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Herons Stream x Strawberry Concorde

In late 2022 artists Shaun C Badham and Josh Langan began working on a project, which at its core was the ambition to self-build a cabin on a piece of land which has either been abandoned, disused, or land banked.

In April 2023 Herons Stream X Strawberry Concorde commenced on a small piece of woodland, which had been left to deteriorate, with litter and fly tipping. This particular site is sandwiched between a railway track, an A-road, a power susbstation and a small river; a piece of fringe land, which for all intents and purposes has been forgotton. This cabin was built from all reclaimed materials including partly painted plywood, timber, three found windows, a sloped roof covered in roofing felt, and a sliding door.

This cabin currently still stands. 

In reflection of the past destruction of Tidehouse, Shaun has depicted Heron Stream by engraving the finished cabin on an old glass window. Though the future of this cabin is unknown and could remain for one month, one year to one decade, if this cabin was to be destroyed, the etched window would be inserted into the next cabin, creating a linked legacy from one cabin to another. 
Cabin Prosperity, Etched drawing on salvaged glass window, 2023

Front Gate
Clambering up a grassy bank.
The smell of urine floats in the air, like a mist.
Making sure to move quick not to be seen, by those passing or those pulling in.
Hidden metal pipe sticking out the ground, hits right foot.
Left foot slips on the mud.
Right arm tries to restabalize while being grazed on a tree branch.
All while carrying some salvaged lumber.
Like a toddler, flailing about.
Not knowing where to put their feet or arms.
After the first, second and third visit.
We scale the slope like pros, knowing the best route, and avoid all obstacles.
This becomes our front gate, a disguised entrance for some, but yet a visible path.
Trodden by who else?

Another’s Waste
Amongst the leaf-less brittle trees, lies a smattering of detritus.
A scattering of another’s waste.
Back seat rubbish, litter that never made it to the bin, 20 metres away.
After 5 black bin bags, I have barely made a dent.
Endless meal deal packaging.
Piss in bottles.
Car tyres.
Gas bottles.
Shit on underwear.
Printer parts.
Cans and bottles.
You name it, we have it.
1993 to 2023, it’s still here.
It is unable to decompose and the land doesn’t want to reclaim it.
It sits there like an unwelcomed intruder.
No one cares, its there.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Yet If no one states claim, no care is required.
So in theory our perfect site.

Campfire Crescendo
We previously had never made it to a door.
When we slide the door closed for the first time.
Step back ....... momentous.
A sense of external resolve.
Yet an impetus to keep going, onto the inside.
The white door popped amongst the layers of green.
The sun had arrived, and the leaf less, live less trees have come into their own.
Spring brought a burst of colour, burst of shadows and a burst of movement. 
This brown wasteland has transformed into a habitat, where more lived here than we had expected.

As the sun sets, the campfire starts humble.
Sausages on sticks cooking nicely.
The A road murmur starts to diminish and is replaced by the wild.
Screeching owls and amorous foxes.
The last train goes over the bridge, taking late night London workers home.
We sit on the cabins uncovered porch.
The campfire crescendos as another beer goes down.