriguing structure stood on the southernmost edge of the surviving site. Raised above the ground on a massive concrete framework, it looked almost more like a bridge than a building. At first glance, I wondered whether it might have been connected with loading or the dispatch of finished bricks.

It was only later that I learned that the structure had apparently been used as a drying shed during the later years of the brickworks. Its elevated, open construction makes considerably more sense in that context: fresh bricks needed plenty of air circulation before they could be fired. The field railway may well have played a role in moving the bricks to and from structures such as this one, although by now the tracks themselves have almost completely disappeared.

It was fascinating to stand among these remains and imagine the activity that once filled the place. Where we found weeds, fallen leaves and silence, there would once have been the constant movement of workers, machinery and small railway locomotives, with freshly moulded bricks passing through the various stages of production before eventually leaving the works.

By the time we visited, almost all of that had vanished.

Still, there were enough traces left to make the exploration worthwhile. We tried to look at everything that was still accessible, even though much of the site had already disappeared beneath the advancing vegetation and decades of neglect.

And then, towards the end of our exploration, the weather decided to make things a little more atmospheric.

A steady rain began to fall.

By that point we were already wet, a bit tired and partially covered in whatever dirt the abandoned brickworks had managed to throw at us, so to speak. So we made our way back through the trees, leaving the ruins behind us in the rain.

Another forgotten industrial site, slowly returning to the forest.

To find out more about the history and to check out all the photos from this place, click the button below.

Tour Report: Air-Raid-Shelter "Dripstone"

The first time I stepped inside this bunker, I was fascinated.

I had seen mineral formations in abandoned bunkers before, but never anything remotely like this. What we found inside was completely unexpected.

It was early March 2021 when a friend told me about a bunker not far from home. The entrance was open, although the structure would normally only have been accessible through an opening in the roof.

That was enough to make us curious.

We set off almost immediately, and just 20 minutes later we were already looking for a place to leave the car. Despite the rural surroundings, finding a discreet parking spot turned out to be surprisingly difficult. Eventually, we managed to find somewhere suitable and set off on foot.

Rubber boots were highly recommended - and we soon understood why.

In fact, there were two bunkers of identical design. They had been constructed during the Second World War as air-raid shelters for a labor camp, which housed workers employed at a large oil storage facility nearby. The facility had been developed from the late 1930s onwards as part of the area's wartime infrastructure.

According to the information we had received, the entrance was open.

So we stepped inside.

The history of the site had left its mark.

After the war, the camp was used as a reception centre for displaced persons. The bunkers themselves were later deliberately rendered ineffective as shelters by the British occupation forces. Their roofs and walls were perforated with pneumatic tools, destroying their original protective function.

Those openings changed the bunkers in another, completely unintended way.

For decades, rainwater, soil, leaves and other organic material had been making their way inside. The corridors were now filled with muddy earth and decomposing vegetation, while plants had taken advantage of the holes in the ceiling to grow inside the concrete structure.

But then we entered the rooms alongside the corridors.

And suddenly, the bunker looked completely different.

The floors were covered by between 10 and 20 centimetres of water. Along the damaged concrete walls, beautiful mineral formations had developed — and they covered much more of the bunker than I had expected.

There were stalactites hanging from ceilings and walls, while stalagmites had formed on the floors. Some of the formations had joined together, creating intricate structures that looked almost like the interior of a natural cave.

Except they weren't.

These formations had not taken centuries or thousands of years to develop. They had appeared within just a few decades.

A cave made of concrete.

The reason can be found in the concrete itself.

Due to material shortages during the Second World War, concrete containing a relatively high proportion of lime was used in the construction of many structures. Over the decades, water slowly penetrated the porous concrete. As it passed through the material, it dissolved minerals and carried them towards the interior of the bunker.

Once the mineral-rich water reached the walls and ceilings, it began to evaporate, leaving behind tiny deposits of calcite. Drop by drop, year after year, these deposits accumulated — eventually producing the remarkable formations we found inside.

The result was a strange combination of military architecture and a geological process normally associated with natural caves.

Outside, the bunker was slowly being reclaimed by vegetation.

Inside, the concrete itself had begun to grow its own cave.

There was, however, one less pleasant aspect to the experience.

The decomposing organic material in the corridors produced a strong smell of decay, despite the relatively cold water covering the floors. It was certainly not the most pleasant environment to explore.

But that wasn't going to stop us.

We made our way through every room we could access and spent a considerable amount of time photographing the formations, the flooded interiors and the traces of the bunker's past.

By the time we were heading home, one thing was already clear to me:

I would have to come back.

To find out more about the history and to check out all the photos from this place, click the button below.

Tour Report: The House of Bric-a-Brac

Hidden behind tall trees on an overgrown property, bordered by a quiet country road on one side and a golf course on the other, stood an abandoned thatched-roof house waiting to be explored.

On a chilly Sunday in February 2021, my mother joined us as we set out to visit this forgotten place. I had seen a few photographs beforehand and hoped to capture some of the countless details that seemed to fill the house.

After about an hour's drive, we reached the area and began looking for a place to park. Leaving our car in the golf club's parking lot didn't seem like the best idea - it tends to attract attention when you unload backpacks, tripods and safety boots instead of golf clubs before walking off in the opposite direction.

Fortunately, we found a small lay-by further down the road, allowing us to approach the property without drawing too much attention.

Getting inside turned out to be easier than expected. An open garden gate led onto the grounds, and the patio door of the house stood wide open.

Inside, the house presented a chaotic but fascinating scene. The former owner had clearly travelled extensively and seemed to have filled every room with souvenirs collected over many years. These were exactly the kind of details I had hoped to photograph. Unfortunately, previous visitors had already removed many of the most interesting items - and, perhaps even worse, had left everything in complete disarray. Judging by the empty bottles and other traces, the inevitable party crowd had also discovered the house long before we arrived.

Even so, there was still plenty to discover. According to local rumours, the entire house had been built almost entirely by its owner, a skilled craftsman. Whether or not the story is entirely true, the quality of the workmanship certainly supported it. Every room reflected remarkable dedication and attention to detail. The fireplace, the small bar, the staircase leading upstairs, the handcrafted shelving and the wood-panelled walls all suggested that someone had invested countless hours into creating a home that was both practical and deeply personal.

The upper floor contained piles of clothing along with a number of personal documents. Most revealed little about the former occupants, although a few provided brief glimpses into their lives. Among the papers were official documents dating back several decades, including records that reflected the turbulent political history of post-war Germany. Together with family papers and photographs, they offered fleeting glimpses into the lives of the people who had once called this place home - without ever revealing the full story.

A short distance from the main building stood a second structure that felt almost like a small house of its own. It contained a compact kitchen, sleeping quarters and a surprisingly spacious workshop. My guess is that it once served as a guest house, a hobby room or simply a private retreat - a place where its owner could spend time working on projects or enjoying a quiet evening.

We spent around ninety minutes exploring the property and came away with a collection of photographs that captured both its craftsmanship and its gradual decline.

Looking back, I sometimes regret being too hesitant to examine the personal belongings left behind. There is a significant difference between browsing production records in an abandoned factory and opening family photo albums or reading private letters and documents inside someone's former home. It feels far more personal—almost intrusive. Yet it is often those forgotten papers that preserve the final fragments of a place's history. Without them, many stories are simply lost forever.

To find out more about the history and to check out all the photos from this place, click the button below.