Blackrock Baths R.I.P.

Blackrock Baths have been derelict for at least three decades, and have been undergoing a sea change almost that long, slowly rotting into the sand but still substantially there. I have taken a number of blips of it over the years, such as this one.

The sea-facing wall was breached by the waves ages ago and the old changing rooms were carpeted with wall-to-wall shells and sand, a facility probably availed of mainly by junkies and cider partiers for quite some time; the tall diving tower was a useful perch for seabirds too.

I knew they were planning to demolish them soon, but I didn't think they'd manage to have most of the job completed so rapidly (the diving platform down, the changing rooms flattened), in a matter of days. So, although I've a pretty bad cold, I decided to drive down and take some last shots before the whole thing is utterly gone.

When I came down the railway bridge, I encountered a security guard sitting on the wall with a rucksack (packed lunch, I guess, and flask, etc.). He asked if I was intending to enter the baths (which had a hoarding and Keep Out signs on the walls) and I told him, stupidly, that I was a photographer and wanted to get some shots before it was demolished. He suggested I take some shots from the newish railway bridge above the baths, that there wouldn't be anything to see, that it was a building site and he'd have to accompany me... basically that I'd be a major pain in the arse if I went in. So I told him I'd just take a walk around the outside. I had wellies on, which as just as well, as the water was quite deep there. Of course, once out of range I did enter the baths, but the guard spied me, having moved along the wall to keep me in view. I didn't stay long, not wanting a confrontation, and I felt bad for having lied to him. But I really couldn't have taken many good photos from the bridge (though I did go up there to shoot a last couple).

For anyone interested, here's a Flickr set I made of the other images.

And here's something I wrote about the place (full of memories for me):

Blackrock Baths

The only building in the village to get its feet wet
has been derelict for decades, wearing a black
band of seaweed, its mouldy whitewash flaked
and sprayed with cave art's tangled alphabet.

Backed against the DART station, it douses
the sun, looms on the sand like a big grey boot,
Spartan, stubborn, occluding the village's name,
a come-down for the sedate, sea-facing houses.

The three-tiered diving tower's a rusted perch
for gulls and gannets. Wrecking-ball waves broke
and entered, filled the swimming pools with sand,
made changing rooms a museum for the beach.

My boots crush nests of ghost-syringes, brush
subsonic webs of laughter, shouts, growls...
Still, cheerier than a doorway for bunking down in.
How many sweet and sour evenings, how many trysts?

As a boy, I undressed on the slimy wooden slats,
in a reek of damp towels, goose-pimpled skin,
disinfectant and piss; shivering, dreading
the sloshing cold, anticipated like a slap.

Fools and athletes climbed to the upper platforms
to plummet, head- or feet-first, make impressions
on the air. And once, on the lowest board,
I dared myself to walk the plank, perform

a cannonball, into the memory-enhanced
murky greening: down, down, down
into what felt like a watery grave -- chill
so deep and dim I would have to push and smash

back into forgettable daylight, with a will.