The other
day, I went for a walk in Leigh Woods. I’d done this walk a few times before,
but this time I got a little lost because I was being lazy and stupid with
following directions, and so I got to walk past the Stokeleigh camp twice, and
on the second amble past, I really thought about it, and imagined what it was
once upon a time.
The
Stokeleigh camp is an ancient site in Leigh Woods, facing out towards the Avon
gorge by Bristol. Two crescent shaped mounds are all that’s left of an iron age
fort that once kept guard over the banks of the River Avon for reasons so far
unknown. All that’s left are the two mounds, surrounded by trees, shrubs,
grassland, and themselves completely covered in a variety of wildflowers and
weeds.
Between the two mounds at the Stokeleigh Camp, Leigh Woods.
The Mound Rising up ahead at the Stokeleigh Camp, Leigh Woods, Bristol.
I’d been
thinking a lot lately about the impermanence of all things, especially
artifices, and how cities have a lifespan. The abandoned cities archaeologists
find weren’t always deserted during some cataclysmic event, rather citizens
trickled out as life in the city became less and less viable. The cities we
have opted to create in ridiculous climes such as Las Vegas, a city that
functions as any other American city albeit in the middle of the desert with
strained water sources; similarly, Cape Town in South Africa experienced a
water crisis just last year. Whether we like it or not, artifices have a
lifespan of usefulness that might be shorter than we expect; everything from a
skyscraper to a coke bottle to a city has a timer counting down in its
usefulness.
The problem with artifice’s
useful lifespans is that, unlike organic features, artifices do not break down
or transform on the demise of their usefulness. Where an eggshell, once empty,
will dry up, the membrane and residues rotted away, the shell becoming brittle,
eventually shattering, and then one day becoming powder, returning the mineral
constitution of the shell to the ground. A plastic drinks bottle, once empty,
just sits. It might tear or warp, and shed a few shavings of plastic into its
surrounds, but generally it will not disappear.
The Stokeleigh camp, re-absorbed
into nature being just mounds of dirt, seemed to me the most brilliant,
unintentional design, because its demise was factored in, and this isn’t a
spoon we’re talking about, but a fort. If we accept that an era’s worth of
cities could well be left due to war, climate change, and resources stress, then we should be designing
and building with decay factored in. Nothing is permanent, including
unfortunately us as a species; whether we evolve, planetary migrate, or go
extinct, I’d hate to wander the globe a spirit, and see city stacks still stood
where a rich base of habitats could have instead been fed and allowed to
succeed us.
Followed up by Abandoned City Ecology 3: Cut in the Landscape
