The Megatron is Sheffield’s most iconic culvert, a vast Victorian system that runs beneath the train station, under the city centre and on to the River Don. It is a hidden cathedral where the Sheaf meets the Porter in a series of cavernous brick and concrete chambers. The history I’ve seen online seems to be undecided; some people say it was built as a storm drain to contain and control Sheffield waterways, other say it was build due to a mistake in the placement of Sheffield train station which meant the Sheaf valley had to be covered up and built over.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what draws me to exploring these underground, semi-forgotten places. It’s more than an urge to document them, it's an attempt to try and preserve something. Other people in the urbex/draining community like to talk a lot about the history of these spaces: who built them, when, why. And we often speculate about the future, when will the site be redeveloped? Will access be lost? Will the tunnels be sealed or sanitized? But what I find myself drawn to most is the present; this strange, temporary moment where a space is neither active nor abandoned, neither remembered nor erased.
The hour or so you spend alone beneath a city. The sounds of the trains passing by over head. The temporary moment of panic when a pigeon comes flying towards you. The noises you convince yourself you can hear in the distance. The slow walk back upstream in the dark after you waste your torch batteries lighting pictures. The minute or so your eyes take to readjust to the sun after you come back out.
That’s what I’d like to try and document, somehow. I don't know if I always do, but I'm working towards it.
The past will always be archived. The future will be mapped out and built. But the present, especially in places like this, is fleeting. A weird intersection of chance, decay, access, weather, mood. There’s something about standing in a chamber like this, water rushing around your boots, camera slowly exposing a scene your eyes can't fully see, that makes time lose all significance.
I don’t go down to chase adrenaline or rack up explores. I go because I want to hold onto something that feels like it’s slipping away; not a past, not a future, but a feeling of presence in a place that most people will never even know exists. It’s hard to explain, but I think you might get it.
Thanks for reading, safe travels everyone.
I’ve been posting some more Sheffield waterway stuff on Instagram (@gloam.flood), and I'm documenting things I've recovered from the rivers on my website (My Framer Site), will hopefully start working on some video stuff soon as well.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what draws me to exploring these underground, semi-forgotten places. It’s more than an urge to document them, it's an attempt to try and preserve something. Other people in the urbex/draining community like to talk a lot about the history of these spaces: who built them, when, why. And we often speculate about the future, when will the site be redeveloped? Will access be lost? Will the tunnels be sealed or sanitized? But what I find myself drawn to most is the present; this strange, temporary moment where a space is neither active nor abandoned, neither remembered nor erased.
The hour or so you spend alone beneath a city. The sounds of the trains passing by over head. The temporary moment of panic when a pigeon comes flying towards you. The noises you convince yourself you can hear in the distance. The slow walk back upstream in the dark after you waste your torch batteries lighting pictures. The minute or so your eyes take to readjust to the sun after you come back out.
That’s what I’d like to try and document, somehow. I don't know if I always do, but I'm working towards it.
The past will always be archived. The future will be mapped out and built. But the present, especially in places like this, is fleeting. A weird intersection of chance, decay, access, weather, mood. There’s something about standing in a chamber like this, water rushing around your boots, camera slowly exposing a scene your eyes can't fully see, that makes time lose all significance.
I don’t go down to chase adrenaline or rack up explores. I go because I want to hold onto something that feels like it’s slipping away; not a past, not a future, but a feeling of presence in a place that most people will never even know exists. It’s hard to explain, but I think you might get it.
Thanks for reading, safe travels everyone.
I’ve been posting some more Sheffield waterway stuff on Instagram (@gloam.flood), and I'm documenting things I've recovered from the rivers on my website (My Framer Site), will hopefully start working on some video stuff soon as well.
