Urban Exploration – Cheadle Royal Hospital

Urban Exploration – Cheadle Royal Hospital

Cheadle Royal Hospital, formerly known as the Manchester Royal Lunatic Asylum, was a psychiatric hospital built in 1848 – 1849. As of 2010, the majority of the original site became part of the Priory Group, which offers comprehensive inpatient mental health services. One building, known locally as ‘South House’ has been left abandoned. It is here in South House which we spent one afternoon this month.

Despite extensive research, I have been unable to find out what South House was specifically used for, so if anyone knows, please do share in the comments section below!

We arrived at the hospital through the main gates and drove around the back towards South House. After parking up out of sight, we waited for the coast to be clear and climbed tentatively over the gate. Despite not being a difficult entry, we did have to laugh at the effort we put into our little access adventure, only to find the gate on the other side had been left open, and we could have just walked in from the road…

Nevertheless we began to explore. We knew before arriving at Cheadle Royal Hospital that it was only one building, and we didn’t have high expectations of what we would find. On arrival at South House, I was pleasantly surprised. There’s nothing left on the site, and most of the floors on the upper levels are gone, but I still quite enjoyed just having a look around.

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If anyone is new to urban exploring, I would definitely recommend Cheadle Royal Hospital as a great first site to check out. It’s very easy to access, with limited danger (you still need common sense, some of the floors are missing….) and you’ll likely bump into some fellow explorers if you visit on a nice weekend!


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18 thoughts on “Urban Exploration – Cheadle Royal Hospital”

  • I learnt to play Snooker at Cheadle Royal! Back in the eighties, one of my mates spent some time in there (with what were eventually diagnosed as bipolar problems). In the evening, we used to sneak in past reception and and head up to an old attic room that no one ever seemed to use, which had 2 full size snooker tables in it. Free snooker! Can’t remember which building it was. The first photo looks vaguely reminiscent.

  • Some really interesting pics. Occasionally I do like to shoot derelict buildings etc., the last place being Croft Air Base [now housing estate]. Your pics have caught my attention and I wondered if the hospital is still accessible. If so, how accessible? Any advice on entering will gaining access will be much appreciated. Cheers

  • It was a mental asylum it is now abandoned because one of the mental patients burnt but not burnt to the ground South House also Saint Anne’s hospice replaced South house and if you go in to a room there is a sword in the ground wonder why it is said that it is haunted by the patients the graffiti is scary but some are terrifying I’ve been there and it’s really creepy but there is a green gate there but the side fence has been cut open the patient would have needles in them aswell

      • It’s still intact but they have bricked up the ground floor window holes, possibly doors too. Couldn’t see from where I was stood – in the main building 😉

  • Nothing has replaced South house as there aren’t ‘’live -in’ nurses any more. The site isn’t abandoned and is still a mental health hospital, just South House that is ruined. The old North House is now a hotel

  • I can tell you but it’s not even worth your fuel. The downstairs windows are bricked up and it was never even had any patients in there, it was the nurses quarters. Sod all interesting and anyone who has gone there has just wasted time, fuel and effort

  • When I went to UMIST to read medical biochemistry in September 1974, I had the great misfortune to be engaged to a student there, a Mr Kenneth David Norman Kenrick. He was a student nurse at the hospital, and lived in the nurses’ home.
    Now, the Rev Kenneth David Norman Kenrick, not only did he train there, he also worked as a cleaner cleaning out the toilets and other parts of the industrial unit known as Cheadle Royal Industries. He loved working there. He was a complete narcissist and, the patron of the hospital was HM the Queen and it was the only wholly-private pyschiatric hospital in the UK. The fees of all the NHS patients were paid to the hospital by the NHS.
    I can remember getting an invitation to the garden party, on stiff card, in copperplate, the card edged in gold. After I broke off the engagement as he was a liar who didn’t love me, just my undoubted abilities as a future vicar’s wife – I could play the organ being taught by special concession at St Hildeburg’s in Hoylake by the late Gilbert Curtis, he came out of retirement to teach me, and was an organ advisor to the diocese, the organist and choirmaster at St Saviours in Oxton, the parish church to a theological college in Oxton which may or may not have been called St Saviours, the college lands being used for housing development, a row of very expensive townhouses, Liza Sterk, one of the founders of Green Ginger bought one of the first ones. She was from Hoylake, and became a management trainee at House of Fraser, Hendersons in Liverpool, married at St Hildeburghs and then settled in Oxton. The houses were next door to the playing fields of Birkenhead High School GPDST, and as rather cynical young women, we just judged that it was one less lot of pervs looking at us in our games kit while pushing our boots into the net of our crosse to make it more and more impossible for the ball to fall out. At the time that Princess Anne went to Benenden, Vogue magazine searched around the country to find the 10 best schools for ‘gels’ should other parents think to follow the Queen’s lead and educate their daughter at school rather than privately at home. Birkenhead High School GPDST was one of the top 10 according to this article. Patricia Routledge, the first female vice president of Coco Cola, Alison Stott, then Alison Mackinder not only Welsh junior archery champion at the age of 12, but well before the age of 18 Welsh ladies champion, Sally Hewitt, died of Hodkin’s disease in 1972, too late to be saved once her male GP realised that something really was wrong with her, we hated him like nothing on earch, Sally had gone to the doctor saying he wasn’t well. Apparently qualified medical professional decided that like all teenage girls she was desperate to have his hands on her body. Plus ça change and all that. She had Hogkin’s lymphoma. She had chemo, her hair grew back, she came back to school, determined to work harder than she ever had done before to get her 9 O levels, maths, eng lang lit, french a second language think she did Spanish, 2 sciences probably not 3 I can’t remember, it didn’t matter. When all 95 of us sat our O levels in the hall, in June 72 one chair was always empty, or the space it would have been, it was Sally’s. The remission didn’t last, it had been too late when the gentleman who had sworn the hypocritic oath like so many before and since, not only had he not done any good for her, with his narcissism had deprived the world of a beautiful young woman. Probably out of jealousy he was probably too thick to get a place at the boys school and had had to make do with a bog standard grammar school. We uffered like you wouldn’t believe. I used to have tennis coaching given by Fred Bamford who could tell a racket grip by shaking hands. I was proudly carrying my racket and my school bag in my summer dress and blazer. I was walking down to catch the train home to Hoylake and being the only one to get the train as my parents didn’t have a car, rather shocking, I decided that I felt safer going up to the main road by the bus stops for the circular and started to walk down to Claughton village and to the station. Happy, on a sunny evening, it didn’t last long, a boy of about 16 or 17 came up behind me on his big boy racing bicycle, before I could move out of the way, he shoved his hand roughly up the skirt of my dress and tried to put his hand into my knickers. That’s how the scum of Birkenhead treated us. As soon as I went to school I was entitled to free school dinners. The idea of a BHS pupil daring to take the food out of the mouth of one of the deserving poor was abhorrent to the bigotted left in fiefdom. However, finally, when I was in the Lower VIth they sort of did the decent thing – local govt reorganisation was looming salaries for a little town council were going to become megabucks ones for a Metropolitan Borough Council – they vary in size with the number of rate payers in the authority. The education committee chairman for Birkenhead Borough Council had his greedy piggy little eyes set on becoming Education committee chair of Wirral. So one of his minions wrote to the school stating that due to an unfortunate inexplicable oversight, it had come to his attention that 2 residuary place – fee paying – pupils as BHS were entitled to free school meals, in September 1972, and had been so for all the days since they started at the school in September 1967. How terribly public spirited of him. In the autumn of 1968, by accident rather than sending the 50 girls to the school as had been notified, they’d decided to award 75 free places and, oops, the revised numbers had never been notified. Anything to dump the cost of educating the children of the borough on to a charity or to keep the coffers for themselves, they had it both ways. Under the direct grant scheme, the local authority could have between 50 and 75% of the grammar places in any school year. The balance was made up of fee paying pupils. In 1974 the cost of keeping one of us at school was around £500 a year less than a state school pupil, so despite being treated as meat to be sexually abused at will, deprived of medical treatment etc etc we were really rather a bargain all things told. Sexual abuse and assault is a dreadful scourge, I can still remember my fear as that 17 year old put his hand up my skirt on the way down Tollemache Road and to bombastic brats that told me at 38 No children yet Meridel? You’ll change your mind. Well Ms Sally Jane Mills one of 3 daughters of John Mills of Hope Street, no I bloody well didn’t, or not until I was 40, and it turned out to the biggest mistake of my life. My daughter has tried to kill me at least 3 times, has tried to force me to commit suicide to collect £100,000 in a life insurance policy written in trust for her, then changed into a trust for my husband who, in the 4 weeks before I left him asked me at least 4, if not 5 times, if the policy was valid in case of suicide. I panicked, and a mate, walking straight past me collecting for a soup kitchen charity founded by Coluche got the shock of his life when I yelled at him – good lung power to sing a solo in St Hildeburghs in Hoylake, why he wasn’t speaking to me, asked how things were going, looked at me gobsmacked, and said roughly translated why on earth was I doing all that. Just cancel the direct debit, no payments, no policy, no payout. Simples. I was disappearing up my own fundament 50 times a second to stay ahead of his next twisted move. Who’d have thought it ? A mate, a good mate a thoroughly decent honourable man, a lorry driver from Bootle who would have no idea how to sexually abuse a woman against all those who pride themselves on having pulled me down a peg or 3, like that little scrote on his push bike in 1967 and so many others. Met his and his nosy wife on a Ryanair flight to Limoges on November 2016. Our daughter, with her big mouth, her lack of respect, good manners and boundaries had muscled her way into the affections of a lovely lady from Yorkshire flying to Bordeaux for the birth of her first grandchild. She was lovely. She was a nervious flyer and had no idea how she was going to get from Limoges to Bordeaux, with regret I wish we’d offered to take her, it’s only 100km, takes about an hour and would have got us out of the clutches of the dreadful Sian, but the megaphone with no manners or respect for man nor beast was shouting all our business forward from her place in the row behind us. A neck in the row infront snapped around and a lady by the name of Sian turned around and said Are you going to Perpezac too, I’m Sian and I’ve , sorry we’ve just bought a hotel there are going to x y and z. What she actually did was used and abused and lied to everyone within a 20 mile radius, and then when her husband was off work for a year with a broken leg from an accident at work, legged it back to the UK leaving him with all the business debts of the business such as the overdraft, the social contributions agency the vat etc etc, and then told him she was going to divorce him and screw him for every penny. I got screwed more than once. She asked me to go with her to an accountants in Objat, to help her with a meeting as she was changing her accountant for the umpteenth time. She would appear to have a knack of upsetting people. Anyway, for this relief much thanks She cancelled the meeting and only told me 5 days later. Her VAT return was a complete work of fiction, as was probably everything else. Brian the poor sod who was duped into paying for her dream, into which she was suckered by a woman she worked for, has made a lot of us pay big time. She even got Ray Hicks the brother of the Hicks of River Cottage Fame, by appearing on a radio advertorial swearing black was white that she bought all her meat from la Boucherie à la Ferme at La Pardoux Corbier near Pompadour, I heard that she had only once bought a small amount of meat from them and the rest of the time she scoured the cheap shops such as Lidl, Aldi, Leader Price etc buying and freezing the yellow label packs instead. She used to rant and rave all the time “The French just don’t get it, they won’t come and eat the way I think they should do ………” Racist and xenophobe totally inflexible from Bootle plonks herself down in the middle of one of the most impoverished parties of France where those that aren’t ripping the Brits off are hating and despising the ones who are hard up with a vengeance. I’ve recently decided that I’ve been blamed by the racist half wit for the last time for burning Joan of Arc. The French did it. So there!

    Back to Cheadle Royal, the late lamented Mr Kenrick late of Calday Grange Grammar school where he cockup his A levels on his own – was only 7 at the time, and my cousin, then 18, had a grudge against me for being better at arithmetc than he was. It was apparently my fault that he took after his father and not his mother, and that I took after my father not my mother. Mr Kenrick then entering into the hallowed halls of Liverpool University to study for a degree in maths and physics cocked up both his first year his repeated first year and his year of oceanography that Mummy paid for all on his lonesome. Still like Ruth Callaghan a biogotted teacher at a school in Knutsford who spat at me that Birkned High was for the daughters of the rich, bitches like me, who took the bread out of the mouths of the poor like. Her dad was only a foreman at Lairds and she could never afforded to go there, she had to make do with Park High, eaten with envy. Sad cow. News for you Ruthie, there are 2 reasons why you didn’t go there. You weren’t in the top 2 % of the 11 plus pass list for the borough, you didn’t manage to get through the RP exam that the school set. My fees were only £4 a term. So either you were thick, or thick and bigotted, or thick biggotted and a bitch, or thick biggotted bitch stinking of sectarian prejudice and taking your venom out on a little girl of 7 who just wanted to learn. She didn’t understand your explanation, and got more and more scared and because she didn’t understand she couldn’t explain why and what she couldn’t follow. One of those wonderfully devoted teachers that states spitting with venom that the children must learn the way and the only way she is prepared to teach them or you may as well take your snotty bratt out of their classroom as they’re a waste of space and she couldn’t be arsed with pupils like that. What wonderfully rounded pupils Park High School for Girls turned out. Ruth? My late mother went to Park, pathologically jealous of the girls up the hill with their black hats with their black and silver bands in the days before the flood steam pressed into a cockade on the side of the hat. In my day they were put on with vicious staples that could dig into your head or your hand. Mine was always falling off. It lived, in a neat cone shap in the corner of my brief case dragged out and plonked on my hair in sight of school. Apparently I was one of the neater ones. If I forgot to take if off the chair in the morning room before I went to bed, Ruffy our Lakeland slept on it. It was a left over from Primary school at Dormie Ouse in Riversdale Road in West Kirby. Most remember the Dee lane emporium where they got off at the end of the line for a Sunday of pillaging and looting and trying to buy fag illegally in Ben Tottey’s Ice Cream Emporium. I clearly remember one such young gentlemen having got me to weigh out a 2oz bag of the stickiest most disgusting Lion sweets from their box, a box of Spanish – licquorice in Cheshire, and then started on the fags, can I have 20 JPS 38p, no B&H36p, no, something in a green and red pack , Players?34p, no, getting desperate no 10/ no, no 6 26.5p and then finally scraping the bottom Sovereign 19p? NO, why not? Because you’re not 16. They’re for my sister ? Really? She’s minding the baby on the beach. Well that’s 5p for the sweets and you can take those back mind the baby and your big sister can then come up and buy her own fags. The reply from the young gentleman? Stuff it up yerarse, as he legged it out of the emporium.
    I actually went white with shock, I was 17. Let’s hope that next time the revolving door of the establishment where he has no doubt worked for the Queen on a temporary basis many many times since that Sunday in 1973, finally welts him hard enough on his scraggy little arse to knock some sense into him. Working for the Queen is a local term for a stretch in HMP Walton, Indeed working for the Queen. It was the first time in my life I’d been told to stuff something up my arse. I was dressed for church, having been dropped off after Matins and picked up by the organist for Evensong. Ben Tottey liked girls either from West Kirby, preferable ex Guides, or from Birkenhead High. We could add up and speak properly for starters.
    In 1973 cigarettes were sold from licences premises only. Twice he’d refused to sell, and twice children had bought their cigarettes from the machine outside Absolam’s as you came out of the station, or in the shop, he didn’t care. The boys then smoked them in the little park, off Sandlea park on the benches. When caught by the police they swore black was white they they’d bought them in Totteys were taken into the shop where Ben Tottey could identify them as having tried to buy cigarettes under age, the police believed the little oiks and he was fined. Twice. Three times and you lost the designation of being a licenced tobacconist. Absalom also sold beach balls, postcards but not home made ice cream; During the war and just before with his like minded friends he was an active member of the British Communist Part as were my former husband’s parents and his uncle. By the 70s he wanted to keep it quiet. I was horrified. It was too late, I’d wanted to try and work at BNFL in either Freckleton or Preston, or Aerospace at Warton; I could give my father’s details with pride, my mother rode on his coat-tails. But any government or state enterprise was automatically closed to me as my then husband’s wife. Even now his diffamatory remarks put my life in danger. I’ve just been admitted to hospital with hypothermia. If your thyroid fails you get colder and colder until you go into a coma and die; Last summer the production of my tablets was contaminated. There’s only 1 company and 1 factory in the whole of France. To avoid a massive share price crash, the Cynomel contamination in the Sanofi factory has never been made public knowledge. They could have bounced it back by stating publicly that there was a problem it was probably due to a machine, but it was the 2 month holidays and they had enough stocks for those already prescribed the drug by their endocrinologist as is my case since 2012. In 2017 my alcholic ex husband kindly took me to A+E telling me I was right and I was suffering from vertigo. He then kindly defamed me at a+e reception telling them I’d made 5 or 6 suicide attempts andthat I took Levothyrox; I have tried and tried to get these diffamatory remarks removed from my dossier. .

    They won’t even read my carte vitale. I have the DMP which means that my medical records are available to any permitted person. Will they read them? No? Why not? It would mean that they would have to admit legally that they were in the wrong? Will they? Hell no. They’d rather give a medecine that they know will put me in a coma – the paramedics had diagnosed hypothermia 3 times without it being treated. In my 8 days in the tender care of the hospital they told me every day that my temperature was fine at 35°C or even 36°C with a gun fired at my forehead some 45 minutes after I’d taken it lying down on waking. The highest reading I had in the 7 days was 34.6

    So, I decided to ring my GP and arrange my discharge PDQ, I’d had enough. Nutritional requirements on my admission ignorred. Either told that it would be transferred or that they didn’t have time to read the dossier. Either way they couldn’t give a flying one whether I live or die, and I can’t raise up much of a sweat about their long term health prospects either. I’m not going to see them so doesn’t matter. In 2012, after 8 years on IB due to uncontrollable squitters, a lovely doctor, Dr Peugnet was most concerned when carrying out a medical for the DWP. He put his pen down, regarded me so kindly and asked what investigations had been done. I was gobsmacked and didn’t know what to say. Both Toft Road Knutsford and Perpezac le Noir, and Asos, the last one in France the worst, just scribbled anxiety and depression, when I mumbled faecal incontinence. The good doctor did of course listen to my chest – one of the perks of the job, asking me to sit on the table in full view of the road, no blinds and either no tshirt or no bra depending on his mood. Every time he did this it was clearly visible on which side he dressed due to his very visible and obvious nascent erection. He does it to 15 year old girls, too, all my daughter’s friends. I was bollocked by one of the other GPs for talking about such things and then in the blink of an eye commended for protecting her. She told all her friends at the college say 40 girls that the revolting perv does it to her mother. Without ever asking me first. I feel sick, thinking how many times it’s happened over the years since 2006. And to how many it is still happening to. There are hundreds and thousands of doctors not fit for purpose in both the UK and France and their capacity to destroy lives is frightening. My endocrinologist is seriously worried. She used to be the head of the service at CH Limoges, the University Hospital in the region, where 90% of the GPs go to university. Where they are trained in endocrinology. To her and to me looking at my blood tests over the last 16 years it’s blatantly that as the T4 went up so did my blood T4 and the TSH went down, it’s a biofeedback mechanism. There is not a single endocrinologist in Brive or A+E doctor prepared to take Free and Combined T3 and spot that I cannot convert T4 to T3 the active form of the drug. Hence the hypothermia, the loss of consciousness. Every single endocrinologist in CH Brive, GPs in Perpezac have all stated that it’s as clear as day that I should be on T4 alone, the T3 dropped and that I’m being overtreated. I f that is really the case, when I felt so ill on just T4 in 2012 I stopped taking my tablets, having protested in tears that I just didn”t feel right. She was very sorry, but she just couldn’t do any more without putting her licence to practice at risk. So I said OK. She’s a brilliant and compassionate woman. She helps thousands of diabetics. I stopped taking all my tablets, there isn’t any point in taking tablets when you feel crap. I felt just the same. So, gentlemen of the Ordre of Medecins, the Ordre of Endocrinologists, Somatic specialists at CH Brive, please explain why, that without any treatment at all for 6 months in 2012, not only did I put on 10kg while eating nothing, but when a TFT panel was done my TSH is 17.5???????? Yes 17.5? It’s apparently a dodgy result. I then resumed all medecin for admission to an obesity clinic. No palpitations, nothing. Zilch. I did have them once in the UK. 3 bottles of little white pills all looking the same. Took 2 x 100 instead 100 + 50. Never ever again. I’d rather drift of in hypothermia. It’s better. The doctor when I asked her how I told her the difference between adrenline due to not being treated and pushing my body, and overtreatment, said she was sorry, but I’d have to learn that for myself. I have, but not one single illegitimate son of Onan within a 100 mile radius believes me. Except for a select group of truckers and a restaurant owner or 2 or a clairvoyant. I’ve even been thrown out of the UK by a lovely caring GP in Minster on Sea at the hospital /health centre. He finally deigned to see me. He declined to give me any treatment for hypothermia, he said he couldn’t help me. I’d been on a mercy dash to my uncle diagnosed with shingles and prostate cancer at the same time. The shingles were so long untreated properly – he doesn’t like doctors either – that he needed urgent treatment for necrotising fascitis, and was supposed to be taking oramorph. He wasn’t taking it properly, so they abadoned him. I went to the pharmacy for him, and they had non in stock; They just laughed; He was 90, the last surviving member of 51sqdn Bomber Command, their First Officer. He doesn’t want people to know, he’s ashamed. Why? Bomber Harris would never in a million years have launched an action like that without a direct order. It would have been treason. Churchill after 1945, wanted to win the next election. There were suddenly concerns about the blanket bombing of Dresden and the lives lost. Never much thought spared for the fire storm in Coventry and the lives lost there. The only way to deal with an uncontrollable bully, is to march into his or her corner and while you have the element of surprise smack both harder and faster and dirtier. I once tried to take my employer to a tribunel for screaming obscenities in my face, got thrown out by 1 day as being out of time. Mr John was very concerned, apparently. His pet stoolie Linda lied on oath like a trooper, but it wasn’t a serious sin, half a Hail Mary and thinking about the next Our Father in 10 years or so.
    I’d like to ask a question of a Mr Darren Goorwappa late of the Littlewoods organisation; I hope he’s keeping well and that he can remember the internal audit Christmas Lunch held at the Albert Dock. We were all having coffee staying away from the Director Neil Fletcher FCA ex Marks apparently, and toadies like Nigel Woodcock, probably the next audit director, Tony Cearns the spitting image of Willie Carson, also FCA and a kindred spirit of Nigel as a fellow vest wearer. Darren started a game, Paul Lounds was there too, he was an upright computer auditor and expressed the opinion in the audit office that I didn’t and still don’t understand. He was talking about the Y2K project and the TLO IT director, who’s name escapes me except I think he drove a TVR; Paul ? when tamking about him you said very clearly ” I’d like to twat him” What does that mean???l The last time I heard a remark like that was in the audit room at Kidson’s Impey and it was said as I’d twat him by someone called Bob whose Mother was Spanish, so it didn’t make sense then either.
    Simarly his little friend Darren at the said Christmas lunch held in work time, and over coffee before we went back started a brief game of truth or dare. Good fun if done properly, the Lord loves a tryer and he was certainly a tryer as his wife Tina will no doubt testify. I still don’t really understand the question. I opted for truth, I can’t lie to save my life. Darren’s question was this – Meridel, do you like taking it up the arse?? Darren I must apologise for not giving you a truthful answer, I just blushed rushed off to the loo in shame and confusion. You and your little friend Paul went off to be little boys together doing some pathetic 7 year old willy waving dance in the Gentlemen’s, sorry little boys’ toilets. The truth Darren? Each and every time during my 40 year marriage when I was pathetically that my husband wanted to rape me I stupidly let him continue to call it making love, but i’m old fashioned like that. I abhor sodomie. Why? There wasn’t one single time in the whole of 40 years of that miserable abusive marriage that my lawful wedded husband when he shoved his erection between my legs to rape me, that I had to take action into my own hands not to be sodomised or buggered or anally raped. At least vaginally is better, marginally. Except it isn’t. I bet you wouldn’t know. But I wonder what Tina Davies would say, when you first married her you didn”t even have the balls to use your own name. At least Goorwappa is easy to spell, auoting the writers of Steptoe, You miserable little shite hawk; But I suppose you’re a great big fat man-spreading gobshite now aren’t you? Working for a charity for the abused. Talk about taking your hobbies to work……………………………

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