Annually, Routemaster fleet tours WWII ghost town within army training zone
In an annual tradition, a convoy of London buses traverses Salisbury Plain, resembling map markings in red ink. Leading the way is Peter Hendy, known as Lord Hendy and also the head of Network Rail. With a strong fondness for vintage Routemasters, owning two himself, he’s the driving force behind this yearly excursion to the deserted village of Imber.
He raises his voice over the engine’s rumble, likening it to a bus version of a journey to the North Pole. However, there’s a catch. The ride only lasts 25 minutes from Warminster, requiring entry into the Salisbury Plain training area—a portion of Ministry of Defence land typically inaccessible to civilians. Tanks, once targets, now corrode by the roadside, with ivy-draped caterpillar tracks and a crow perched on a gun barrel. Signs caution against veering from the road due to ‘unexploded military debris.’ The atmosphere evokes a blend of ‘Summer Holiday’ and ‘A Bridge Too Far.’
The training grounds sprawl across a vast expanse of Wiltshire, juxtaposing the peaceful and the martial. While live firing occurs frequently, and countless large-caliber rounds have been fired over the decades, over half the area holds the status of a special scientific site, home to thousands of ancient landmarks. It accommodates soldiers, stone-curlews, and standing stones alike
Our morning destination, Imber, bore the toll of warfare. Once known as the loneliest village in England due to its isolation, it even inspired a rhyme: ‘Little Imber on the down, Seven miles from any town.’ This seclusion shielded it from the Black Death’s grasp in the 14th century, but by the 20th century, this isolation transformed from an asset to a liability. Churchill’s administration deemed it a prime location to prepare for D-day, leading to Imber’s sacrifice.
Evacuated and left desolate, Imber’s residents were granted a mere six weeks – until December 17, 1943 – to vacate their homes. Although they hoped to return in peacetime, the opportunity was denied. Consequently, for nearly 80 years, the village has remained abandoned, a spectral settlement, more akin to a lifeless body without a soul. Imber stretches across vast green landscapes, largely unvisited over time, yet sporadically hosting a form of commemoration
Vintage images depict a picturesque village, reminiscent of a scene from a chocolate-box, but disembarking the bus reveals an immediate transformation. The whitewashed, thatched cottages; gardens flourishing with lupins and hollyhocks; shepherds tending to their sheep; and the congregation following their preacher – all these elements have vanished. The remaining structures, like the Bell Inn, bear the mark of their antiquity, the date of 1769 etched onto a gable, but now they are mere hollow shells. The sole survivor of Imber’s past, relatively intact, is the 13th-century St. Giles church. A St. George’s Cross flutters from the flagpole as visitors wait to enter. Within, volunteers offer tea, cake, and jars of honey for sale. The churchyard’s sole inhabitants now are the bees within their hive; the beekeeper, less fortunate, requires a pass to come and go.
The church itself holds intrigue. Upon entering the door, a medieval mural portrays demons enacting an indescribable act upon a sinner; however, time has muted the colors and detail. The tower remains off-limits to the public, yet Neil Skelton, the building’s steward and protector, guides me upwards. Ascending a narrow, dim spiral staircase, we reach a small door reminiscent of Alice’s adventures in Wonderland, which opens onto the rooftop. From there, we survey the site where Imber once stood. In its place, a mock village of concrete houses has emerged, constructed to facilitate military urban warfare training. For generations, this church was the heart of the community. Now, devoid of its community, it raises the question of its purpose.
The tower extends its shadow over weathered and lichen-covered gravestones. I notice a small assembly gathered around a particular grave – that of the blacksmith Albert Nash, who passed away in 1944. His story is one of the poignant and enchanting narratives of Imber. As I draw nearer, I overhear visitors sharing it amongst themselves: “He was discovered weeping beside his anvil, unable to bear the thought of departing. They say he succumbed to a broken heart.” In the midst of this unassuming churchyard in an abandoned locale, a modest tombstone commemorates a modest man. Yet, for this singular day each year, it becomes one of the most frequented graves in all of Britain. Amidst the grandeur of Westminster for Dickens and the prominence of Highgate for Marx, Albie Nash, the smith of Imber, has his name echoed by thousands.
Adjacent to the blacksmith’s final resting place, Kelvin Nash, a member of the same family, tends to his father Raymond’s grave. Raymond was laid to rest in January, an event that might have marked the church’s ultimate funeral service. In 1936, as a mere infant, Ray Nash and his mother departed Imber due to the untimely demise of his father, a farm laborer. Despite growing up without a father figure, Ray held a deep desire to be interred beside him. Consequently, when he passed away at 87, his family was resolute in honoring his wish.
The funeral procession included military vehicles accompanying the hearse, a busload of mourners, and a solitary bell tolling as the casket was borne into St. Giles. The strains of Johnny Cash’s “The Old Rugged Cross” played, and for a brief moment, the desolate village regained a sense of community. The church was filled with congregants assembled to commemorate the passing of one of Imber’s last remaining residents.
Today is a far cry from tranquility. The churchyard bustles with picnickers, their cups resting upon stone tombs. Prior to my journey here, I conversed over the phone with John Williams, one of the estimated three remaining village inhabitants. In his late 80s, he’s keenly aware that he holds the mantle of memory. As the last of the villagers eventually pass away, Imber will transition into mere history, a realm confined to paper, ink, and fading photographs. However, for the present, Williams observes and hears it all vividly: the cottages, barns, and blacksmith’s shop; the melodies of birds and the laughter of children. His mother served as the schoolmistress. The enforced departure from Imber, he discloses, triggered a mental breakdown for her, leading to the rest of her short life being spent in what he refers to as an “asylum.”
He candidly admitted to me that he initially had no intention of participating in Imberbus day, perceiving it as somewhat gimmicky. He expressed, “I appreciate people visiting the village, but I hope they come out of respect, not treating it like an Alton Towers.” He believes the people of Imber deserve recognition, whether from the government or even the King. “They sacrificed everything, relinquished their homes for the war effort, and never received a word of thanks.”
As the afternoon wears on, I depart the churchyard, making my way down the path to the former high street, where a bus readies to depart for Warminster. Church bells chime, the conductor’s bell responds in harmony, and we journey back to the 21st century via the Wiltshire Downs.
