Urban Exploration - The abandoned Cement Factory
We received photos from a traveler and compiled them into a historical summary.
I first wanted to gain access to this cement plant back in 2005. That was the era when we were exploring the underground cement galleries that fed this insane industrial machine.
Eighteen years ago, standing before this magical cement plant—still intact at the time—two rather thick-set doggies welcomed me with the customary "politeness." A description of these Cerberuses: a black Rottweiler with an intense, deep, and raspy cavernous bark, and teeth that were, shall we say, pointed and very, very sharp. These guys must go to the dentist on purpose; it’s not possible otherwise. A dog dentist, I’m telling you!
So, I took out my mobile phone, opened Google Translate, and let the machine listen to those raspy "WOOF-WOOF" sounds. "I understand," the machine told me. It translated: "If you come in, I’ll slice you as thin as rooibos tea. PS: You total MORON!" Well then. A bit disappointed, the cement plant was eventually filed away in the depths of my memory, in the "frustration" drawer.
Since then, legions of this word has been censored to ensure your safety have passed through. This time, they didn't manage to break everything. No, the concrete and steel would have required too much effort. On the other hand, they made a mess of it with hideous tags, used it for base jumping, slacklining, and parkour. With great talent, they even managed to organize a serious accident in 2019.
As a result, guards now very kindly watch over our safety as if we were tender, prepubescent teenagers. I found it hard to believe. In there? To defend what, exactly? However, I saw that the concertina wire fences are carefully patched up and that the paths clearly show the movement of vehicles inside. Defending what? Simply making sure that stupidity doesn't go too far. They are legally responsible for it; silly or not, that’s how it is.
Consequently, I had a hell of a time getting into the site. Sincerely, even for someone as experienced as I am, I didn't quite expect this kind of setup. I stayed discreet. Of course, I prefer visiting at 6:30 AM; let’s just say that here, the timing wasn't right for that.
I suspected this site would be an absolute catastrophe given the vandalism, but I was pleasantly moved by the fact that it is still beautiful. Let’s say it is mostly the gargantuan monstrosity of the industrial tool itself.
The cement works were founded in 1873 and closed in 1987. There was a succession of operators, which explains the diversity of installations; instead of being renovated, they were layered on top of each other. In the end, much like at Intermoselle, you find yourself in the presence of an enormous, sprawling rotary kiln fueled by oil. Not easy to photograph—black, white, backlighting, and all that—but what immensity all the same.
Leaving was even harder than getting in; a piece of clothing died in the process. Overall, it remains a site that must be considered dangerous: decaying gratings, metal sheets perched in uncertain conditions, and large holes in the concrete. Precautions are essential.
Then remains the enigma: why hasn't it been demolished? Guarding it costs a fortune, and the adventurous will enter again and again anyway. There is a phantasmagorical rumor circulating: the owner at the time supposedly donated the factory to the current owner on the condition that it not be demolished for a hundred years. It sounds like a fairy tale straight out of the Brothers Grimm. It is more likely that the mass of concrete is simply so great that it is ultra-expensive to demolish.
Indeed, you have to wonder if all the cement they extracted from underground wasn't eventually swallowed up in the construction of the factory itself! It is a titanic mass that fiercely dominates the valley. What the future holds for the place, I honestly have no idea. Probably no one else does either. It lives through the summers and winters, and then it will become an urban ruin like so many others.
On my way back, I went to the cemetery of this small Alpine town. I looked for the grave of the two doggies, and I found it. I left two bones (human ones, I should specify) as a gift, to apologize for what I might have done to them, the obnoxious Moron that I am. And then, I left that place—probably forever—stowing an old, harmful frustration away in the cellar of the forgotten. PS: WOOF-WOOF!
