Background
Every explorer has an 'old faithful' - a favoured spot, with more than asthetic appeal - sentimental value, if you will. Between myself, other Brisbane explorers, and indeed locals, Tennyson Power Station embodied exploring nirvana. A traditional coal-fired powerstation, it was seated on a lazy bend of the Brisbane River - both key to its cooling, and later, its demise. One of three inter-urban powerstations in Brisbane, it serviced the city for decades until a combination of encrouching suburbia and asbestos awareness brought it to the end of its commissioned life. Stripped of its stacks, generators and coal-feeders, the shell of TPS would sit dormant for almost two more decades, visited only by curious teenagers and passing explorers. At over 300m long, and easily 10 stories high, the it was a forboding structure, accented by its three coal towers at opposing ends and the center of the building. Inside, it was cut into two vast halls - the turbine hall and the generator hall.

Having been stripped of most of its infrastructure, the generator hall was an attrium - with a facing wall of glass stretching up 10 stories, its RSJ skeleton was punctuated with stranded catwalks, their ladders long since cut, and coal chutes, replete with adventurous stag-horns clinging desperately from them. The hall was impressive, especially at night, stray light from local industry would be coloured by the glass wall, and splash into the cool, quiet hulk.

The turbine hall, once tesselated with the bulbous repetion of turbines, featured impressive drops in the floor in lieu of their footprints. To the left, a bank of fortified rooms that housed the control room, battery arrays, and other various infrastructure. Just below, a mezzanine with a maze of high tension cables, and at the bottom, the now rusting tangle of thick pipes that used quench the thirst of Tennyson.

Winding up the stairs off the turbine hall, were the long corridors of switching and plant rooms, still inexplicably sourced with 415V. Above, the first roof level, and the coal towers, with rotting rubber conveyors, and ominous coal stores just below the sagging floor beam: if you fell in, and the hopper broke, you'd have a 10 story drop to contemplate the error in your ways; if it held, there was no way back out.

Each tower was equipped with a strap ladder - rewarding a patient explorer with a remarkable view of the meandering Brisbane river and city beyond, the omnipresent hum of industry, and the distant click-clack of rumbling freigh-trains.

Exploration of Tennyson Power Station
Early on , TPS was always accessible. There was a complacent guard who'd extend himself to the effort of driving a perimeter every few hours. The way in never changed: walk to the river's edge, skirt the fence, and along the much walked path to the rear of the powerstation. From here, one could slip between the grille that extended the length of the building, drop down a floor, and cover your knees in rust as you crawled through an old water pipe, eventually popping out in the bottom of the turbine hall. From here, the powerstation was yours: you wouldn't be disturbed. TPS became the standard way to end a night of exploration: countless times we found ourselves roaming in the cool of the powerstation at 4AM, or sleeping out on the roof to watch the sun rise, before heading back down to explore more.

Not much changed over the course of a few years, until security was unexpectedly stepped up one day. We'd just climbed in past the grilles, when we heard a distant pit pat pit pat pittapattapitapita! We looked at each other: surely not, we seemed to think, until the rather large rottweiler rounded the corner and laid all doubt to rest. From then on, two dogs had free reign over the station, and were surprisingly dilligent at keeping everyone out. Plans to bribe security, drug the dogs, the guard, or both were idly discussed over the years, but nothing eventuated.

Soon enough, it was announced that TPS was finally to fall: some political genius decided that "Tennis At Tennyson" was nowhere near as iritating as it sounded, and in a dodgy deal to claim the land below retail, the fate of TPS was determined. It would be destroyed to make tennis courts, so the locals could drink cucumber water and get sunburnt, or something.

Taking matters into our own hands, dozey and I concluded that This Would Not Do - and we were to get back inside whatever it took. I ventured inside one night, alone, only to get to the pipe before the dogs heard me and chased me out. A month or so later, I returned with dozey: failure was not an option. After casing the back of the building, we spied the new way in. Two levels up, there was a small hole in the wall. By clinging to the various debris on the wall, one could make the ascent, and enter into the mezzanine.

This was fantastic - in the recent fortifications, the mezzanine level was locked from the outside - meaning no dogs could get in, and no security would ever suspect that you were in there. By squeezing out a tiny hole, you could shim along a beam of RSJ that hung precariously over a 3 story drop, and flip yourself up onto the turbine floor. From here, it was a 20m distance of haul-ass to get onto the stairs, and out of the range of the dogs. Sitting on the roof, jubilent - we'd taken TPS back.

That's not to say the new method was without flaws - the second time we returned, our swank was firmly vanquished - the hounds bore down on us, as I was furiously trying to kick dozey through the hole back into the mezzanine. One of the last, and most extradinary evenings of all, however, was a baking summer's day. We slipped up to the roof, and watched distant thunder-heads drift on the horizon, occasionally luminescing as lightning arced inside them. I turned to a friend, only to be slightly bemused as to why her long curls were mysteriously floating in the air. As I pointed this out, it was pointed out that in fact, my hair too, was standing erect. Even dozey's tangle of hair was trying to levitate. To recap - we were by far the tallest objects for kilometers around, sitting on top of what was a Rather Conductive building, and our hair was standing on end from static. Needless to say, we retreated rather quickly.

From there on, demolition started. Amusingly, TPS was built so well that progress was retarded significantly - instead of just imploding the old girl, TPS would get its final revenge - it would have to be dismantled in entirity, piece by piece.

Work started before we left for our Japan trip, but we managed to take an afternoon inside to take the final photos, and collect blueprints that would otherwise be lost - and by the time we got home, all that was left was one brave tower, its falllen comrades no more than a twist of brick and glass.

That was the last time any of us went back - as stupid as it sounds, it was like losing an old friend. Seeing a vacant lot and a twist of metal where it once stood would just be too much.

And that is the story of TPS.

Pictures of TPS in various states follow..

The last remaining tower of Tennyson Power Station

The so-called 'texture wall' of Tennyson - I think everyone has a photo of this..

The generator floor. dsankt has a much better version of this photo.

The beginning of the end for Tennyson