Simon scales fences, evades police and crawls through asbestos. I followed him into the dark to understand what dead places do to the living. 

A burly man, cloaked in black, waits for me in the deadzone of security cameras. I’ve known him for all of half an hour, and now here I sit, teetering atop a 10ft fence, trusting that he’ll catch me if I fall. My cotton gloves are useless, offering no protection as the chain links dig into my skin. One foot scrambles for a hold, dangling for a second too long; far below, the ground is a mélange of brambles and broken concrete. 

Expertly reeling, my mind fires off a million worst-case scenarios: a broken ankle, a dog chase, disappearing off the face of the earth. My phone buzzed in my pocket — a friend’s text from Canada, “You alive?” as if her panic could bridge an ocean.

I’d sent her his Instagram profile earlier: no last name, no identifiable locations, zero posts of sunlight. Just a feed of abandoned nuclear sites. I prayed she’d at least pick a flattering thumbnail for the inevitable true-crime podcast. 

And yet, there’s something entirely too intoxicating about this moment. A forbidden dare, a promise of secret worlds hidden in plain sight. The rush comes before I even hit the ground. 

Simon in the ruins of St. Elizabeth’s—once a site of Walter Freeman’s experimental lobotomies, now only ghosts and dust remain.

This is Urbex — urban exploration — the exploration of manmade structures usually off-limits or abandoned; a regular Thursday for my new friend Simon, the man in black.

We connected weeks earlier through a dead Reddit thread, his username half-buried between broken links and breadcrumb co-ordinates. No small talk, no promises — this wasn’t a tour. Just a time he’d pick me up and the unspoken rule: “Don’t slow me down.”

Later, I’d ask him about the moment he fell in love with Urbex. He thinks for a moment before answering with certainty. 

"The atmosphere… It’s like seeing the earth without humans. It’s ephemeral, temporary, history and adrenaline all wrapped in one. And photography, of course."

He pauses, a glint of passion in his eyes. “It’s about capturing something that’s fading, something that won’t be there forever.”

Just as hackers, lurking in the shadows of society, bypassing firewalls and cracking code, urbexers chase the thrill of uncovering a backdoor into the supposedly inaccessible.

The son of a photographer, documenting his adventures is essential to him, as is the web of intricate tattoos sprawled across his skin; both ink and images are a blueprint of a life lived on the edge. He’s mastered the classic “hero shot:” a solitary figure, often snapped from behind, half swallowed by shadow and dwarfed by the grandeur of decay. 

And yet when he’s not scaling walls or sneaking past security, he’s behind a screen, crafting code, a master of both domains. 

Back in Hungary, en route to the first of two sites Simon has agreed to show me, I launch into question mode. Naturally, I want to know if he’s ever been busted, and the probability of being caught today. With his eyes focused on the road, I’m speaking mostly to his face tattoo, a leviathan cross on the side of his cheek. Its meaning I can only guess. 

“Yeah, I got caught sleeping in my hammock at Baikonur.”

Baikonur, I am to learn, is an abandoned military base in the desert of Kazakhstan, a cathedral to the USSR’s failed Buran space program, housing two enormous, decrepit Soviet space shuttles.

Simon tells me of his masochistic journey there: A three day, forty kilometer night hike through the desert and a subsequent four days inside a Soviet military prison — a small price to pay for his SD card. 

The ultimate endgame for Urbex explorers. Baikonur is sealed off, locked down, and just waiting for someone to bypass its firewall.

Thankfully, battling sandstorms isn’t on our agenda today. But we are going to visit another legendary spot in the Urbex community: Kelenfold Power Station.

Following the fence jump, Simon lays his backpack over the twisted snarls of a barbed wire hole I am to climb through. He emphasizes the importance of taking quiet, calculated movements, “I once fell through the roof of an abandoned morgue, got stuck between the roof and the glass and cut my arm up real bad.”

Despite his broad frame, he slips through with expert ease, a feat that seems almost cruel as I attempt to follow. His boots looked like they’d kicked in every door between here and Chernobyl. 

Mine? Soft-toed Sketchers with arch support, the kind reviewed by moms visiting Disneyland. Half his size, yet twice as clumsy, I muddle through, my down jacket a caught bird against the steel. The Urbex hierarchy was clear.

Curious about the practical side of his explorations, I ask for tips for anyone looking to dive into Urbex.

He laughs softly and begins listing off essentials, as if reciting a well-practiced guide: “Start in your own area first, get to know the terrain. Always take gloves, good shoes with steel boots, and a hazmat mask, especially for industrial places—if it’s been reconstructed in the 20th century, there’s likely asbestos. Dark clothing or green for forests, cream for deserts. And don’t forget a good torch. Lighting is key.”

As we climb the staircase to the control room, it’s clear he’s been here many times before. His head darting left and right, he checks for signs of security, averting invisible broken glass and warning me which areas of the floor might fold under my weight. It’s the kind of movement that comes from knowing this crumbling world.

You wouldn’t think it, but this decaying plant was a Hungarian national treasure and, at the turn of the nineteenth century, one of the most advanced power centers on the continent — the lungs of the city. Nowadays, there’s no air left. Just the faint taste of something metallic and dust. 

Here, beneath the roar of wartime fighter jets, engineers orchestrated Hungary’s surge into the future. Fine-tuning the flow of electricity to more than 800,000 citizens, feeding the beast required 1,000 tons of coal and 500,000 cubic meters of water per day. Amidst clouds of steam and machinery, dozens of above-ground bomb shelters stand guard, with room for no more than 2 in each space. 

The main attraction of the factory is undoubtedly its Art Deco control room, which miraculously remained unscathed during the war. Once a grandiose temple to electricity, it has served as a backdrop to several dystopian films such as Chernobyl Diaries, Spy and Dracula. 

Bakelite buttons and iron-clad gauges—this is how Cold War Budapest kept the lights on.

Under the honeyed glow of its stained glass skylight, it’s clear that, for architects Kálmán Reichl and Virgil Borbíró, the fusion of technology and design was a love affair. 

Now its moss-hued control panels stand frozen in time, their purpose slowly fading into obscurity. A mere shadow of itself, it’s mostly a backdrop for selfies now and sees only the occasional visit from a lone fox, which Simon tells me he’s spotted several times. 

As my eyes trail over the system of brass dials and switches I can’t begin to fathom, they settle on a structure looming oppressively under the skylight in the center of the room. Another bomb shelter, a strange feature for such a crucial and exposed space.

Beneath Budapest’s Kelenföld Power Plant, a hidden maze of nuclear-proof tunnels winds through the darkness—some leading to command bunkers, others to mysterious collapsed passages. Did they connect to the city’s underground bunker network?

The ghostly traces of factory workers linger in the air. How many unsettling glances were cast towards the shelter during their shift? What must it feel like to power a city, not knowing if you’d ever see its light tomorrow?

I venture through a crumbling doorway behind the control room, my shoes crunching on broken glass, beer cans and garbage.

Wading my way through the debris, the contrast between urban exploration and homelessness weighs heavily on me. Does it really matter why we’re here, or is it just the privilege of being able to leave when we’re done?

As quietly as we came, we leave Kelenfold’s empty halls, adjusting to the cacophony of the city life once more. In the car, Simon schools me on the true motto of an Urbexer: Take only photographs, leave only footprints.

I nod sheepishly, a wave of regret washing over me as I shove the tiny memento I pocketed deeper, realizing just how much I still have to learn. 

Whipping past fields of February’s frozen wheat and maize, we’re on the road once more toward an undisclosed location. “It’s important to make sure to tell at least one person where you’re going,” Simon advises me. But even with these co-ordinates—shared only with the utmost discretion in the Urbex world —my friend wouldn’t stand a chance of finding me in this next place, a military bunker in the mountains. 

Bunkers like this are kept under wraps for good reason. It’s rare to uncover one so well-preserved. No vandalism, no pipes stripped of copper, you wouldn’t even find it on the handful of websites listing Urbex co-ordinates for a price. Simon tells me these sites are a threat to the Urbex community, simply because arsonists, vandals, thieves, and anyone else with ill intentions could have access to them.

This specific place served as a communications bunker for the Hungarian military during the Cold War, intended to keep lines clear in the event of a nuclear attack. 

Arriving at the edge of a forest, I’m up for the scramble this time. The excitement of discovery quells any remaining unease and, without hesitation, I leave my rookie gloves in the car.

Beneath the crunch of leaves, the undergrowth is thick. We wander aimlessly, kicking our feet, looking for something, anything, out of place. Finally, an uneven patch of earth draws our attention. A rusted, half-buried entrance pulls us closer. The forest and I hold our breath. 

“There it is!” For a moment we just stare, peering into the abyss, consumed by the thrill of what lies beyond. “You good?” asks Simon. 

I’m good.

Climbing deeper, I watch as he slides the bunker door open, the rusted hinges protesting with a sharp screech. Cold, stale air rushes out, thick with the scent of decay. The smell drags me back to the corridors of my old primary school in Ireland. With a shared look, a silent agreement, we climb down into the void. 

For a moment, the blackness engulfs me. The silence presses in, and I can’t shake a thought: If a nuke ever did hit, wouldn’t the real nightmare be to survive it? 

How long would it take for time to become irrelevant in a place like this? When there’s no sun, no sky, just recycled air and the hum of the generator ticking louder than any clock. 

And what gnaws worse at the mind: Watching rations dwindle by the day? Or not knowing which is more hellish, the world above or the one unravelling inside your head?

Shuddering, I hurry along the corridor, closing the distance to my comrade’s footsteps, recalling his mention of a torch. 

Even in the pitch black, Simon’s excitement is electric — bouncing into every shadowed corner, something that almost feels too alive for this place. With a sharp click, the torch beam flares to life, but it struggles to keep up with his energy. Like thunder following a flash. 

And at that moment, I got it. We’re alike in more ways than I thought. I feel the same thrill he gets from exploring new corners of the world—he’s just doing it underground. While others stick to the familiar, we seek the unknown, drawn to places that pulse with history; the harder to reach, the better. They remind us that we are part of something larger, a thread in the long tapestry of human existence, whose stories continue to shape the world we inhabit. 

It’s modern-day archeology. 

The thought brings a question to my mind, “Has any place ever completely changed your perspective?” I ask. Simon’s expression shifts as he recalls a particular location, the weight of the memory clearly heavy. “I went to an abandoned asylum east of Belgium,” he begins. “It was different — a lot of disarray, but there was something about it. Taking something beautiful out of something awful. It felt like a moment of reconciliation.”

But then his eyes darken a little, as if remembering something even more powerful. "I also visited a psychiatric hospital in Washington, DC," he says, his voice dropping slightly. 

"I stood in the exact spot where Walter Freeman performed thousands of lobotomies [including Rosemary Kennedy]. It's surreal, standing there, knowing the history of that place — the lives it altered forever."

Simon's torch slices through the blackness. Light fills my eyes, and the space sharpens into focus. Rusted pipes trace a path across the ceiling, beckoning us further. It’s less claustrophobic than I originally thought, with chambers jutting off in a dizzying number of directions. 

Bunks stacked three high in rooms barely wide enough for two people side by side, a generator that looks as if it’s been abandoned only yesterday, doors marked with weathered paper signs indicating their purpose in Hungarian.

I round the corner and step into a room thick with dust, the kind that threatens to steal any remaining air. All around me, old switchboards line the walls. 

Rows of knobs, dials and tangled cords were once the only lifeline to the outside world. 

Suddenly, the darkness engulfs me once more, as my only source of light jumps to the next room, leaving me both figuratively and literally in the dust.

Who sat here last. What was the final call they took, and who answered on the other side? 

I flick on my phone’s torch, the last of my battery bleeding out into a dim cone of light. The hall stretches so far that the beam can’t even touch the end. Following the faint echo of Simon’s slow and deliberate footsteps, I go deeper, heart pounding louder than my soles, praying my light doesn’t fall on something I can’t unsee.

The beam drags itself over the concrete, eventually probing the shape of a door. And to my surprise, I’m reaching for the handle — Simon’s gutsy antics have carved their mark deep. Its weight feels unnatural, taking all my strength to open, gradually revealing the bones of a radiation shower. It’s probably the most pristine thing in here, gleaming coldly — just a forgotten relic now. 

Tearing my gaze away, I turn to move deeper into the bunker, and a hint of light catches my eye ahead. It’s not much, but it stands out against the suffocating darkness. I near the entrance and spot Simon’s silhouette, crouched down, setting up his camera equipment in the middle of a large room. A faint scent of rot threatens my nostrils. 

Inside, desks are arranged in orderly lines, their edges decaying, a thin layer of white mold creeps across their surface. The chairs are anchored curiously to the ground, likely to withstand tremors or a blast, or perhaps a fundamental reminder of the bunker’s intent: maintaining rigidity and regime. 

Stacks of paper are haphazardly scattered across the desks, revealing faded documents that tell us of a time when the bunker was still operational. It was abandoned in 1997, eight years after the fall of Hungary’s communist dictatorship. 

My eyes fix on a pair of green rubber boots, neatly lined up as if someone just stepped out of them.

“What’s the strangest stuff you’ve seen while exploring?” I ask Simon, my voice cutting through the silence. He doesn’t seem to notice I’ve been in the room the whole time, too absorbed in his task of setting up his tripod. 

He glances up briefly. “Oh, probably a toss-up between a human skeleton in a mortuary cabinet or a floating hand in formaldehyde. I also visited a French castle that was filled wall-to-wall with taxidermy. That definitely had a sinister energy.”

Hmm. I nudge the boots over with my foot — suddenly they don’t seem all that interesting. 

I stare at him for a moment. It’s strange how he seems so unaffected by the things he’s seen, and I can’t decide whether I admire his detachment or if it unsettles me.  

How many places would I have to creep through before I stopped bracing for a jump scare? 

“You’ve been doing this for a long time, huh?” I ask, hoping to get a glimpse of what makes him tick. “Long enough, since I was a teenager.” His tone is flat, and I take the hint, leaving him to fine-tune his hero shot. 

I drag my shoes across the floor, aiming for the entrance, eager to cut myself loose from this sterile place. I’ve been in here too long and the coldness is starting to warp my perspective, seeping into my bones, feeding nihilistic thoughts I’d rather not face. 

I’m still not convinced that this is the better of two endings. Ultimately, it’s a hole in the ground where, rather than succumbing to radioactive fallout, those deemed worthy of its stale air choose the false comfort of starving to death.

Stepping into the daylight brings a rush of relief. February’s frigid air feels welcome on my face, sharp and cleansing, shaking off any lingering dust from my lungs.

The next few hours back to Budapest are mostly quiet. Simon asks if I’m cool with music. I nod, psyching myself up for a wall of thrash or metal to shred my senses, something to match his imposing frame and unreadable expression. 

But what comes is barely music at all — a soft ambient lilt drifts through the car like mist, a gentle counterpoint to the questions I let hang in the air. With each quiet pause, the man whose formidable presence had once felt intimidating becomes someone who knows the value of softness and when to speak. 

I ask him where he draws the line between trespassing and urban exploring, and he tells me, without hesitation, that for him the boundary is clear: “Personally, I draw the line at exploring private residences. Taking photos of people’s belongings and property feels like crossing a boundary, and if gaining access requires breaking something, that’s a step too far.” 

Simon documents the haunting Chavalon Power Plant, where Switzerland's last oil-fired turbines fell silent in the turn of the millennium. This concrete beast now offers Urbexers a maze of derelict control rooms and oil-stained floors. 

I ask if there’s any place he regrets not being able to explore, and his answer comes with a hint of nostalgia. 

“It would be the old Gentbrugge power station in Belgium. Now it’s completely scrapped, but when I first started, it was an untouched industrial gem — two massive rusty turbines, great decay, plants growing everywhere. It was one of the first places I looked for, and I never got to see it in its prime."

This once-grand Italian mental asylum still holds its darkest secrets, including preserved electroshock equipment that whispers of medicine's dark past. 

Back on the whirring streets of Budapest, we climb out of the car to bid our final farewell. Looking around me, something feels different now. I’m noticing the small, subtle details of weathered buildings I would’ve otherwise overlooked. I wonder how many house treasures for those fearless enough to investigate. 

I hesitate before saying goodbye. The day’s adrenaline still hums in my heart, and for a moment, I don’t want to let go — don’t want to surrender the version of myself that climbed fences and confidently clutched barbed wire. “Where to next?” I ask bitter-sweetly. “A few more bunkers here and then on to Romania.”

Then, with a spark in my eye, I wondered out loud about his dream destination. Without hesitation, he answers: “Abandoned submarines. It’s the ultimate quest. I tried in Portugal, but I couldn’t get inside. It’s like chasing a ghost, you know?”

He saunters off, walking away without a backward glance. I raise my hands — cotton gloves more hole than fabric now — and frame him between my thumbs in the shape of a viewfinder. A lone shadow dissolving into the sepia smear of Budapest's 8th district. 

The true hero shot.