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<\/a><\/p>\nOn a freezing January day in 2000, my brother and I broke into the ex-hospital to photograph its derelict interior. During the early 90s, when Leverndale closed under the Conservative government\u2019s Care in the Community policy, the furnishings and effects were left virtually intact. There\u2019s something chilling about these institutions. They crop up regularly in the lexicon of urban exploration, feeding some primal urge in us to make contact with the past, sampling histories that never belonged to us. Maybe in such places – with their broken windows, bed frames, exposed cables and damp, limp curtains – we find solace in the resonance of those who came before us, flexing our received knowledge of what it must have been like to be a patient here and the unnameable treatments they endured.<\/p>\n
Amongst the debris \u2013 upturned chairs, stacks of grey cardboard bedpans and sad greetings cards \u2013 I found a red plastic folder labelled Visits After Discharge<\/em>, containing page after page of case studies of ex-patients, supposedly settled in new accommodation. It was a deeply moving document in many ways, handwritten in blue biro. From the various hands of its authors I discern certain graphological traits, the giveaways of the nurses who cared and those who didn\u2019t expressed in abstract arcaded forms, angles of inclination, pen pressure.<\/p>\n Small episodes were recorded, e.g. \u2013 George takes an interest in plants and waters them regularly<\/em>, or Isobel went to the shop<\/em>s \u2013 speak of empty lives, small achievements and, between the lines, the poignancy of abandonment. Reading these terse reports, I sensed no aspiration or expectation that life would improve for these ex-patients, only a grinding day-in, day-out present, witnessed by overburdened, low-paid charges. Retrieving the folder, I took it home thinking, probably foolishly, that one day I’d get the chance to tell their stories but sadly the ending lacks the requisite feelgood outcome the money demands. As it turned out in 2006 parts of Leverndale were converted into housing by Miller Homes, the all-too-predictable fate of ex-psychiatric hospitals not just in this area but across the whole country.<\/p>\n Returning to Ross Hall park, I\u2019m on the trail of another of Harry Bell\u2019s PSAs. Trouble is, I don\u2019t have much to go on. An online search offers little information. The park isn\u2019t listed on the council website. The Crookston Road entrance can only be accessed from this private car park and is virtually invisible to the casual passer-by. However the park can also be reached from Pollok via a footbridge spanning the White Cart Water, the route I took when visiting Ross Hall as a kid, long before the private hospital was built. It always struck me as an oddity among Glasgow\u2019s green spaces, easily overlooked, a secret place.<\/p>\n I get lucky. On the Historic Scotland website I find the following \u2013<\/p>\n They had me fooled. I always assumed the rocks were prehistoric.<\/p>\n The Glasgow Network of Aligned Sites as laid out on Google Earth suggests a corner close to a pond, but with no obvious landmark, no Pulham stonework, no ancient building marking the precise spot. Hauling my camera kit I enter but soon lose my way. It\u2019s been over 20 years since I was here and I’ve never entered by this gate. A shady path opens onto a wide grassy area fringed by mature deciduous woodland. There\u2019s no-one around apart from a woman walking her dog and three kids playing. Not a promising start. I take a few shots for safety\u2019s sake and move on, taking the riverpath which in July is profuse with wildflowers. Then, circling a green plastic-coated wire fence, I spot a recognisable landmark \u2013 the red sandstone of Ross Hall itself. Suddenly I\u2019m oriented.<\/p>\n From here, everything reveals itself. I take shots of the stonework, the outbuildings, the graffiti, the plants, the grotto, but the exact site mentioned by Harry Bell eludes me. There\u2019s no visible trace that distinguishes one part of this land over another. It\u2019s hot now and I\u2019m laden down and overdressed. Defeated, I collapse on the lawn by the pond and look up at the sky, my thoughts dark and mutinous, because if Harry Bell faked an alignment to suit his purposes, then where does that leave me? Was I only imagining a link from this place? Rechecking Google Earth and the GNAS, I discover Ross Hall appears as a singular spot, unconnected to any of Harry Bell\u2019s leys. So why does it appear? And what possessed me to come here?<\/p>\n Then a bizarre thing occurs. I don\u2019t see it, but it\u2019s definitely audible \u2013 first, an animal\u2019s cry, not a dog, but something larger and more alien and by the sound of it, wounded, a hellish sound. Seconds later, the sound\u2019s reprised, only this time it\u2019s not animal, it\u2019s human, a prolonged and painful howling. Surely I\u2019m not hallucinating? Could this be emanating from the private hospital? Or have I summoned the ghosts of Leverndale on the opposite side of the road?<\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n