I’ve always been drawn to empty houses, especially those left to decay. This fascination has been with me since childhood, and it resurfaces every time I wander the South West countryside. On these spontaneous explorations, I frequently stumble upon abandoned farm buildings. Crossing their thresholds often feels like stepping into a silent intrusion—there’s a strange intimacy in finding personal items left behind. An old tie hanging in a cupboard recess, a rusted oil lamp on a windowsill—each object quietly holds its own story. They are fragments of past lives, mirrors reflecting not only those who lived there before but also my own memories.

Back in my hometown of Stockton-on-Tees, there was once an old dog racing track—Belle Vue Park—that opened in 1946 and closed around 1974. Nestled within its grounds was a grand old house with a large garage. After the stadium shuttered, it didn’t take long for us kids to find a way in, sneaking under the flimsy fencing to explore this forgotten world.

We raced our bikes around the stadium, chasing the electric course hare that zipped endlessly inside the track as the dogs frantically pursued it. We found our way into the house and offices, discovering the antiquated telecom and public address system. Singing the latest Slade single into the PA, taking turns shouting swear words to rouse the local neighborhood, and inevitably drawing the attention of the police car was our version of mischief and joy.

Belle Vue Park is long gone now, much like the men who once gave us threepence to watch over their cars during race nights. In its place stand rows of tidy two-story flats, filled with inhabitants enjoying their evenings. And yet, somewhere beneath their TV dinners linger the ghosts of memories, the echoes of lives that once pulsed through those grounds.