Stood there, just looking, initially it’s only the fence dissecting the two tracts of land that distinguishes the Brownfield derelict wasteland from the common grassland.
Walking on the [waste] land reveals a different reality.
My footsteps sound soft on the dense carpet of grasses – then Crunchhhhhh… the sound of plastic being crushed underfoot. I have to pull back long tufts of grass to find the source of the sound - a plastic milk carton. Wasteland becomes a fitting description again – domestic waste and building waste – no longer quite so visible – but still there.
Sat on a concrete outcrop I watch the Skylarks swoop down beside an old washing machine – rusted – and all but covered in brambles… and a young man on a trails bike.
The muddy tracks across the site are embossed with tyre marks – they mark the way to the disused car park where 2 young men in the middle of the car park take turns to ride a trails bike. We clock each other…
The young men must have been as wary of me as I was of them – a little nervously we acknowledged each other – then – as our paths cross – the briefest of verbal encounters…
“hi”
“hi”
They leave – one riding pillion