I never thought Down Street would fall, another station to add to Christmas day wish list. located in the heart Park Lane district it appeared as an impenetrable fortress, one with no time for doubters and naysayers, protected by hotels, embassies and the rich.

Constructed in 1907, Down Street was doomed from that start. Situated between Hyde Park Corner and Dover Street (Now named Green Park) it received little patronage. After all, like any of the smug and rich in the area would willingly switch from their chauffeur driven Bentley’s, to ride on the tube with the common people and its piss stained seats. Down Street finally shut its doors on the 21st of May, 1932, receiving use once more as a deep level shelter for the Emergency Railway Committee during WW2.

We sat atop a shaft, the lack of rope denying us a safe means of descent, Down Street just out of reach. The shaft wasn’t very high, ten meters at best, the full drop divided by the vents below. Due to the shafts design it seemed possible to climb, but one slip would send you crashing onto the staircase below.

Two small water pipes ran the height of the vent, no more then an few cm thick and full of holes, offering a slither of hope, a potential object to steady yourself. Even accessing the building we had passed the point of no return, the only way out was down. The pipe clanged and creaked as weight was applied, its joints rusty, threatening to fall off completely. Dust and dirt stirred by my movements clouding my vision, clogging my lungs. In a way this made things easier, the floor disappeared beneath me, convincing my mind i was mere inches from the ground, the fear of falling removed. My foot hit the concrete, its echo ringing out in celebration. Regrouping we pushed on.

The station was dark, small glimmers of light sneaking in from the track-side, low hums audible from a nearby switch-box. We crept diligently along the passage, pausing at every clang and bang, torches kept to a minimum. We couldn’t afford to get caught, not here. Patiently we waited, assuring ourselves the coast was clear, we had not been followed, nor had we triggers any alarms. Little by little we relaxed, the fear of punishment pushed to the back of the mind, now time to unwrap our latest prize.

While i don’t mind light-painting, the idea an lighting an entire station was not appealing, potentially consuming what little time we had before service resumed. Nearby light-switches beckoned, calling to us, promising us the world on a plate. Who are we to turn down such an offer?

With a subtle flick the station burst into life, the red and white tiling gleaming with delight, happy to finally have visitors. Crossovers, lift-shafts, signs, posted, relics from the war, Down Street had everything, well almost everything. Much like the other abandoned stations in London, little to nothing remains of the platform area. Down Streets platforms bricked up during WW2 to house the temporary cabinet war rooms, the mosaic tiling covered with a thick coat of grey paint. The track was a different game, a hazardous spiders web of high voltage third rails, switch lines and capacity cables. Connections to the Hyde Park Corner sidings offered us confluence, in tube form.

We pushed our time in Down Street to the max, only leaving the tracks once the power returned, unlit ghost trains thundering by returning the start before service resumed. I could have stayed for hours, but soon the streets above would bustle with activity, our subtle exit becoming not so. We emerged onto the street, covered in dust, smug as the residence who caused its closure. The unconquerable, conquered.