My heart sank when I heard of the proposal for a new airport to serve London in North Kent which Boris Johnson the Mayor of London has persuaded the Conservative Government to consider. The airport would be built on the Isle of Grain which used to house a power station (now decommissioned), runways extending into the estuary.
About two years ago I spent the most magical day in Grain, on that very land which could, if not saved, be forever sunk under swathes of concrete. I took the road from Strood out of the bustling Medway towns that sit one on top of each other with no apparent seams separating them, to the relative isolation of Grain. The further I travelled, the more desolate the landscape became and the more fascinating. Life existed in small pockets of habitiation, a small convenience store, the lifeblood of an otherwise deserted place. Perfect for exploration. I parked the car next to the estuary beaches, unloaded my cameras and tripod and walked along the shore line. The sun was shining and the light was crystal clear. I looked across the estuary and clearly distinguishable was the pier of Southend in Essex. The mud was a physical barrier between Kent and Essex, a dinner table for the numerous species of wetland birds.
I made my way around the coastline, in the direction of the power station and I found archaeological treasures like the second world war pill box with bricks saturated in graffiti. A strange tableaux occurred when I looked through a wire fence obscured with inhospitable hedgerow plants to see a buffalo grazing in front of the power station. I crossed a concrete inlet, an old water pumping station for the power station. Its deep twin troughs sucked in the tidal waters with a sign strictly forbidding any person to swim in these potential watery graves. My footsteps followed the curved shore around to face the Isle of Sheppey. I loved the fact that as I sat there, I was on the edge of the land. Before me sat an island in which nestled the mouth of the Medway. As I looked across to Sheppey, in the centre of the estuary lay an old fort, still intact. I wanted to swim out there, to see its latent treasures. I imagined meeting the artist, Stephen Turner out there and chewing the cud as the tide swept out to sea, swirling around the base of the fort. Over tea, we would discuss his Shivering sands project (Seafort) and our mutual interest in this strange but mesmeric landscape.
I walked on and encountered the site of a redundant car park which had long forsaken its purpose as a place for the employees of the power station to park their vehicles: a very JG Balladian kind of place. The car park had no entrance or exit, a grassy bank provided a barrier of inconvenience for any car left. In the corner a skeleton of a car remained, burnt out, its carcass existing like a swatch of fine venetian lace. Individual components had been carefully lifted out and arranged on the ground like critical samples containing the genetic code for Dagenham. In this patch of rough hard standing lay the hope of nature reclaiming this place. Native plants were emerging through the cracks with bright yellow flowers on architectural stems seemingly thriving where once the repetitive choreographed routines of car tyres had resisted them.
I tracked my way back, past the pill box which had become the HQ of the 'Grain Crew', boldly emblazoned on the damp brick work with reluctance that once I entered my car and drove back to civilisation, this day of vivid experience would fade like a scene from Brigadoon.
http://www.independent.co.uk/travel/news-and-advice/is-the-world-ready-for-boris-island-6291617.html?origin=internalSearch
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