There’s a figure of an unusual woman on the cathedral in Worms, Germany. She’s just above the south portal on the right hand side.

The front of the statue at Worms (photograph by Jivee Blau/Wikimedia)

She’s beautiful and there’s something about the luxurious folds in her dress and the crown sitting on top of her perfectly coifed hair that instantly tell you she’s rich, too. She smiles serenely into distance while a tiny knight clings to the hem of her dress. He gazes at her adoringly. She doesn’t seem to notice. He’s hierarchically scaled so his small stature lets you know this piece isn’t about him. It’s all about her. She doesn’t have any religious attributes, the symbols shown with saints that clue you in to their identity. So who is she?

She’s Ms. World, Frau Welt.

The back of Frau Welt at Worms (photograph by Jivee Blau/Wikimedia)

Take a look at her back and you’ll find her identifying feature — she’s covered in toads, an allusion to Revelation 16:13.

And I saw three unclean spirits like frogs come out of the mouth of the dragon, and out of the mouth of the beast, and out of the mouth of the false prophet.

Her body is being eaten alive by snakes and worms. She’s an allegory for vanity, a symbol for all that’s evil and sinful in the world hidden behind a seductive façade. She was a favorite character in German morality tales and sermons around 1300, just after the cathedral was constructed.

A nude Frau Welt surrounded by poisonous plants, attempting to lure the viewer in a tent. (From a manuscript at the Badische Landesbibliothek)

Naturally she was often used to browbeat women into dressing modestly. So if you find that she plays too much to the misogynistic tendencies of the Middle Ages for your tastes, consider her male counterpart, Fürst der Welt. The Prince of the World or Prince of Darkness’s self-satisfied smirk belies the toads, maggots, and rotting flesh waiting for the viewer on the other side. You can a famous example of his image outside the cathedral in Straßburg.

Fürst der Welt next to three fallen virgins on the Straßburg Cathedral (photograph by Rama/Wikimedia)

Frau Welt embodying the seven deadly sins, circa 1490-1500. (From the British Museum)

Elizabeth Harper writes about saint relics at All the Saints You Should Know. You can also find more on the remains of the holy departed at the All the Saints You Should Know Facebook page. 

 Sources:

Metamorphosis of a Death Symbol: The Transi Tomb in the Late Middle Ages and Early Renaissance by Kathleen Cohen

The Honecker Bunker (photograph by Ciarán Fahey)

Buried under sand and rubble in a nondescript forest north of Berlin lies a massive Cold War treasure with its secrets sealed shut, locked up and destined to stay hidden forevermore.

Bunker 17/5001 was the most sophisticated facility of its kind among members of the Warsaw Pact outside the Soviet Union. It was built some 24 meters (79 feet) underground to harbor East German leaders and top military staff even in the event of nuclear annihilation.

At a time when the maxim was, “Whoever shoots first, dies second,” the threat of catastrophe was very real and tension was understandably high. The Cold War adversaries were eying each other suspiciously over the precipice, and Berlin, divided between the superpowers, was on the battlefront in the line of fire.

East Germany’s top brass had plans drawn up for what was to become known colloquially as the Honecker Bunker, after the country’s leader Erich Honecker. 

It was to be built near the motorway, making it easily accessible from Berlin. Honecker would have shared the facility with other members of his National Defense Council (Nationaler Verteidigungsrat der DDR, or NVR). If necessary, the bunker could have operated entirely independent of the outside world to keep some 400 people alive for up to two weeks. After that, they’d have to take their chances.

The three-story facility (photograph by Ciarán Fahey)

Inside the dilapidated structure (photograph by Ciarán Fahey)

Panorama of the Honecker during construction (courtesy Bunker 5001)

Construction began in 1978 and was completed just five years later. It was an astounding achievement considering its scale and the secrecy needed to ensure its security. More than 85,000 tons of reinforced concrete was used to construct the three-story facility, which has a ground floor area of 48.9 by 66.3 meters. Altogether it had (and still has) a usable floor area of just over 7,750 square meters. It’s covered by a 4.2-meter thick protective shield of reinforced concrete. That’s now covered by another six meters of sand. The structure itself is two meters below the protective shield. Its outer walls are 1.65 meters thick. The bottom plate is 2.4 meters thick. Concrete, reinforced concrete, and all covered with 8 mm steel plates to neutralize the electromagnetic pulse of a nuclear weapon.

Inside, its suspended ceilings are 60 cm thick while the fortified structure’s ceiling is 70 cm thick. The protective shield extends up to 20 meters beyond the outer walls. Even if it took a direct hit from a conventional weapon, a layer of sand beneath would have cushioned the impact and theoretically saved the structure below.

In short, it was designed to withstand atomic, chemical, and biological weapons in the event the Cold War escalated to boiling point. It was deemed capable of surviving an atomic bomb 80 times more powerful than the one that devastated Hiroshima, at a range of 750 meters. (Any closer and there would have been trouble, but missiles were not as accurate at the time as they are now.)

View to the outside (photograph by Ciarán Fahey)

Entrance underground (photograph by Ciarán Fahey)

Bunker infrastructure (photograph by Ciarán Fahey)

Supplies (photograph by Ciarán Fahey)

Of course the impact in such an event would be tremendous, but the bunker was designed to handle massive aftershocks. The floors, or platforms, were suspended on steel cables, allowing for earth movements of up to 40 cm. All pipes to the outer walls were flexible to withstand shock. Huge steel containers were attached to the ceiling with nitrogen-filled shock absorbers and cables to provide ballast from the protective outer shell. These would have reduced a g-force acceleration of 15 to a maximum 1 g in the facility’s work and technical rooms. The largest of these containers, 25 meters wide by 25 meters wide (625m²) and eight meters tall, weighs at least 500 tons and takes up two stories. 

Bunker 5001’s all-important control center was in one of these containers on the bottom level, its emotionless grey panels adorned by a dizzying array of switches, knobs, levers, and buttons connected by colorful lines. This was the facility’s nerve center, from where all its technical operations and conditions necessary for life were monitored and controlled. The bunker had its own waterworks, could generate its own power, and had dedicated air conditioning system, making fully autonomous in terms of water, power, and air.

The Control Center (courtesy Bunker 5001)

Bunker door (photograph by Ciarán Fahey)

Decontamination Chamber (courtesy Bunker 5001)

The bunker operated under higher air pressure than outside, and would have been sealed hermetically within fractions of a second by automated systems in the event of an acute threat. Air sucked into the facility went through several filters to ensure none of it was contaminated. Upon entering the facility in the event of a strike, messengers, engineers, or NVR members would have been ushered into a decontamination chamber, where their protective suits could be cleansed of radioactive and chemical warfare particles.

In the worst-case scenario they would have had two weeks — there was enough food, water, and diesel for 14 days — before facing an uncertain future. It was presumed by then that radioactive contamination would have subsided sufficiently for survivors to emerge from the bunker with protective clothing and gas masks. Armored vehicles were waiting in the adjoining garages to whisk NVR members to the nearest airfield, from where they’d fly somewhere more palatable, presuming it existed at all.

Thankfully it never came to that, or you probably wouldn’t be reading these words. The bunker lost its raison d'être when the fall of the Berlin Wall heralded the end of the Cold War. The reunified Germany’s army — the Bundeswehr — took over the facility, but decided it was no longer viable, partly because it was no longer secret. The bunker closed in April of 1993.

Hannes Hensel at the Honecker Bunker

Among the early explorers to rediscover the Honecker Bunker around 2002 was Hannes Hensel. With the help of fellow enthusiasts he set up the "Bunker 5001" project and documented the entire facility through photographs for an online 3D tour.

Hensel also co-wrote a book on the Honecker Bunker with Juergen Freitag, who was deputy commander for technical building work at the facility, and project members conducted tours of the site before all entrances to the bunker were "permanently" sealed shut in 2008. 

Now the "Bunker 5001" project is focused on reopening the Honecker Bunker as a museum. It hopes to raise enough money — initially around €1.5 million ($2 million) — to secure the bunker and associated surrounding buildings for guests. More than 200,000 visitors came to see it in just the three months it was given protected status in 2003, reflecting the huge interest there is in the facility.

"We want to give people the chance to look at things in a neutral way, to explain what happened, provide information and show where it comes from," Hensel told Atlas Obscura.

Collapsing walls (photograph by Ciarán Fahey)

Unwillingness to deal with an uncomfortable recent past is one hurdle Bunker 5001 has had to face. Not everyone appreciates when history is raked up and old wounds are poked again.

"Some people who came (between August and October 2008) were angry with what had happened before. But it provided a way for them to confront it. They could let go," Hensel said. "Visiting sites like this gives people a greater understanding of the past. It helps discussion on the future. The feedback from the tours was very positive. Everyone gains something positive from it."

Honecker himself only ever visited "his" bunker once. Evidently he didn’t feel comfortable with the thoughts of needing to use it some day.

“I realized that he probably did the same tour as we were giving in 2008,” Hensel laughed. “I thought to myself, ‘Hmmm, what are the things to see.’ It would have been the same for Honecker’s visit.”

For now, nobody can visit. But if the Bunker 5001 project gets its way, you will one day be able to again follow in Honecker’s footsteps and discover the secrets of this hidden place buried in the forest.

Ciarán Fahey explores the stunning ruins of Germany's capital at Abandoned Berlin, where you can discover more of these derelict wonders.

Clootie Well, Munlochy, Scotland (photograph by Davie Conner)

In scattered sites around Scotland, England, Ireland, and other places where the pagan roots still show through the modern landscape, you may catch a glimpse of a spooky sight: trees weighed down with rotting clothing and rags clustered around a spring. Known as clootie wells, the ritual dates back to Celtic belief in the cures of water spirits, and continues as a source of spiritual healing.

While the ritual varies around the different clootie wells — named for the Scottish word "clootie" referring to cloth — the principle is that by leaving a rag on the tree, before or after cleansing a tortured part of your body with it using water from the spring, you will receive some relief from illness or pain as it disintegrates in the forest. The sites were historically visited before sunrise, and on sacred festival days. As Lizanne Henderson and Edward J. Cowan explain in Scottish Fairy Belief: A History: "The efficacy of such curing processes varied but might not be complete until the rags had completely deteriorated."

In some places, human hair, coins, whole items of children's clothing, and other offerings join the ripped bits of fabric, sometimes marked with written messages. It's considered very bad luck to take any of the offerings, although there's been concern that the quantity of rags is hurting the trees. 

The clootie wells are not as numerous as they once were, but several survive, many now dedicated to Christian figures like St. Boniface. For example, in Scotland there's one near Munlochy and another on the Black Isle, while in Cornwall there's Madron Well, Alsia Well, and Sancreed Well, and in Ireland one at Loughcrew. And they still have a draw in troubled times, as in the summer of 1940 when the clootie well in Culloden, Scotland, was draped with colorful rags during the loss of the 51st Highland Division to the Germans on the beaches of Saint-Valéry-en-Caux.

Below is a video from the Black Isle of Scotland clootie well, as well as some images. Even if you're not superstitious, it is haunting to know that each of the mouldering rags represents some scrap of hope left behind to rot away a pain. 

The Black Isle Clootie Well (photograph by Amanda Slater)

The Black Isle Clootie Well (photograph by Amanda Slater)

The Black Isle Clootie Well (photograph by Amanda Slater)

The Black Isle Clootie Well (photograph by Amanda Slater)

Discover more of the world's curious rites and rituals on the Atlas Obscura >

Long before concrete, the highways of the globe were water, and the crafts that glided through them brought people and goods to new markets, new opportunities, and new worlds. The modern use of passenger and commercial ships swung open doors of transport, commerce, and tourism, but like any opportunity there was chance for catastrophe. Thus our maritime history is dotted with disasters and memorials to those lost, and now often forgotten. Here are five maritime disasters lost to time, and the obscure monuments preserving their memory. 

P.S. GENERAL SLOCUM

The P.S. General Slocum Before the Disaster (via National Archives General Slocum Disaster)

Standing inside New York City’s Tompkins Square Park is a quiet nine-foot tall fountain in pink Tennessee marble carved with a relief of two children looking over the water, alongside an inscription reading "They were Earth's purest children, young and fair." Additional inscriptions of “In memory of those who lost their lives in the disaster to the steamer General Slocum June XVMCMIV” and “Dedicated by the Sympathy Society of German Ladies the year of our Lord MCMVI” reveal that the monument is a memorial to over 1,000 lives lost on the East River. What should have been an afternoon excursion instead became a tragedy that up until the attacks of September 11, 2001, was the deadliest peacetime disaster in American history.

On June 15, 1904, over 1,300 excited passengers boarded the excursion ferry boat P.S. General Slocum that was docked at a pier on Third Street for the purpose of spending the day on Long Island's North Shore. The boat had been chartered by the St. Mark's Lutheran Church in the East Village, and the passengers, all members of the tightly knit community of Kleindeutschland (Little Germany), were looking forward to spending the day on their annual picnic. As the boat departed the dock, flags waved in the breeze and bands played as everyone on board, including nearly 300 children under the age of ten, waved their goodbyes, and Captain William Van Schaick, a captain with a perfect safety record, began to guide the boat and its passengers into the East River.

This idyllic atmosphere was shattered as the boat approached 97th Street. Members of the crew noticed smoke rising from under the wooden deck and upon running below to investigate, found themselves confronted with what one crew member described as “a blaze that could not be conquered.” Prior to the excursion, the boat had been cleared by the fire inspector as being in good condition. However, no fire drills were ever conducted and the fire hoses and life jackets had fallen into disrepair. Van Schaick attempted to speed the boat to North Brother Island, hoping to beach the boat sideways, allowing passengers to escape, but the winds only fanned the flames.

Soon the entire boat was engulfed in an uncontrollable burn. Mothers and children flew into panic and hurled themselves overboard, with some becoming trapped in the massive paddle wheel, while others clustered together hoping for rescue, only to be overcome by the fire.

The P.S. General Slocum burning (via Wikimedia)

North Brother Island was the site of Riverside Hospital, used for the care of typhoid among other diseases, and the staff watched as the burning vessel approached their shores and prepared their fire systems for the inevitable. Approximately 25 feet from the island, Van Schaick beached the Slocum on its side, and the staff of Riverside Hospital dashed into the water to save those still trapped on board.

However, the fire was too intense, and they were only able to throw debris into the water for people to cling on to. Within an hour, 150 bodies were laid across North Brother Island, and by time the horrific incident came to a close, 1,021 people were dead. The boat was carried away by the current before hitting land at Hunts Point in the Bronx, where it would remain for several weeks. The crew and safety precautions were scandalized in the press, and Van Schaick, escaping the boat blinded and burned, was sentenced to ten years in prison (he would be pardoned four years later).

Victims of the P.S. General Slocum disaster washing up onto the shores of North Brother Island (via Wikimedia)

The wreck of the P.S. General Slocum (via Wikimedia)

The Slocum Memorial Fountain in Tompkins Square Park was dedicated by the Sympathy Society of German Ladies and installed in 1906. Now faded from exposure to the elements, this monument stands as a reminder of a greatly forgotten disaster that shook New York City, and devastated an entire population of German immigrants which would never recover from their loss. 

Slocum Memorial Fountain (photograph by Allison Meier/Atlas Obscura)

 S.S. EASTLAND

The S.S. Eastland in the days before the disaster (via Detroit Publishing Company)

Standing along the Chicago River where West Wacker Drive and North LaSalle Street connect is a black plaque, approximately five feet tall, lost amid the bustling city around it. Although it does not announce itself to those passing by, the plaque tells those who stop of a horrific accident on the river that was big enough to be coined by some as “Chicago’s own Titanic,” and happened while the passenger ship S.S. Eastland was only feet from dry land.

On the morning of July 24, 1915, employees of the Western Electric Company of Hawthorne (present-day Cicero) were boarding the S.S. Eastland for a Lake Michigan cruise to Michigan City, Indiana, for their fifth annual employee picnic. The ship docked at the Clark Street Bridge that morning was modified in previous years, fitted with additional lifeboats and life rafts following changes in maritime law after the sinking of the Titanic, but maintained its slender design for speed. Its nickname was “The Greyhound of the Lakes.” 

The tendency of the Eastland to sway side-to-side was exacerbated by the additional safety gear, and large amount of passengers. At 7:30 am, the ship began to tilt before rolling over onto its port side into the river with 2,500 people on board. Passengers were thrown into the water or against walls that had suddenly become floors with all of the furniture and hundreds of other people crashing on top of them, almost guaranteeing that anyone on the port side of the ship would not survive. Medical examiners later concluded that suffocation was as much a cause of death as drowning.

Due to the tipping occurring so quickly, normal emergency steps had no chance. The ship’s captain, Captain Harry Pedersen, only had time to sound an alarm; the extra lifeboats, life rafts, and life jackets were never handed out or deployed. Within a few minutes, 844 people were killed in the S.S. Eastland disaster, 70% under the age of 25.

The S.S. Eastland overturned in the Chicago River (photograph by Richard Arthur Norton)

The S.S. Eastland being hauled upright (via Chicago Daily News)

It was not until 1990 that a marker representing the tragedy was privately placed at the site. However, it was reported stolen in 2000. In 2003, a new marker was placed on the northeast corner of Wacker Drive and LaSalle Street, overlooking the site of the disaster.

S.S. Eastland Memorial along the Chicago River (photograph by Victorgrigas/Wikimedia)

 S.S. SULTANA

The S.S. Sultana a few days before the disaster (via Library of Congress)

The city of Knoxville, Tennessee, and the town of Marion, Arkansas, are approximately six hours from each other by car, but the two are connected through a disaster that would have shook the nation, had the nation not already become overwhelmed with more sensational tragedies.

By the time the country was waking up on the morning of April 27, 1865, the population was exhausted. On April 9, General Lee surrendered, ending the Civil War, but the celebrations were cut short when on April 14, President Lincoln was assassinated. The hunt for John Wilkes Booth over the following 12 days put the country into a frenzy, only ending on April 26, when Booth was found and killed in Virginia. Finally, it seemed Americans could take a breath.

Across the country, Union and Confederate prisoners were being released and looking for a way home, and the P.S.S. Sultana, a side-wheel riverboat, was contracted to bring them there.

When the ship arrived at Vicksburg on April 24, it was discovered that one of the boilers was badly leaking. Rather than switch out the boilers, Captain J.C. Mason ordered a metal patch be placed over the leak so they could depart earlier with the thousands of soldiers cramming themselves on the decks. The Sultana was only allowed a capacity of 376 people, but by the time it departed for Cairo, Illinois, it had an estimated 2,300 people on board.

At 2 am on the morning of April 27, two of the Sultana’s boilers exploded nine miles off the coast of Memphis, where people could see the pillar of fire and smoke that filled the sky. The destruction was immediate, with half of the ship instantly blown apart and POWs were scattered by the blast, with the lucky ones landing in the icy cold Mississippi River grasping for debris. What was not destroyed by the explosion was set on fire by the coals that had flown away from the detonation, and what remained of the ship was engulfed by flames as it drifted helplessly down the river before eventually striking an island, where it would sink shortly after.

S.S. Sultana in flames, as depicted by Harpers Weekly, May 20, 1865 (via Wikimedia)

Those able to escape the ship were not home free, and for hours after the explosion men were dragged out of the river while others were found clinging to life, hanging onto trees and rocks along the banks. Still others floated as far away as Memphis. The death toll was staggering for such a small vessel, and while there was no definite record as to how many former prisoners got onto the ship, it is reported that approximately 1,700 people perished on the 260-foot-long boat (the Titanic had a death toll of 1,517 on a ship nearly 900 feet in length).

Of those who survived the initial blast, 200 more would die from their injuries. While the wreck and loss of life was an absolute tragedy, it was all but forgotten due to timing. Newspapers only gave the incident small recognitions in their back pages. In a very short amount of time, the Civil War had ended, the President was murdered, and the day before the Sultana disaster, Lincoln’s assassin was killed. A report of around 1,000 people dying in a single incident was suddenly small.

Yet memorials have sprung up in five states. Knoxville, Tennessee, is home to the first memorial to the tragedy, standing in Mount Olive Baptist Church cemetery, dedicated on July 4, 1916 by survivors of the Sultana disaster. A large stone is carved with the image of the ship reading: "In Memory of the Men Who Were on the Sultana That Was Destroyed April 27th 1865, By Explosion on the Mississippi River Near Memphis Tennessee."

The first S.S. Sultana memorial located in Knoxville, Tennessee (photograph by Schekinov Alexey Victorovich)

One of the newer memorials was dedicated 84 years after the first, on April 1, 2000 by the Northeast Arkansas Civil War Heritage Committee and the Arkansas Daughters of the American Revolution. Gathering with descendants of Sultana survivors and those who helped in the rescue efforts, a plaque was placed in front of the Marion Arkansas City Hall describing the explosion as “the worst tragedy in American nautical history.” 

S.S. Sultana memorial located in Marion, Arkansas (photograph by DavGreg/Wikimedia)

 S.S. MONT-BLANC AND THE S.S. IMO

The S.S. Imo after the explosion (via Nova Scotia Archives and Records Management)

Walking through the Fort Needham Memorial Park in Halifax, Nova Scotia, visitors suddenly find themselves in the presence of a large concrete structure with four giant bells. The view from the Halifax Explosion Memorial Bell Tower is radically different than it would have been on a late winter morning in 1917, when the S.S. Mont-Blanc and the S.S. Imo collided in the harbor, creating the biggest manmade explosion prior to the invention of the atomic bomb, and completely decimating the city of Halifax in the blink of an eye.

On December 6, 1917, the French cargo ship the S.S. Mont Blanc was traveling through the strait that connects the upper portion of the Halifax Harbor the Bedford Basin with a cargo of over 2,500 tons of munitions and explosive materials. At the same time, the S.S. Imo, a ship without cargo en route to New York City, was traveling in the harbor. The two ships collided at extremely low speeds at approximately 8:45 am. When the bow of the Imo hit the Mont-Blanc, sparks flew, igniting the explosives on board, causing a massive fire with munitions rocketing overhead.

Smoke rising over the collision of the S.S. Mont-Blanc & the S.S. Imo (via Library & Archives Canada)

While the captain of the Imo attempted to turn back into the harbor, the captain of the Mont-Blanc ordered everyone to abandon ship. The contents of the Mont-Blanc were known only to its crew, and on land people were gathering along the water and in the streets to look at the burning ship, unaware of the danger their entire city was facing, unable to understand warnings of the evacuating crew being spoken in French.

The S.S. Mont-Blanc headed toward Pier 6, setting it ablaze, and finally grounded itself at the foot of Richmond Street just before 9:05 am, when an explosion occurred in a blinding flash of white light. The shockwave was felt through Halifax, and travelled more than 1,500 meters per second with the heat at the center of the blast pushing a fireball of chemicals, debris, and shrapnel miles into the air, temporarily vaporizing the water around the ship. Soon after, a tidal wave surged through Halifax, bringing more devastation to the already nearly-leveled city. The S.S. Mont-Blanc itself was blasted into pieces, with twisted parts of it later found miles away, and the Imo was lifted by the tidal wave before being slammed into shore.

The neighborhood of Richmond in Halifax after the explosion (via Wikimedia)

The toll on Halifax was disastrous, with approximately 1,600 people dead and another 9,000 sustaining injuries. The entire Richmond district was laid to total waste, with structures reduced to rubble and splintered wood, every window shattered, every door ripped from its hinges, and railcars and boats crushed. Recovery efforts came in from hundreds of sources, and six weeks after the explosion, the Halifax Relief Commission was formed to take on the monumental task of managing and re-building Halifax, with the North End reconstructed as the Hydrostones, Canada’s first public housing project.

One example of a building damaged from the shockwave (via Wikimedia)

In 1966, the Halifax North Memorial Library was constructed with the first monument to the disaster — the Halifax Explosion Memorial Sculpture — placed in its entrance (the statue was later dismantled in 2004). Constructed in 1985, the Halifax Memorial Bell Tower stands today overlooking the site of the disaster, and is the site for an annual remembrance ceremony that takes place every year on December 6. It is the largest reminder in the Halifax region. Large pieces of the SS Mont-Blanc also stand in Dartmouth, and the clock tower of Halifax City Hall housing one clock on its north side, permanently set at 9:05 am to commemorate the minute that the city was nearly erased from the map.

The Halifax Memorial Bell Tower (photograph by Jesse David Hollington)

R.M.S. EMPRESS OF IRELAND & THE S.S. SNORSTAD

The R.M.S. Empress of Ireland 

Located on a coastal road near the St. Lawrence River in Pointe-au-Père in Rimouski, Quebec, Canada, is a tall stone structure inscribed with a grim tale. This mass grave and monument stand where Canada experienced one of its greatest peacetime maritime disasters.

On the morning of May 29, 1914, the R.M.S. Empress of Ireland was traveling to Liverpool, England, from Quebec City, a routine trip headed by the newly promoted Captain Henry George Kendall who would be making his first venture up the St. Lawrence River. The passengers of the ship were bid farewell to the sound of the Salvation Army Band, expecting to spend their stay on board in comfort. At 1:38 am, ship lights were spotted approximately six miles from the Empress, but due to an extremely thick fog visibility of the other ship proved difficult. At 1:55 am, the SS Snorstad came plowing out of the mist, slamming directly into the Empress at a 45 degree angle.

S.S. Storstad after the collision, with damages on its right side (via McMord Museum)

Kendall encouraged the Snorstad to move further into his ship, hoping it would create a sort of plug to buy some time, but the current of the river pulled the ships apart, leaving a massive hole that quickly filled the ship with water. Given the early morning hour, most passengers were asleep, and had no time to realize what was happening, let along scramble to the upper decks in hope of a lifeboat. Only 14 minutes after the collision, the Empress of Ireland sank beneath the river, taking the lives of 1,012 people with it, out of the 1,477 people who had boarded the previous day.

The wreck of the Empress is located only 130 feet below the surface, and shortly after the disaster crews began diving in search of bodies and valuables. In 1964, a team of Canadian divers recovered a brass bell. Due partially to the influx of divers, the site of the wreck was protected under the Cultural Property Act in 1999, and later the Register of Historic Sites of Canada. While there are still expeditions to the wreck, the dive has taken the lives of six more people since 2009.

The mass grave located at Pointe-au-Père was memorialized by the Canadian Pacific Railway Company. Several other reminders have been established in the region, with markers in the Mount Herman Cemetery in Quebec, a memorial in Saint Germain Cemetery in Rimouski, and a monument erected by the Salvation Army in the Mount Pleasant Cemetery in Toronto where an annual memorial service is held on the anniversary of the disaster next to their statue reading “In Sacred Memory of 167 Officers and Soldiers of the Salvation Army Promoted to Glory From the Empress of Ireland at Daybreak, Friday May 29, 1914".

The memorial for the Empress of Ireland, located in Pointe-au-Père in Rimouski, Quebec, Canada (photograph by G. Bouchard)

Memorial to the Empress of Ireland disaster in the Mount Hermon Cemetery in Quebec City (photograph by Bouchecl/Wikimedia)

Discover more sites and memorials of shipwrecks on the Atlas Obscura >

Delmonico's on Beaver St. in Manhattan (photograph by Allison Meier/Atlas Obscura)

Are relics from Pompeii — that Roman city wrecked by Mount Vesuvius in 79 AD — embedded in the façade of one of New York City's most iconic restaurants? The answer is a wavering "maybe," but the symbolism of the two marble columns framing the entrance to Delmonico's resonates both with that ancient destruction, and one of New York's greatest disasters.

I had never heard the story that the two corinthian columns bookending the gold Delmonico's name at 56 Beaver Street were from Pompeii until this past Sunday's historic Lower Manhattan tour from Dan Veksler of Other World Tours for the Obscura Society. Veksler was careful to state that "by all accounts" the columns were from Pompeii, meaning the proof is vague, but as I touched the obviously old stone and looked at the detailed capitals, I wondered how much was true.

Delmonico's on Beaver St. in 1893 (via British Library)

The history of Delmonico's, while far from the grandeur of Pompeii, is a significant one for the dining culture of Manhattan. Started as a pastry shop in 1831 by two Swiss brothers, it eventually expanded into several restaurants. Its culinary breakthroughs included having the first tablecloths in Manhattan, the first printed menus, the first private seating, and being the first to invite women to dine alone without judgement on their character. As such a successful and stately enterprise, Delmonico's built lavish dining halls, not least the one that opened in 1891 on Beaver Street. Designed by James Brown Lord in a Renaissance Revival style, it wedges into a triangle of land with orange terracotta and brick, along with those two curious columns lodged in the doorway, clashing with the earthy colors.

The columns had already been installed on the Delmonico's on Williams Street, destroyed in the Great Fire of 1835. The fire consumed 17 blocks of the city, which was still mostly just the lower tip of Manhattan, and was a big reason buildings were rebuilt in the hardier brick. The Pompeii columns were hauled from the ashes, a predicament perhaps not unfamiliar to them, and incorporated into the new Delmonico's. 

The columns at Delmonico's today (photograph by Allison Meier/Atlas Obscura)

Now, as to the veracity of their origin, it's fuzzy. Most reports, such as the Landmarks Preservation Commission's, are careful to say something along the lines that the columns "were reputed to be from the doorway of a villa in Pompeii." However, more exuberant and perhaps less trustworthy sources like Valentine's Manual of the City of New York: 1917-1918 crow: "Through this portico passed no doubt many of the stately figures of Pompeii, its distinguished public characters, its merchant princes, its wealthy social leaders and hosts of gay youths and merry maidens intent on pleasure just like the youths and maidens of our own pleasure loving city today." 

Romantic, sure, but I couldn't find a definitive answer. However, having a priceless ancient artifact out in the open like this, unmarked and available to the touch, isn't as unusual as you might think. Just outside of New York City in Yonkers at the Untermyer Gardens are two 23-foot ancient Roman columns that have been adorning the 1920s park for decades without fanfare. Either way, there's a bold phoenix-like symbolism with the Delmonico's columns, where after the city was almost totally destroyed by a fire, they resurrected their own institution by iconizing a proclaimed artifact of another city lost to a fiery doom. 

A column at Pompeii (photograph by Xavi/Flickr user)

Thanks to Dan Veksler of Other World Tours for introducing us to this New York curiosity. To discover more of the city's history with us, join the Obscura Society for a tour or other adventure.

Sant’Agostino, memorial to Cardinal Giuseppe Ranato Imperiali, by Paolo Posi (design) and Pietro Bracci (statuary), 1741 (photograph by Elizabeth Harper)

The dead are everywhere in the churches of Rome. Their tombs line the walls and dominate whole side chapels. Visit enough of them and you’ll come to expect the loose wiggle and hollow thunk of the marble slabs shifting beneath your feet that signal you’ve walked over a grave. If you imagine what’s just beyond every surface, the churches become mega-necropoli, Tokyos made of tombs instead of hotel rooms.

Unlike the relics of the saints, the entombed bodies of clergy and parishioners are largely hidden from the public, but the Baroque skulls and life-sized marble skeletons won’t let you forget they’re there. They speak to you. But as David Sedaris noted inWhen You Are Engulfed in Flames, the skeleton has a “limited vocabulary, and says only one thing: ‘You are going to die.”

Rome’s skeletons prefer to deliver the bad news in Latin, an appropriately dead language, but even so you can’t mistake the message or the fact they’re addressing you directly. An engraved skeleton on the façade of Santa Maria dell’Orazione e Mort unfurls a banner that reads, “Hodie mihi. Cras tibi.” “Today me. Tomorrow you,” it shrugs.

Though their message is grim, the skeletons are surprisingly lively. At San Francesco d’Assisi a Ripa Grande, they climb out from behind the artwork. At Gesù e Maria, one appears frozen in the middle of a solo danse macabre, flailing so wildly it seems to be coming apart. Even in the more staid examples, it isn’t unusual for the skull’s empty sockets to convey more emotion than busts of the living. It’s this kinetic quality that’s so arresting; life seems to bursts supernaturally from these dark corners devoted to death.

The juxtaposition is intentional. Bernini popularized the use of these unusually active skeletons, and in doing so masterfully expressed a tenant of his Catholic faith. The feathered wings signal these aren’t your average corpses. They’re complex allegories for the inescapable passage of time, and the belief that death and decomposition of the body are the first stages in the transition to everlasting life (or damnation, as the case may be). Though the skeleton may only say, “You are going to die," for some that implies, “You haven’t lived yet.”

Sant’Eustachio (photograph by Elizabeth Harper)

San Lorenzo in Damaso, memorial to Allessandro Valtrini by Gian Lorenzo Bernini, 1639 (photograph by Elizabeth Harper)

Gesù e Maria, memorial to Camillo del Corno by Domenico Guidi (photograph by Elizabeth Harper)

Façade of Santa Maria dell'Orazione e Morte, designed by Ferdinando Fuga, 1738 (photograph by Elizabeth Harper)

Santa Maria del Popolo, tomb of Giovanni Battista Gisleni, made for himself prior to his death in 1672 (photograph by Elizabeth Harper)

Santa Maria del Popolo, tomb of Princess Maria Eleonora Boncompagni Ludovisi, died 1745 (photograph by Elizabeth Harper)

San Pietro in Montorio: Detail of the relief carved on the tomb of Girolamo Raimondi by Niccolo Sale, chapel designed by Gian Lorenzo Bernini (photograph by Elizabeth Harper)

San Pietro in Vincoli, memorial  to Cardinal Cinzio Aldobrandini by Carlo Bizzaccheri, died 1610 (photograph by Elizabeth Harper)

San Pietro in Vincoli, memorial to Cardinal Mariano Pietro Vecchiarelli, died 1639 (photograph by Elizabeth Harper)

Sant’Onofrio, tomb of Marquis Joseph Rondinin (photograph by Elizabeth Harper)

Santa Maria sopra Minerva, memorial to Carlo Emanuele Vizzani, by Domenico Guidi, 1661 (photograph by Elizabeth Harper)

San Francesco d’Assisi a Ripa Grande, memorial to Maria Camilla and Giovanni Battista Rospigliosi, skeleton by Michele Garofolino, 1713 (photograph by Elizabeth Harper)

Elizabeth Harper writes about saint relics and other morbid history at All the Saints You Should Know. You can also find more on the remains of the holy departed at the All the Saints You Should Know Facebook page.

Prow of the Dominator in California (photograph by Adam Ness)

It's amazing how an event that captured the public's attention so much in the 1960s could be so easily forgotten in the decades that followed.

The S.S. Dominator caused a sensation in the South Bay of Los Angeles when it ran ashore on March 13, 1961 at Rocky Point in Palos Verdes Estates. Stuck there, its cargo load of wheat expanded so much it broke the hull. The captain and his crew had to abandon ship when it started taking on water, and the Coast Guard hadn't been able to tow them out. Then the thing burst into flames. The wet, gloppy, oatmeal-like wheat attracted so many flies, they became a neighborhood nuisance. The flies attracted an invasion of lobsters, which then attracted an influx of swimmers and fishermen. Scavengers tried to salvage whatever valuable materials they could before the Pacific Ocean tide washed it away.

But fascinatingly, that never happened. Over the last 50 years, people have mostly forgotten the Dominator shipwreck, and many born after the incident, or who have recently moved to the area, don't even know how to get to it.

The Los Angeles Obscura Society set off on Sunday morning of Fourth of July weekend, early enough to reach the site of the wreckage by low tide to see as much of it as we could without getting too wet. Below are some photographs from our exploration of this overlooked shipwreck.

All photos by the author, except where indicated.

Group shot at the start of our journey on the cliff in Palos Verdes Estates

Bluff Cove Trail down to the beach

The appropriately-named Rocky Shore Trail, on our way to Rocky Point

One of many storm drains we passed along the way

First signs of the wreckage

Main site of the wreckage, which spans over a half mile along the beach and out into the ocean

Crane

Hull

Detail (Photo by Todd Eric Andrews)

Our new playground

King of the world!

Major kudos to our hiking crew, who kept in good spirits throughout our four hour, physically challenging excursion to the underbelly of West Coast beach life. Everyone who made it all the way (which was almost everyone in the group) said our amazing journey was worth it. Now hopefully each of them will go back and show it to someone else.

The Obscura Society is the real-world exploration arm of Atlas Obscura We seek out secret histories, unusual access, and opportunities for our community to explore strange and overlooked places hidden all around us. Join us on our next adventure, and keep up with LA Obscura Society events on our mailing list.

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Coins in the Aira Force wishing tree in the English Lake District (photograph by Claire1066/Flickr)

In some places people toss coins into fountains begging for a wish, but in parts of the United Kingdom coins are pressed into trees for the same purpose. These "wishing trees" or "money trees" are a strange fusion of nature and manufactured metal, and represent a tradition dating back centuries.

Much like the clootie wells we featured last week, the money trees are believed to have pagan origins. (The "wish tree" Wikipedia entry actually includes both as iterations of a similar practice, along with alcohol trees, "shoe trees," and the eclectic "other offerings.") Many of the money trees reside in the North Yorkshire forests, although they've been spotted throughout the Peak and Lake districts and other overgrown corners of the woods that remain wild. According to Wales Online, it's a deeply rooted belief that "any illness you are suffering will leave you when you force money into the wood." At the ruins of Saint Maelrubha wishing tree on the Isle Maree in Scotland, there's a coin dating to 1828, and even Queen Victoria is said to have left her own offering in 1877.

While many of the coin-laden wish trees are fallen trunks and dead stumps, others are living, which can be harmful. There's at least one report of a wishing oak dying of metal poisoning in the Highlands. Yet after its slow death the remaining wood is still where it fell full of coins, with shiny new pence pieces and euro coins appearing in the few remaining spaces. 

Below is a photographic tour of the strangely beautiful wishing trees.

Money in a yew tree near Ingleborough Cave, North Yorkshire (photograph by David Baird)

Coins in a Tree near Janets Cave, North Yorkshire (photograph by Steve Partridge)

Toothache Tree near Beragh, Omagh District Council (photograph by Kenneth Allen)

Money tree in the Peak District (photograph by NH53/Flickr user)

Boncyff Pres Portmeirion Money Stump (photograph by Alan Fryer)

Coins in a tree branch at Malham Cove, Yorkshire (photograph by Tanya Hart)

Worn coins in a log (photograph by Afshin Darian)

Money tree in the Yorkshire Dales (photograph by Barney Moss)

Money tree in Ingleton Falls (photograph by aix_chief/Flickr user)

Coins in a tree stump in Wolfscote Dale, Peak District (photograph by John Cooke)

Worn coins in a tree (photograph by Baasir Gaisawat)

Bolton Abbey money tree in Yorkshire (photograph by Martin F.)

Bent coins in a tree stump (photograph by Antony Oliver)

A log embedded with coins in Malham, Yorkshire (photograph by Andy Hay)

Two Pence (photograph by Joe Jukes)

Coins in a tree near Bolton Abbey, North Yorkshire (photograph by Paul Holloway)

Tree stump with coins in Dovedale, Peak District (photograph by Dan Foy)

Money tree in Durham (photograph by blackham/Flickr user)

50 Euro cents (photograph by Jensbn/Wikimedia)

"Money tree" near Bolton Abbey, North Yorkshire (photograph by Papa November)

Coins in a dead tree in North Yorkshire (photograph by Ian Greig)

Giving to the Wolfscote Dale money tree in the Peak District (photograph by John Cooke)

Discover more unusual trees from around the world on Atlas Obscura >

Pollution in the Citarum River, Indonesia (photograph by MangAndri Kasep)

It's hard to overstate the importance of rivers in human history. They incubated great civilizations, created massive, world-upending floods, are sacred to major religions, and facilitated travel, commerce, and cultural exchange. They inspired ancient poets and modern songwriters. They can be a very pleasant place to spend an afternoon on a raft.

How has humanity treated rivers in return? By abusing them in all sorts of creative ways, resulting in some of the grossest rivers in the world. Here are eight of them. 

THE CITARUM
Indonesia

Railway bridge across the Citarum, Tanjungpura (1920-35) (via Tropenmuseum)

The title of "World’s Most Polluted River" has a pathetic number of contenders, but current wisdom grants the dubious honor to the Citarum, 40 miles east of Jakarta, Indonesia.

According to an April 2014 article in the Guardian on a documentary from Unreported World, the 186-mile waterway contains a horrifying mixture of toxins and garbage, all while being the primary source of water for 30 million people. Some 200 textile plants line the river, dumping all manner of industrial waste, and garbage clutters the murky water from bank to bank. 

MATAPEDIA
Canada

Rock snot lurks beneath the beauty (photograph by Marjolaine B.)

Human pollution can impact rivers in less obvious ways. In 2006, the bottom of the otherwise pristine Matapédia River in Quebec was found to be carpeted in squishy, green rock snot.

Rock snot, or didymo (Didymosphenia geminata), is a type of invasive algae that, in addition to being disgusting, threatens salmon and other fragile wildlife, things which are important both to the ecosystem and economy of the area. Scientists believe that global warming has encouraged the growth of this once rare algae, not just in the Matapédia River, but in rivers and lakes around the world. 

Rock Snot (photograph by David Perez)

RARITAN RIVER
United States

The Raritan River in New Jersey (photograph by Dendroica cerulea)

In 2013, a man named Doug Cutle posted a photo of a truly repulsive looking, eel-like creature he fished out of the Raritan River in Northern New Jersey, creating a viral sensation. The river is in fact lovely in places and popular with fishermen and boaters, but anything that houses such a creepy creature counts as completely gross. This is doubly so since the thing, which is a sea lamprey, was much, much bigger than any respectable sea lamprey ought to be. Sea lampreys, large or small, are parasitic and latch onto fish, digesting their flesh a little at a time. 

The Raritan is not alone, as terrifying as that sounds. Sea lampreys are becoming more common in American waterways — possibly due to dam removal and general messing with ecology — and are considered dangerous and invasive in the Great Lakes where they can overwhelm ecosystems. They are also a delicacy in some parts of the world, but not in the United States. (It’s thought that Henry I of England died from eating too many of them despite warnings from his doctors, and this led to a war of succession.)

Parasitic un-pleasantness (from the 1851 Proceedings of the Zoological Society of London)

THE GANGES
India

Wading along the Ganges (photograph by Ryan/Wikimedia)

Possibly no river better represents a culture and history than the Ganges does for India. The 1,500 plus mile waterway begins high in the Himalayas and empties into the Bay of Bengal, sometimes running clear, sometimes running murky. A sacred place for Hindus, millions of pilgrims bathe in the Ganges each year, despite it also being the sustaining waterway for millions and containing raw sewage, garbage, industrial waste, and a myriad of pollutants that includes remains of the dead.

The tradition of burning the dead on the Ganges has led to cremains overwhelming parts of the river (and even plans to bring in turtles to consume the ash). The Indian government is well aware of the toxic dangers presented by the river, and with the help and support of Hindu Holy Men, large scale efforts at cleanup have begun. It is hoped that multi-tiered sustainability plans will allow centuries of tradition to be respected even as the river heals.  

Funerals along the Ganges in Varanasi (photograph by Arian Zwegers) 

OHIO RIVER
United States

A steel plant near Pittsburgh at the Ohio River (1973 photograph from the EPA)

Over 226 million tons of toxic waste were dumped into American waterways in 2010 alone. Although the burden is shared by many large and small rivers, the Ohio usually takes the largest hit with 32,111,718 pounds of waste that year. On top of that, more than one aging city sewer system along the river has a tendency to overflow with raw sewage into the river.

Swimming is closed in those areas, thankfully. The 981 mile river runs from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to Cairo, Illinois, and is the source of drinking water for three million people, though it's heavily treated before it reaches to public. The river itself has long been an economic lifeline, and conservation efforts are underway. 

YANGTZE
China

A factory on the Yangtze (via Wikimedia)

In 2006, the river dolphin species Baiji, was declared functionally extinct, owing largely to the pollution and degradation of their main habitat — China’s Yangtze River.

The third longest river in the world, millions of people depend on the Yangtze for water and livelihoods, but it suffers tremendously from the dumping of agricultural and industrial waste in mass quantities. The problem is hardly invisible, either, with pollution occasionally causing the river to run bright red. 

River dolphin gone extinct (via Wikimedia)

MATANZA-RIACHUELO RIVER
Argentina

Industry at the Rocha Bend of the Riachuelo (photograph by Alex Proimas)

For such a vibrant and sophisticated city, Buenos Aires has shockingly primitive water treatment and waste facilities. This has led to the notorious 65 mile Matanza-Riachuelo River, which runs through the city, is made worse by some 100 open-air garbage dumps.

On top of that, the beleaguered waterway has it’s share of industrial waste. Thankfully, in 2014 the Argentinian government finally initiated a large scale investment in the cleanup of the river. 

RIO TINTO RIVER
Spain

Acid mine drainage on the Rio Tinto (photograph by Carol Stoker/NASA)

The amount of pollution caused by human beings may have exploded in the past couple of centuries, but it is by no means new. Spain’s acidic and weirdly colored Rio Tinto is an alien-looking testament to this fact, since it’s thought that industrial mining for copper, silver, and gold started along the river in 3000 BC and continues to this day.

The red-flowing river is home to super-tough bacteria that feed on mineral deposits and are studied by exobiologists seeking life that might survive in the harsh conditions on extraterrestrial planets. Yes, it’s that harsh.   

It's no accident that the more people that depend on a river, the more likely it is to be completely and totally gross. The true terror here isn't gooey parasites or rock snot or even a carelessly tossed plastic bottle that is just one of millions, but rather ecosystems thrown out of balance in obvious and not so obvious ways by the human beings who could not survive without them.  

Discover more stories of the world's water on Atlas Obscura >

The control room of the Kelenföld Power Station (all photographs by the author)

Hidden in Budapest’s XI District, on the banks of the Danube in the unfashionable side of Buda, lies an iconic monument symbolizing the dawn of the electrical age. Once Europe’s most advanced power station, the semi-abandoned, and now privately owned site, in Kelenföld celebrates its 100th birthday this year.  

Kelenföld Power Station is not only a technological marvel, having supplied a large chunk of the city with electricity as far back as 1914, but it’s also one of the masterpieces in industrial design.

Two architects, Kálmán Reichl and Virgil Borbíro, designed the old buildings of the power plant, which under the Hungarian law means they will never be demolished, but neither will they be restored. You can see the slow decay in parts of the building, which only enhances their beauty in a bittersweet, tragic manner, since they will only continue to deteriorate over time. The old part of the Kelenföld Power Station is no longer supplying the city’s electricity, but it’s frequently used in films and music videos, most recently as a steampunk power room in NBC’s Dracula TV series. 

Occasionally the plant runs tours, which are the only way of visiting this incredible facility. Visitors are equipped with luminous yellow vests and hard hats, before passing through a labyrinth of pipes into the old warehouse filled with antique turbines, signs, and a cordoned-off underworld you can only glimpse at from above.

But taking a few steps up past the tiny, one-man bunker built into the wall leads you into the control room. Antique dials are set against military green metal panels, and an Art Deco glass ceiling allows streams of sunlight to illuminate the dusty knobs, gauges, and switches.

The love affair between design and technology is clear in this chamber, capturing the optimism of the electrical age in the early 20th century, which now in its weathered state looks like something right out of a Jules Verne novel. 

The next tour dates (in Hungarian) are September 25, October 1, 8, 15, and 29.

The control room

Dials, gauges, & switches in the control room

Antique controls, knobs, & dials for the avant-garde power station of its time.

The glass Art Deco rooftop of the control room allows the natural light in.

A closer look at the ceiling 

 
Dilapidated windows in an outer building of the power station

The first buildings of the power station were constructed in 1912 and completed only two years later in 1914.

All photographs by Jennifer Walker for Atlas Obscura. 

Jennifer is an ex-physicist turned writer living in Budapest, Hungary. You can see more of her work her at her website. 

The Virgin Mary sinking into the earth of Brooklyn's Most Holy Trinity Cemetery (all photographs by the author)

Glimpsed from the L train as it rumbles up to the open air at the Wilson Avenue station in Bushwick, Most Holy Trinity Cemetery isn't immediately different from the other numerous burial grounds that cluster around the Brookyn-Queens border. Yet step inside its entrance at 685 Central Avenue before it dead ends, and a rolling landscape of rust stretches before your eyes.

All except the most recent graves are wood or metal, an early regulation set in place by the German Catholic Most Holy Trinity Church to enforce a posthumous equality. As the church's website explains, "from the earliest days, stone monuments were not allowed because no distinctions were permitted to be made between the rich and the poor."

The New York City cemetery dates back to 1851, replacing an earlier church cemetery that adjoined Most Holy Trinity Church in Williamsburg. While the Bushwick neighborhood has shifted around it with few traces of the German Catholics to be found, and the cemetery is no longer administered by the parish as part of the Catholic Cemeteries of the Roman Catholic Diocese of Brooklyn, its 23 acres still contain this history, warped and worn as it may be. 

According to the New York Cemetery Project, there are an estimated 25,000 graves in Most Holy Trinity. It's remarkable given that many are a century old that the hollow tin monuments and even a few wood markers remain. Some were also in copper, although attracted more theft over the years, as in 1990 when two men were caught tossing them over the fence into a shopping cart. Walking among the graves you are likely to be alone with the metal statues of Mary and Jesus slowly sinking into the soil as if drowning in earth. Rap your hand gently against a monument and a sonorous reverberation resounds against the air as the L train rumbles by overhead. Nowhere else is there a cemetery quite like this, and in its decay of jagged edges and tumbled crucifixes, there's an unexpected barbarous beauty. 

All photographs by the author for Atlas Obscura.

To get to Most Holy Trinity Cemetery in Brooklyn, take the L train to Wilson Avenue. Turn onto Central Avenue from Moffatt Street. The entrance is at 685 Central Avenue. 

Morbid Mondays highlight macabre stories from around the world and through time, indulging in our morbid curiosity for stories from history's darkest corners. Read more Morbid Mondays>

London is a complicated place. It is a melting pot of cultures and races, a nexus for trade and travel, which archaeologists believe to have been occupied for more than 6,000 years. With every passing age, with each new society that has laid a claim to this settlement on the Thames Estuary, London’s roots have grown deeper and deeper into the soil of England.

The result today is a multifaceted and wholly organic entity, one in which Roman ruins rub shoulders with Victorian ice wells, between historic catacombs and contemporary rail tracks. London's layers spread out deep, far, and wide beneath the limited surface space. Beneath the paved streets is a tangled labyrinth of storm drains and sewers, subterranean rivers, the booming network of underground train tunnels, a warren of wartime bunkers, and deep level shelter facilities. Then, beneath that, there are areas of new bore. Even now London’s roots are searching deeper still, pushing further into the Earth’s crust to make room for high-speed rail connections and advanced data delivery conduits.

A Victorian ice well beneath King's Cross (photograph by Darmon Richter)

The catacombs beneath London's Brompton Cemetery (photograph by Darmon Richter)

It should be no surprise then that London is something of a mecca for urban explorers. However, London is not Eastern Europe, where regime changes have left many underground facilities obsolete, their bulkhead doors hanging open and inviting to those who would dare to peek beneath the surface. This is not Australia, where explorers are discouraged from entering the extensive storm drain networks largely for their own benefit, on account of the many deadly creatures which thrive in these dank and disconnected places.

In a city of 8.3 million people, there is limited room for abandonment. London moves quickly, and there is little time to forget. Almost every inch of London’s subterranean realm still serves a purpose — from cable runs to data storage vaults — and those that don’t are simply waiting to be allotted new roles in the substructure of the capital.

A utility tunnel beneath the capital (photograph by Darmon Richter)

Cable runs underneath London often serve as conduits for gas, electricity, telephone lines, & even fiber optics (photograph by Darmon Richter)

Meanwhile, in recent decades, this dense metropolis has bred its own unique brand of paranoia. Particularly in the wake of the London bombings on July 7, 2005, the whispers of terrorism have fueled a fear that has seen the city build towards an Orwellian dystopia of suspicion and surveillance. Take Jean Charles de Menezes, the Brazilian man who in 2005 was shot seven times in the head at close range by London police, after “behaving suspiciously” at Stockwell tube station, the day after one of the terrorist attacks.

A 2013 security industry report claimed Britain features one CCTV camera for every 11 people. It used to be said that in London, one would never be more than six feet away from a rat. Now the same seems to be true for electric surveillance systems; with more than 422,000 security cameras posted around the British capital, it’s hard to ever feel truly alone in London.

With such widespread paranoia, advanced surveillance networks, and the occasionally heavy-handy response from police and security services, one might be left wondering how — or even why — a growing number of Londoners are exploring the restricted realms beneath the city pavements. 

The ruins of London's Rank Hovis Mill (photograph by Darmon Richter)

These abandoned dockside mills are a popular training ground amongst the city's urban explorers (photograph by Darmon Richter)

The answer is simply that London's urban explorers are some of the best in the world. They need to be. In Paris, by comparison, the police will often turn a blind eye to the cataphiles who frequent the city's network of underground tunnels. In Russia, Ukraine, and China — provided such spaces are not in current military use — people generally don't care what you get up to. So long as it doesn't impact them, you're free to take your own risks. In London, however, the combination of dense population alongside heightened security paranoia means accessing the city's underground realms will often necessitate extensive planning, patience, and stealth.

The city features regular abandonments, too — hospitals, asylums, mills, schools — where trespassers face little more risk than being chased off by an angry security guard. Press further though, look deeper beneath the surface, and one finds a twisting labyrinth of old stone.

London’s lost rivers are a popular starting point. There’s the Tyburn, the Fleet, the Effra, the Walbrook, and the Moselle. In total, more than a dozen former streams and rivers, which in time were swallowed by the shifting concrete continent of the booming metropolis above. 

A junction in the Victorian-era subterranean River Effra (photograph by Darmon Richter) 

Exploring what's left of the River Effra (photograph by Darmon Richter)

London’s complex network of drains and sewers was largely conceived and constructed in the late Victorian era under the engineer Sir Joseph Bazalgette. It was an age when the Thames River was choked with sewage, and cholera was rife in the city. This system — more than 1,100 miles of brick sewers — came as a revolution in city planning.

Today, this twisting Victorian maze is largely explorable, provided you know the way in. The location of the numerous entry points is a closely-guarded secret amongst those in the know, whilst authorities are regularly sealing hatches around the city. It's easy to see why — these subterranean rivers spread like veins beneath the skin of London, passing directly under some of the city's most prestigious and fortified locations. There are stories of manhole covers opening up beneath the MI6 building, and the grounds of Buckingham Palace.

Knee-deep in filth, in the subterranean bowels of old London (photograph by Darmon Richter)

Light at the end of the tunnel... (photograph by Darmon Richter)

If the security of London's subterranean rivers appears rigid, it's nothing compared to the city's lower levels. For many of London’s urban explorers, the Holy Grail lies deeper still: in its long decommissioned rail terminals, the famous “Ghost Stations” of the London Underground. More than 40 such stations exist, some of little changed since their closure. The outdated posters and decades of dust give the impression of stepping inside a time capsule.

The penalties for such explorations run steep. Those caught accessing London's abandoned underground stations — either through their sealed overground entrances, or by "running the tracks" — are liable to face the full force of the British Transport Police. You'll not find details of such transgression in this article, but for anyone interested in learning what it's like to suffer the wrath of the BTP, Bradley L. Garrett's Explore Everything makes for highly recommended reading.

One of the largest of London's cable runs follows the course of the Thames (photograph by Darmon Richter)

Deep in the labyrinth of tunnels beneath London (photograph by Darmon Richter)

What does that leave behind? The spaces in between London's sub-street drainage and deep level shelters, the strata between its cellars and its long forgotten Ghost Stations, are riddled with the bore holes of over a century of growth and innovation. Red brick tunnels wind this way and that, labyrinths dreamed up by Victorian minds are now furnished with an evolving network of pipes, cables, and conduits — the city's own nervous system. 

In a capital so concerned with security, with surveillance and routine, a descent into London's subterranean past offers a rare opportunity to step out of the spotlight, to engage with history firsthand, here in the city's silent oubliettes.

Urban explorers descend beneath London disguised as maintenance workers (photograph by Darmon Richter)

Junctions connect these tunnels to other systems, to the sewers, and occasionally, to the underground train network (photograph by Darmon Richter)

Darmon Richter is a freelance writer, photographer, and urban explorer. You can follow his adventures at The Bohemian Blog, or for regular updates, follow The Bohemian Blog on Facebook.

A California road (illustrated by Chandler O'Leary for Drawn the Road Again)

Part of any exploration is observation, and while most of us impulsively reach for phone or camera to preserve new views in our memory, Chandler O'Leary pauses to illustrate travel scenes. With sketchbook in hand, she chronicles these moments online at Drawn the Road Again. At Atlas Obscura we appreciate alternative ways of experiencing the world, and from roadside attractions to people met along the way, O'Leary has a unique perspective on the sense of discovery in the journey as well as the destination. We asked her a few questions about Drawn the Road Again:

When everything is so easily photographed, why draw your travels?

There are many, many travelogues in the world — in blog form, in books, on social media. And the vast majority of them are told through photography, in varying amounts and quality. Photography has been one of my hobbies for over 20 years — but for me, a hobby is all it is. My real strength is drawing, and it's the best way I know how to respond to what I see.

The biggest reason I draw my travels is drawing teaches me how to see, how to think. I know that when I'm drawing, an act that takes so much longer than snapping off a quick photo, I'll never "see" as much as I might otherwise. But when I rely solely on my camera to document my travels, or when I don't take the time to do as much sketching as I'd like, I don't do much actual seeing with my own eyes. Afterward, my memories are one big blur, and my photos feel more like items ticked off an impersonal list than a record of a real experience. Even when I only have a couple of minutes to jot down a quick sketch, I'm really studying what I'm looking at.

There's a fun reason for all this, too: my sketchbooks are the absolute best travel souvenirs I could ever ask for. And they contain many, many memories in one small, compact package.

Marfa, Texas (illustration by Chandler O'Leary)

Dust storm west of Albuquerque, NM (illustration by Chandler O'Leary) 

Does illustrating places change anything about how you experience them?

I think it does. Sketching has gotten me interested in a lot of things that I might not have noticed in the past. For example, when I first learned about Muffler Men (a midcentury series of mass-produced, fiberglass statues found around the United States, often in the shape of Paul Bunyan, but sometimes converted into completely different and strange things) by sketching one, I was suddenly on a quest to find and sketch them everywhere. Or many times I'll breeze past something, but then my sketching sense (Spidey sense?) kicks in and I'll stop, double-back, and take another look.

Almost every time, that second look prompts me to pull out the sketchbook. Drawing has made me much more aware of what's around me — and much more selective about what I'll spend my time seeing. There are only so many hours in the day, and I've learned to make the best of the time I have in each spot.

Gorilla holding a VW Bug in Leicester, VT (illustration by Chandler O'Leary) 

Do you have any travel-drawing idols who inspired you?

I started when I spent nearly a year living in Italy. I had a friend and mentor there, an artist named Tom Mills. He's a professor at my alma mater, but I never actually had him as a teacher. I did get to spend a lot of time drawing with him in Rome, and seeing him fill his own sketchbooks. He never seemed to get tired of drawing, and was always excited about everything around him. He was in his fifties at the time, but was incredibly childlike in his enthusiasm — and man, the guy can draw. I can't think of a better introduction to that art form, or that place where I lived — and I hope I can feel that enthusiastic about the world for as long as Tom has.

I also love the sketchbooks of historical artists; my studio at home is stuffed floor-to-ceiling with art history books, and many of them are about drawing. My favorite historical travel sketchers are John Singer Sargent (you should see what he did in Venice!), Lewis and Clark, and Charles M. Russell. Russell, in particular, used to add little watercolor sketches to his postcards and letters. I think that's just so charming.

Sunrise Point, Mount Rainier National Park, WA (illustration by Chandler O'Leary)

Petroglyph National Monument, Albuquerque, NM (illustration by Chandler O'Leary)

What's the strangest destination you've drawn ?

I think that because I draw so many weird things on my travel, and am drawn to them (no pun intended), I kind of stop seeing them as weird. But some of the stranger things I've drawn are: an old set of gas station restrooms shaped like giant cowboy boots, the inside of a water tower that I got to sleep in for a night, freak storms — like an absolutely blinding sandstorm, and drive-through trees. They're so awful, so guilt-ridden, so fascinating, and so odd. I think they're the perfect, concise illustration of everything that's wrong with American culture — and yet I can't help but love them, too.

Maritimes lobster statue (illustration by Chandler O'Leary)

Follow more of Chandler O'Leary's travels through illustrations at Drawn the Road Again.

La REcylcerie (all photographs by Ophelia Holt)

Located in an abandoned train station on the Petite Ceinture in Paris, La REcyclerie is a unique café which prides itself on being the product of upcycling and eco-friendly endeavors.

La REcyclerie is more than just a café, it’s a concept. Their motto “Réduire, Réutiliser, Recycler” ("Reduce, Reuse, Recycle") is evident in every aspect of their creation. It is very much a “Do It Yourself” approach and a work-in-progress, with many spaces of the recently opened structure not yet complete. The website boasts eight separate spaces, with plans of expanding an urban vegetable garden complete with chickens and goats, and even a bee farm. Home grown produce and honey are only just a portion of what goes on here though, the calendar is jam packed with events ranging from flea markets to children’s art classes to stress relief sessions and birdhouse making. 

It is a refreshing change from the postcard bistros and cafés of Paris, and the interior sticks to the reclaimed feel one gets from walking down the Petite Ceinture itself with plants bursting through the walls and many original railroad features left in all their shabby glory. The food is equally eclectic as the interior, trays of brunch at €22 may seem pricey but with unlimited coffee, a choice of juices and a never-ending plate of food — fear not. My less ambitious stomach went for the tartines and earl grey tea, and it was a pleasant change to get a decent cup of tea and breakfast for as little as €5. The hibiscus juice was wonderfully unusual, the coffee one of the better cups I have had in Paris, and the prices across the board are worth it. I spied a bar on the tracks outside, so I know for sure we will be returning for evening drinks. 

It is the antithesis of all the "Café Au Metros" in Paris, but still conveniently located, right across from Porte de Clignancourt — a perfect place to relax after trawling through Paris’s most famous flea market. 

La REcyclerie is located above the Petite Ceinture at 83 Boulevard Ornano, Paris, right by Métro Porte de Clignancourt.

All photographs by Ophelia Holt. Find more of her explorations on her blog. 

Discover more curious restaurants and unusual cafés on Atlas Obscura >

My name is Eames Demetrios and I am the Geographer-at-Large for Kcymaerxthaere. In that capacity, I go around the world installing markers and historic sites that honor events from a parallel world in our world. So far we've installed 100 Kcymaerxthaere sites in 22 countries and the number continues to grow. And for the longest time, only a few were on Atlas Obscura, so it seemed time to share the treasure map and use it as way create some new geography experiences.

It is a great honor to be the first geographer in residence for Atlas Obscura. I look forward to seeing the myriad perspectives of those who follow. The residency is two months — August and September of this year. I am going to be sharing stories and ideas about Kcymaerxthaere, this global project I have been working on physically for 11 years, and even longer conceptually. One way to think of it is like a novel, with every page in a different place. Mostly we install markers in bronze and stone; we also have a dozen or so sites which are far more elaborate.

I am just returning from preparing a large installation about the origins of a man named Gevrian Melam. It will be in New Harmony, Indiana, and my hope is that reports from the front can mix with the big picture in this residency. A couple of nights ago, I was doing a Kcymaerxthaere storytelling at the New Harmony Atheneum, to a group of about 100 people. Afterwards the audience created some amazing disputed likenesses of the Kcymaerxthaere stories. If all goes according to plan, in the next couple of months we will install a larger installation known as the Healing Palindrome in the field below the Atheneum.

Speaking at the New Harmony Athenaeum 

There are a number of installations like New Harmony's on the docket during this residency, but the real reason I think the timing is perfect is the last weekend of September is the Kcymaerxthaere Spelling Bee in Paris, Illinois, which will be a fitting conclusion to the festivities. There will be an Atlas Obscura weekend car caravan and tour taking anyone who wants to observe or even compete. Check out this video of the Spelling Bee:

An artist-in-residence usually offers the community he or she works with the chance for a first hand experience of their creative process. In addition, an artist-in-residence quite often tries to pull off a specific work during the residency. As a geographer-in-residence, it feels appropriate to work on a participatory action that requires the help of the Atlas Obscura community. I hope it will have truth, stealth, and fun in appealing measure. More on that in a future posting.

That is my new Geographer hat. Let me tell you a bit more about the first one that brought me to this place.

The core of the Kcymaerxthaere project for me is the stories, and their connection to both the physical world and our internal worlds. As humans we have an amazing (if not terrifying) ability to bring context to what we see and experience. It is the connection between international conflicts over borders, reading a book, branding, being intrigued at a historic marker, recognizing friends from grade school days, and the difference between the accidental shoulder bump of a neutral stranger and the thrill of an identical contact with someone you are starting to love. All those examples show how well we conjure vivid meanings and experiences for ourselves with the physicality of the world as a substrate for compelling internal journeys.

The Geographer-at-Large at the Crystals of Refrain site

I wondered: is there a way to tell a story in this mental space? Is there a way to imagine a parallel world which includes things that can be imagined, though visualized differently yet fairly consistently? That was both precise but uncertain? Could you visit a fictional place?

One of my favorite early markers is near the Kennington tube station in London. It is placed high up a wall and talks about Brangansas. Here is what it says:

Note: We experimented briefly with a different name for Kcymaerxthaere in the UK

The Kennington plaque up on its wall

We installed that one back in 2006 and it still inspires emails. Somehow its paradoxes come clearly to mind, in a way more efficiently than a visualization. 

I am hoping the next marker in the Kcymaerxthaere project will be installed on August 10 in Taitung, Taiwan. Right now it is being carved; it is a green, serpentine stone, which is a new one for me.

The Taitung, Taiwan, stone

Here is the stone we are carving. I have not seen it in person yet. Each year I try to write two markers without having been to the site myself, and it was exciting for this to be one of them. Although I can research a location online or in photographs, the real sense of place is much more complicated than getting pictures. In turn, this means, paradoxically, it is important for there always to be a few markers where I am as uninfluenced as possible by place in the creating the story. Then the next paradox is: once the markers is situated, it is completely part of that place — like this bronze marker in Chile overlooking the Strait of Magellan. 

Strait of Magellan marker

I will leave the story of the marker in Taiwan for now — by my next posting I will have seen the marker and (we hope) installed it. Lastly, we are starting to post locations on Atlas Obscura today with the rest to follow over the residency. Enjoy, explore, and communicate. In fact, we would be so happy that if you visit or tweet any Kcymaerxthaere stuff...

Twitter: @kcym & @atlasobscura 
Instagram: @kcymaerxthaere & @atlasobscura
And please use #AOKcy

Until then,

Shøaf,

Eames Demetrios
Geographer in Residence
Geographer-at-Large

Sitting in gridlock watching wildfires burn in the distance, it’s easy to fall victim to the stereotype of Los Angeles as an apocalyptic wasteland. Freeways, parking lots, and stripmalls make it difficult to imagine LA as an ideal location for studying biodiversity. And yet somehow, in this collision of urban and natural environments, there are species that thrive. To understand this unique environment, the Natural History Museum (NHM) launched Biodiversity Science: City and Nature (BioSCAN), a research project exploring the insect biodiversity of Los Angeles.

Entomologist Lisa Gonzalez of BioSCAN shares stories of LA insects (photo by Erin Johnson)

On July 30, Obscura Society LA gathered at Center for the Arts Eagle Rock for an evening of six-legged exploration. This two-part event began with a lecture from BioSCAN and ended with a hands-on insect pinning workshop.

Several insects cataloged by BioSCAN, including the Robber Fly (top left corner), known for stealing the life of other insects in mid-air (photo by Kelsey Bailey)

BioSCAN is a three-year research project that aims to examine the insect biodiversity of Los Angeles. Collecting weekly samples from 31 backyards across the city, their goal is to identify and map species, and to understand how they are affected by urban development. BioSCAN entomologist Lisa Gonzalez described the project and revealed they had uncovered many new species. While their identity remains a secret until their debut in forthcoming publications, she did introduce us to some other charismatic creatures collected from the project whose roles ranged from cadaver decomposition to plant fertilization.

Meet the bugs of BioSCAN:

The Coffin Fly: Smelling a corpse with her antennae, the Coffin Fly can dig six feet down to lay her eggs on a body (photo by Kelsey Bailey)

The mason bee’s brilliant metallic color comes from the structure of it’s exoskeleton. One of over 500 species of bees living in LA! (photo by Kelsey Bailey)

The Bumble Bee: While there are 26 species of bumble bees species in LA, this is the only individual collected so far. The BioSCAN team cites “commercial keeping of bumble bees, habitat loss, pollution, and climate change” as reasons for their decline.  (photo by Phyllis Sun)

The Fig Wasp: Bound together in obligate mutualism, the fig wasp & the fig cannot survive without each other. Lisa noted: “if you’re really lucky, the next time you bit into a fig, you might find a nest of baby wasps!” (photo by Kelsey Bailey)

The Botfly: The appearance of this “furry teddy bear” in the collection sample triggered a Happy Fly Dance in the BioSCAN lab. This particular botfly, Cuterebra latifrons, requires the Dusky-footed wood rat to complete its lifecycle. (photo by Kelsey Bailey)

Drawers of specimens from NHM’s entomology collection (photo by Erin Johnson)

The Obscura Society crowds around the specimen boxes while Lisa Gonzalez answers questions (photo by Erin Johnson)

Tiny specimens from NHM’s entomology collection (photo by Erin Johnson)

Beetles from NHM’s entomology collection (photo by Erin Johnson)

Suzanne Berhow explains the art of insect pinning (photo by Erin Johnson)

The insect pinning workshop was lead by Suzanne Berhow, an active member of the taxidermy world and an artist known for her carefully crafted and beautiful pinned insects. This hands-on experience allowed the Obscura Society an up-close look at a few local bugs including a Mourning Cloak butterfly, a Milbert's Tortoiseshell butterfly, and several varieties of beetles and bees.

Captivated audience (photo by Erin Johnson)

Suzanne assists with abdomen placement while Matt Blitz, Head of the Obscura Society LA contemplates antenna position (photo by Erin Johnson)

Carefully placing pins, trying not to disturb the tiny, pigmented scales (photo by Erin Johnson)

Butterfly pinning workspace illuminated by an iPhone with a 3D lenticular cover of the Endeavor Space Shuttle. Can we add raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens to this scene? (photo by Erin Johnson)

After drying for 24 hours, pins & papers were removed (photo by Erin Johnson)

S the next time you’re feeling trapped in a concrete jungle, turn off the freeway and discover a secret world buzzing with metallic bees and furry flies. Thank you, Suzanne Berhow, Lisa Gonzalez, and the entire BioSCAN team for sharing LA’s beautiful, backyard bugs!

LEARN MORE:

Build Your Own Mason Bee House

Helping Native Bees

Invertebrate Conservation

Erin Johnson is a Scientific Illustrator and Atlas Obscura Field Agent living in Los Angeles, CA. You can see more of her work at her website.

The Obscura Society is the real-world exploration arm of Atlas Obscura We seek out secret histories, unusual access, and opportunities for our community to explore strange and overlooked places hidden all around us. Join us on our next adventure, and keep up with LA Obscura Society events on our mailing list.

All Upcoming Obscura Society Events

Dead Horse Bay, Brooklyn (photograph by the author)

For those with the beachcombing drive, even the most average-looking stretch of sand holds allure. But while collecting rocks and shells is nice, some beaches are home to more unusual objects. Below is a selection of beaches known for strange debris, and some of the more remarkable objects that have washed ashore:

DEAD HORSE BAY
Brooklyn, New York

Horse bone at Dead Horse Bay (photograph by the author)

Once home to a garbage dump and several horse rendering plants (hence the name), the beach at Dead Horse Bay is now embedded with pre-1950s glass bottles, broken china, cosmetics containers, leather goods, and children’s toys, plus bones and teeth from the carriage horses that once plied New York City’s streets. When the waves wash ashore, they tinkle with the sound of thousands of broken glass bottles, and previous beachcombers have built strange sculptures by weaving bottles and seaweed among the larger chunks of driftwood and tree trunks. The entire beach serves as an ad-hoc mini-museum, made by nature, that preserves New York's domestic past. 

Debris at Dead Horse Bay (photograph by the author)

Tree full of trash at Dead Horse Bay (photograph by the author)

LEGO BEACH
Cornwall, England

Lego on the beach (photograph by davidd)

In February of 1997, a massive wave hit the container ship Tokio Express as it was sailing off the coast of England. Nearly 4.8 million bits of Lego pieces spilled into the Atlantic. Since then, beachcombers have found thousands of brightly-colored Lego parts all along the coasts of north and south Cornwall in England, and the washed up toys even have their own Facebook page. By a strange coincidence, much of the Lego that spilled was nautical-themed, and the pieces that regularly wash ashore include miniature cutlasses, life preservers, scuba gear, octopi, and flippers, as well as dragons and daisies. An eight-foot-tall Lego man washing up on beaches around the world several years ago turned out to be the work of a performance artist, however, not the container ship spill.

GLASS BEACH
Fort Bragg, California

Fort Bragg glass beach (photograph by mlhradio)

From the start of the 20th century until the late 1960s, Northern Californians dumped their trash on the shore near Fort Bragg. After the local government banned the practice, decades of wind and water began turning the trash into a sparkling treasure trove of beach glass. The chunks of blue, green, red, white, and amber glass range in size from pen-tip to half-dollar, but sadly, beachcombers are not allowed to take them home.

RUBBER DUCKIES
Around the World

Rubber duckie on the beach (photograph by Alexander Kaiser/pooliestudios)

In 1992, a container ship on its way to the United States from Hong Kong accidentally dumped 28,000 rubber duckies and other bath toys into the Pacific ocean. The "Friendly Floatees," as the toys are called, have been washing up on beaches around the world ever since, and found as far afield as Australia and Scotland. One was even discovered frozen in the Arctic ice. And while the plastic is no doubt a pollutant, scientists have been been able to use the ducks' voyages to revolutionize our understanding of ocean currents. The ducks also had a book written about them: Moby Duck. 

SEVERED FEET
British Columbia & Washington State

A shoe on the beach (photograph by Alan Fryer)

Not everything that washes up onshore is as charming as a rubber duck. Since 2007, people in British Columbia and Washington state have found at least 15 human feet stuck inside athletic shoes and lingering on local beaches. Although the discoveries have sparked plenty of grim theories — the work of a serial killer with a foot fetish, perhaps? — feet are known to detach from corpses floating in the water after suicides and other tragedies, and the plastic padding of athletic shoes makes for a buoyant floatation device. So far two of the right feet have been matched up with two of the left, although not all the previous owners have been identified. Hoax "feet," made from animal paws, seaweed, and what is suspected to be raw meat, have also been found planted on the beach in BC.

Strange as it may seem, feet washing ashore in British Columbia is not an entirely new phenomenon. In 1887, a knee-high boot with a severed leg inside washed up in Vancouver's False Creek. The police impaled the leg on a pole in front of their headquarters, hoping someone would claim it, but no one ever did it. Today, the plaza near where the leg was found is called Leg-In-Boot Square. 

Leg-in-Boot Square (photograph by Stephen Rees)

CARDIGAN BAY
Wales

Forest of Borth (photograph by Stuart Herbert)

Earlier in 2014, ferocious winter storms scoured away the sand on this Welsh beach to reveal the remains of a forest dating back over 4,500 years. Stumps of pine, alder, birch, and oak trees make up the ghostly Forest of Borth, which has given rise to legend of an ancient kingdom, Cantre'r Gwaelod, lost beneath the sea. In 2012, preserved human and animal footprints were found on the beach, while ancient hearth stones and part of a timber walkway have also been discovered.

DORITOS
North Carolina

Feeding seagulls Doritos on the beach (photograph by Jeffrey Bell)

In 2006, a ship bound for Central America got caught in a nor'easter off Virginia and spilled a container of Doritos into the ocean, which then came ashore in North Carolina. Word spread and crowds descended on the beach to scoop up the chips, which were still fresh in their air-tight packaging.

HERNE BAY
Kent, England

Beachcombers in Kent's Herne Bay have found fossilized shark teeth, Victorian coins, and prehistoric elephant tusks, among other objects. Many of the fossils on the beach date back to the Palaeocene, the geological epoch following the extinction of the dinosaurs 65 million years ago. The local museum even keeps a selection of objects from the beach, including an ancient, wizened turtle.

Want even more unusual beachcombing? Check out Atlas Obscura's guide to glass beaches.

Bess Lovejoy is a writer, researcher, and editor based in Brooklyn. Her book Rest in Pieces was published last year by Simon & Schuster. 

Saint Vibiana's tomb in the crypt of Our Lady of the Angels Cathedral (photo by the author)

St. Vibiana is always on trend. No wonder she’s the patron saint of Los Angeles. She’s currently located in the crypt at Our Lady of the Angels Cathedral in downtown LA, a postmodern marvel of a church all decked out in alabaster. Her remains are concealed in a white marble casket tastefully engraved in gold, not too far from the resting place of movie star Gregory Peck. The shrine coordinates perfectly with the church's clean lines and minimalist aesthetic. 

Exterior of the cathedral (photo by Karen/Flickr)

Our Lady of the Angeles Cathedral, designed by Rafael Moneo (photo by Visitor7/Wikimedia)

The tomb of Gregory Peck in the crypt (photo by Andreas Praefcke/Wikimedia)

But she wasn’t always memorialized this way. Her time in the public eye began in 1853 when her tomb was excavated from the catacombs of San Sisto in Rome. Unlike many of the so-called “catacomb saints” who didn’t even have names, the inscription on Vibiana’s tomb gave her name, the day of her death (August 31), the symbolic laurel wreath of martyrdom, and indicated she was “innocent and pure.” Inside the tomb, her body and a vessel of blood were found inside. Since early Christians collected as much of a martyr’s blood as possible, this was considered additional evidence that this young woman was a virgin-martyr from the third century and should be venerated as a saint.

The old cathedral of St. Vibiana (photo from St. Vincent Images)

The following year Bl. Pope Pius IX gave her relics — blood, tomb inscription, and body — to Thaddeus Amat, the newly appointed Bishop of Monterrey, California. So St. Vibiana set sail for America.

After a stop in Santa Barbara, she moved into the cathedral built for her in Los Angeles in 1880, where her relics were placed inside a wax effigy in a glass casket above the altar. If the church looks familiar, it was closely based on the Chapelle Saint Vincent de Paul that houses St. Vincent's relics in Paris.

Chapelle Saint Vincent de Paul in Paris (photo by Mbzt/Wikimedia)

In the 1970s she updated her look. The cathedral underwent a renovation and the wax effigy was abandoned for a more understated stone coffin. (For those who prefer the retro look, you can still see a contemporary catacomb saint in a wax effigy from 1892 at the Church of the Most Holy Redeemer in New York.)  After the Northridge Earthquake in 1994 irreparably damaged the cathedral named and built for her, she was moved one last time to her current location downtown. 

The effigy of St. Vibiana before it was transferred into the tomb (image via Find a Grave)

Elizabeth Harper writes about saint relics and other morbid history at All the Saints You Should Know. You can also find more on the remains of the holy departed at the All the Saints You Should Know Facebook page.

Sources:

The Lives of the Primitive Fathers, Martyrs, and Other Principal Saints by Alban Butler and Charles Butler

Saints Preserved by Thomas J. Craughwell

Recent Resarch Leads to Re-analysis of Rare Religious Medal by Michael Imwalle, Robert Hoover, and Anne Peterson

Cuba is a nation of retro-tech and 1950s automobiles, as well as a largely manual agricultural system. It may be hard then, to now picture this Caribbean island as a nuclear power. And yet, for a brief time, that’s exactly what it was.

It was the Soviet influence in Cuba that led to the island’s radical nuclear armament in the early 1960s — a series of events now referred to as the Cuban Missile Crisis. Even today, Cuba’s nuclear legacy stands in sharp silhouette against its tropical beaches, its holiday resorts, and hotels. It's a shadow of the former USSR on the very doorstep of the USA, a mark that stands testament to the reach and influence of the Soviet Union at its prime.

One of the missiles on display outside Havana (photograph by Darmon Richter)

Medium & intermediate sized nuclear missiles (photograph by Darmon Richter)

The first nuclear materials arrived in Cuba in 1962. It was a time of saber rattling between the East and West, and under the lead of Fidel Castro, the newly declared socialist Republic of Cuba was building ever-closer ties with Moscow.

After the US deployed nuclear weapons in both Turkey and Italy, Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev suggested the placement of similar missiles in Cuba as a deterrent. What followed was perhaps the most heated 13 days of the Cold War, until negotiations between Moscow and Washington eventually reached an agreement, and the nuclear missiles in Italy and Turkey as well as Cuba were dismantled.

Castro, who had repeatedly expressed his strong desire to launch a nuclear strike on the US, woke up to the humiliating realization that Cuba had served purely as a pawn in a much larger game. Even after the Soviets removed their nuclear payload, the Cuban regime kept their delivery systems (an arsenal of medium- and intermediate-range ballistic nuclear missiles) on proud display. They stand now on ceremony just outside Morro Castle, a colonial fortification which guards the entrance to Havana Bay. 

Soviet aircraft outside Morro Castle (photograph by Darmon Richter)

This larger missile was designed to target Washington DC (photograph by Darmon Richter)

A Soviet MiG fighter jet in Cuba (photograph by Darmon Richter)

But these missiles — now just painted shells bearing hammers, sickles, and the faded letters CCCP — were not the only nuclear ghosts the Soviets left behind in the Caribbean.

In 1976, the USSR and Cuba signed an agreement to build a twin-reactor nuclear power station on the southern coast of the island. The creation of the plant would have offered a vast boost to Cuba’s economy and power grid; the completion of the first reactor alone was set to provide for more than 15% of Cuba’s energy needs.

Construction of the nuclear plant at Juragua began in 1983, and with it came the founding of “Ciudad Nuclear” — a brand new city built close to the reactors, and designed to house site workers and their families. 

Distant view of the Juragua power station (photograph by Darmon Richter)

"Ciudad Nuclear" – Cuba's nuclear city (photograph by Darmon Richter)

Not everyone was in favor of the plan to bring nuclear power to Cuba, however. The United States tried hard to block the project, due to the close proximity of the site to Florida. No doubt their concerns must have multiplied a thousand-fold in 1986, when another Soviet nuclear reactor went into critical meltdown at Chernobyl.

Cuba’s neighbors were soon granted respite, as the project was scrapped in 1992. The fall of the Soviet Union cut lines of trade and funding with its Caribbean allies, and Cuba’s nuclear dreams were shattered long before any uranium atom could meet a similar fate.

The scars of the project remain to this day in the form of an odd concrete dome on the Cuban coast that looks somewhere between a factory and a mosque. The first reactor chamber occupies a vast, plain cylinder, rising to a height of 16 floors above the ground. According to some of the locals, it descends for an equal distance into its unseen subterranean depths. The second reactor barely made it higher than two levels.

Inside the pumping station (photograph by Darmon Richter)

The first reactor (photograph by Darmon Richter)

The second reactor (photograph by Darmon Richter)

Today, Ciudad Nuclear stands as a near ghost town, the small handful of residents scattered between the empty, unfinished towers of this ill-fated future metropolis; Cuba’s own Pripyat.

Unlike Pripyat, the earth was never poisoned, but the remote location of Ciudad Nuclear, the lack of infrastructure and amenities, almost guarantees that those unfinished apartment blocks will never be completed. The few people who live here mostly commute to other towns for work, like Cienfuegos or Juragua.

The empty streets of Ciudad Nuclear (photograph by Darmon Richter)

"Socialism or Death!" (photograph by Darmon Richter)

View from an unfinished tower block in Ciudad Nuclear (photograph by Darmon Richter)

You can even get inside the Cuban nuclear power station, provided you manage to find a way past the guards. Make it inside the first reactor, past the sentries who slouch lazily beside the gates, and you’ll discover a concrete labyrinth. These bleak, grey chambers now provide a home for countless bats, as well as the hordes of land crabs that shelter here during the heat of the day.

The view from the top of the reactor is worth the climb: a rare vantage point upon the shoulders of a lost Soviet titan, a ghost of the future looking out upon the timeless waters of the Caribbean. 

Main entrance to the Juragua nuclear power station (photograph by Darmon Richter)

A corridor inside the reactor (photograph by Darmon Richter)

A large chamber in the reactor tower (photograph by Darmon Richter)

Yet another concrete corridor (photograph by Darmon Richter)

View from the top of the first reactor (photograph by Darmon Richter)

Darmon Richter is a freelance writer, photographer, and urban explorer. You can follow his adventures at The Bohemian Blog, or for regular updates, follow The Bohemian Blog on Facebook.

Unless otherwise stated, images courtesy of the Museum of Old and New Art

Something stinks in Tasmania. “Where else in the world,” I asked myself, pinching my nostrils, “would one of the main cultural attractions be a machine that produces feces?” I was standing uncomfortably close to what has become a major draw at the Museum of Old and New Art: Cloaca Professional, by Belgian artist Wim Delvoye. It simulates the human digestive process — daily feedings yielding deposits of excrement in glass receptacles. I found myself wishing I’d visited the nearby Cadbury chocolate factory instead — not that I felt like eating.

Wim Delvoye's Cloaca Professional, affectionately known as "the poop machine" (photograph by Doug Beckers)

All day long, tourists and locals cheerfully ask staff to direct them to the "poo machine." This baffling apparatus is one of many controversial works on display at MONA, the labyrinthine fortress of sandstone and steel that has reshaped the landscape of Tasmania (and transformed the island’s tourism industry) since it opened its doors early 2011with the largest private art collection in the southern hemisphere.

It’s the $101 million brainchild of David Walsh, Hobart’s resident eccentric multimillionaire, who amassed his vast fortune as a professional gambler and funneled it into sharing his (some say questionable) taste with Tasmania and the world. It’s very much his personal playground — the only art gallery I know of built on a winery (Walsh’s own Moorilla vineyard), with tennis courts at the entrance and peacocks strutting the grounds. Did I mention the indoor trampoline?

Inside MONA (photograph by Rob Taylor)

Take the very arty MONA ROMA ferry across the Derwent River and you’ll arrive at a strange oasis carved out of the Berriedale peninsula. A glass spiral staircase tunnels 17 meters down through three levels of vast sandstone walls and Corten steel columns. Nonda Katsalidis’s enigmatic building, with 6,000 square meters of gallery space, is a marvel even before you start to notice all the freaky art lying around. Who needs to visit the Cadbury factory when you've got a suicide bomber’s remains cast in Belgian chocolate?

Not far off, there’s a 1,500-year-old Egyptian sarcophagus whose interior remains are displayed via CAT scans. Some gallery walls are adorned variously with rows of rotting cow carcasses and 151 porcelain vulvas. No divides, no chronology, and no labels – the whole experience of the museum is navigated using "The O" iPhone guide, detecting some 400 exhibits using GPS as you wander past, and imparting what Walsh has termed "Art Wank."

Bit.fall installation by Julius Popp (Photo by Brett Boardman)

It makes sense that Walsh, who has a pet cat named Christ and describes himself as a “rabid atheist,” would join forces with undoubtedly the second most eccentric arts lover and public figure in Van Diemen’s Land, Brian Ritchie. The Milwaukee-born bassist of cult indie band the Violent Femmes had been living on the island since 2006, when he approached Walsh to bankroll a music festival reflecting MONA’s eclecticism, experimental bent, and anti-establishment ethos. In 2009 they launched the Museum of Old and New Art Festival of Music and Art– quite a mouthful. With the resulting acronym MONA FOMA pared down to MOFO — conveniently, the slang abbreviation for “motherfucker” — one gets a sense of the founders’ wicked larrikin streak, two Tassie devils on the loose.

Ritchie is far from your run-of-the-mill aging punk rocker. Trained as a master of the Japanese shakuhachi flute (his chosen middle name Tairaku meaning "big music"), he and his wife Varuni opened an improbable zen tea house in central Hobart. As curator of MOFO and the "Dark MOFO" winter edition of the festival, which begins with a public Nude Solstice Swim in the Derwent, Ritchie has brought out the likes of PJ Harvey, the Dresden Dolls, and Elvis Costello while shining the spotlight on indie and local acts — all surrounded by light and sound installations in the gallery and around the city.

After a few hours exploring the museum, you'll want to re-emerge and take a glass of wine out on the café terrace looking out on the water. No longer perceived by mainlanders as a sleepy, isolated backwater, Tasmania is transforming from its Hicksville reputation into an important global art destination.

If you decide you really like the place and don’t want to leave, you can opt to be exhibited there in an urn. As part of a $75,000 Eternity Membership, your ashes will be interned in style at MONA’s purpose-built columbarium. Walsh’s father — RIP — is already in situ to keep you company. No crematorium on site... yet.

The author playing with the art at MOFO 2013

Museum of Old and New Art is at 655 Main Road, Berriedale, Tasmania.

Melissa Lesnie was a guest of Tourism Tasmania and the Museum of Old and New Art during MONA FOMA. She stayed at the Salamanca Inn.