⚔️I come across another house and take a look at what the people who lived here left behind and who actually lived here. The house has been abandoned for a long time, and everything is scattered about. I walk through the different rooms, looking for something that catches my eye. ⚔️And then it happens. I know that I’ll come to associate this very place with a memory that someone left behind. ⚔️I pick up a notebook from the ground. The right-hand pages are filled with writing, and the left-hand pages are covered with stickers of women. I start flipping through the pages and reading the individual entries. After a moment, it becomes clear to me what this is. ⚔️It’s a notebook from military service. The story of a young man who enlisted in 1984 for two years of basic military service. ⚔️A piece of his life gradually unfolds on these pages—memories of military service, everyday life, and women. ⚔️Suddenly, it’s no longer just an abandoned house full of scattered belongings. I’m holding in my hands a piece of the life of a person who once lived here. And thanks to this notebook, this place has taken on a whole new meaning for me.

Today we’re going to take a look inside an old brick factory. 🧱 Clay used to be mined here, which was then mixed with water and prepared for brick production. A continuous strip was then formed in the press and cut into individual bricks using a string. These were then dried and finally sent to the kiln, where they took on their final shape. 🧱 It’s been quiet here for a long time now. The brick factory is closed, and time has taken its toll on it. Still, as I walk through, I get the feeling that if the building hadn’t lost its roof, one might think production had stopped only recently. 🧱 Remnants of the former operation remain everywhere. Machines, structures, and spaces where thousands of bricks were once produced. 🧱 Just for the record—a house measuring 10 × 10 meters requires approximately 11,000 standard bricks measuring 29 × 14 × 6.5 cm. And the machines here must have produced a truly countless number of such bricks over the course of their history. 🧱 Today, you can build such a house using about 700 Ytong blocks. And that’s one of the reasons why bricks are no longer fired here. Modern Ytong blocks, ground bricks, and—above all—the reduced labor requirements have gradually replaced traditional production. 🧱 But the tour of the brickworks isn’t over yet. 🧱 In the distance, I can see a crooked brick chimney—the last remaining reminder of the days when this place was heated, fired up, and bustling with production. 🧱 So let’s go see what else is left here…

A hotel that never got to serve its purpose. ❌The hotel stands high in the mountains, hidden away in complete seclusion. ❌It was supposed to be a place where people would come to relax and enjoy the beauty of the surrounding nature. But it never got to tell its story. ❌The building was abandoned before it ever had a chance to welcome its first guest. Instead of rooms full of life, it now stands empty, and nature is slowly reclaiming it.

I went to an outdoor movie theater over the weekend. It was pleasantly warm; you could lie down on the grass and enjoy the movie under the open sky. But things are a little different here. This movie theater hasn’t shown films in a long time. All that’s left instead of an audience are empty seats. Plus, visiting isn’t that easy. The building is vast, and it’s easy to lose your bearings as you walk through the different rooms. People used to come here for entertainment, and in the evenings, the theater would be filled with laughter and the voices of visitors. Today, there’s almost nothing here that reminds you of the usual hustle and bustle of a movie theater. Just empty auditoriums, long hallways, and the silence that has gradually engulfed the entire building. So let’s find out what remains of this cinema.

It was supposed to be nice and cloudy, so I set out on a long journey along a single track that branches off and then branches off many more times. There are lots of railcars and steam locomotives on those tracks. Well, the weather didn’t listen to those smart alecks who predict what it’ll be like, and decided that the sun would be blazing and the temperature would climb toward forty. Not great for taking pictures. Instead of pleasant overcast weather, there was blazing sun, sweltering heat, and harsh shadows. And it wasn’t great for playing hide-and-seek with the rotating cameras, either. You try to hide somewhere, wait until the camera turns away, and then quickly move on. But in this kind of heat, it’s not exactly fun. After a while, I was sweaty, tired, and felt like the sun was draining every last bit of energy from me. Still, I kept going. Track one, two, three—behind each one, there might be something interesting. Railcars, steam locomotives, old scrap metal, and everything around them kept drawing me just a little bit further. So even though the weather did the exact opposite of what the forecast promised, I didn’t give up. I was sweaty and thoroughly baked by the sun, but I made it. And I think it was worth it.

The farmhouse stands in the middle of the village. The fence that once separated it from the outside world is long gone. Today, nothing stands in the way of entering. Well, almost nothing. My path is blocked only by plum tree branches laden with ripening fruit. Their time has just come. I pick one and take a bite. It’s sweet, juicy, and tastes exactly as plums from an old country orchard should. For a moment, I forget that I’m standing in the middle of an abandoned farmstead, and I continue on. The deeper I venture into the grounds, the more I feel that nature is reclaiming the place. Everywhere there is grass, bushes, self-sown trees, and vines pushing their way through doors and windows. The farmhouse is slowly disappearing into the greenery. Not much has been preserved in the living quarters. The rooms are almost empty, with only occasional reminders that someone once lived here. The attic is much more interesting. Everything is different here. It seems as though, over the course of decades, someone kept bringing things here that were no longer needed in the house. And this is where they ended up staying. Old batteries, matchboxes, kerosene lamps, shoes, clothes, and lots of other little items that today seem like tiny time capsules. Each one has its own story. Some items have almost blended in with the dust and crumbling wood, while others look as if their owner had set them aside just yesterday. I leave the living quarters and head toward the barns. And here another surprise awaits me. These aren’t empty either. Inside, there’s still equipment that was once part of life on the farm. Old tools, farm machinery, and implements used in the fields. It’s strange to walk through a place where time has stood still. The farm long ago ceased to serve its purpose; the people have left, and the fence is gone. Only the plums continue to ripen every year, the barns still hold old farm equipment, and the attic still hides things their owners were once unable to part with completely. And so the farm, slowly overgrown with greenery, continues to wait. Who or what it’s waiting for, no one seems to know anymore.

Today I’ll take you inside a large, cylindrical brick structure. It’s a municipal water tower that was designed to ensure an adequate water supply during peak demand and maintain constant pressure in the water distribution system. It was built shortly after World War I and rises more than 35 meters high. Inside lies a massive riveted tank that holds an incredible 3,000 m³ of water. Today, the water tower is no longer in operation. It was taken out of service due to a leak in the tank and concerns that it could rupture, leading to a disaster. Meanwhile, the structure is falling into disrepair. The damaged roof is provisionally covered with a red tarp. However, it does not seal very well, and water is gradually finding its way inside. And so a somewhat paradoxical situation has arisen—a structure that once held water and helped supply the city is now being destroyed by water itself. The water seeps through the roof and is slowly destroying the inner walkway around the enormous reservoir.

🐷It’s been a long time since the squeals of hundreds of pigs and sows echoed through these halls. The sprawling collective farm had its own pig birthing facility to ensure that the continuous cycle of life—from the birth of piglets to their transport to slaughter—ran without a single delay. 🐽Today, only silence remains here. Empty pens, dirty walls, and rusty machinery are reminders of a time when this operation was one of the driving forces behind local agriculture. It’s as if everything came to a halt sometime in the 1980s. Modernization never reached this place, and time has left its mark on every detail. 🐽The economy decided its fate. Low pork purchase prices, growing competition, and outdated operations spelled the end. When I buy a kilogram of pork on sale in Poland today for 45 crowns, I’m not even all that surprised. Keeping a facility like this alive simply stopped making sense. 🐽Today, hares and deer roam the grounds along well-trodden paths. How quickly a place that once operated nonstop, day and night, can disappear.

I’m visiting a sprawling farm in the middle of the village. I’m in luck—it started raining heavily, and everyone from the village green has disappeared into their homes. Not a soul in sight. I squeeze through the broken gate for horses and wagons into the courtyard. It’s completely overgrown with self-sown trees. If I weren’t in the middle of a village, I’d say I’d stepped into a young forest. I make my way along the walls, looking for a door. Finally, I manage to get inside. The rooms have long been abandoned, yet many belongings of the last residents remain. But what caught my attention most was the attic. Several pieces of farm equipment are stored there, but that’s not what draws me in. Sometimes I just walk past things like this; other times I stop, bend down, and start examining the little items that have been forgotten or left lying around. You’re wondering what, aren’t you? An old desk calendar lies on the floor. The first page shows the year 1979. I start flipping through it and discover that almost every page is partially or completely covered with writing in a shaky hand. Grandpa or Grandma used to write down notes about the weather here almost every day. If they didn’t forget, they noted whether it rained, snowed, was cloudy, or what kind of day it was. On the last page, there’s even a summary of each month and notes about what the weather was like back then. It was strange and beautiful at the same time to leaf through that old calendar. Suddenly, I got a glimpse into the ordinary days of people who had long since passed away, but whose little notes remained here as a reminder of them. I carefully place the calendar back on the wooden floor of the attic and slowly walk away. Perhaps someone else will pick it up just as I did, before the roof collapses and the weather erases it forever.

🧪For decades, a chemical vocational school operated here, training new generations of specialists for the large chemical plant that stands literally within sight. The campus used to be full of students, bustle, and hands-on instruction that was directly linked to local industry. Over time, however, interest in the program declined. The school was eventually merged with another educational institution in a different city, and classes were relocated. After the students and staff left, the buildings were abandoned. Today, the campus is slowly falling into disrepair—empty classrooms, workshops, and hallways are all that remain to remind us of a time when future chemists and technicians were trained here for one of the region’s most important companies.

The tracks are rusty. Year after year, the rain creates a reddish film on them that no train wheels have worn away for a long time. The silence is almost perfect. Only the wind plays with the tall grass, and every now and then one of the old railroad ties creaks. 🚃It’s hard going. Every so often, a young tree pushes its way up between the sleepers, as if nature were trying to reclaim the railroad. What people once built with such effort is slowly disappearing beneath a green blanket. 🚃From time to time, I stop at one of the railway structures. Sometimes it’s an abandoned station with peeling plaster and boarded-up windows; other times, it’s a tall water tower that once supplied steam locomotives with thousands of liters of water. A few kilometers further on, an overgrown turntable awaits. Its mechanism has long since seized up, but if you close your eyes for a moment, you can almost hear the hiss of steam, the clinking of tools, and the stationmaster’s voice announcing the arrival of another train. 🚃Every step along this track is a journey into the past. The tracks no longer lead anywhere, yet they still tell stories—about the people who built them, the engineers who carried passengers and freight along them, and those who waited at the station for their loved ones. 🚃Today, only silence, rust, and nature slowly reclaiming the land remain here. And that is precisely why abandoned rail lines have a special charm. They are not just deserted tracks—they are a chronicle that can be read step by step.

⚽️Today we’ll visit a stadium that looks like a smaller version of Strahov Stadium. It’s about six times smaller, yet it could still hold around 40,000 spectators. ⚽️The similarity to Strahov lies primarily in their monumental 20th-century concrete architecture. Both are oval-shaped and feature open stands around the entire perimeter, which still look impressive today. ⚽️However, they also share a less flattering fate—both stadiums have been neglected for a long time. This one, though, as you’ll see for yourselves, is in significantly worse condition.