History
Browne’s Folly Mine, nestled near Bathford in Somerset, England, stands as a captivating relic of the region’s rich quarrying heritage. This mine was once part of an extensive network dedicated to extracting Bath stone—a creamy, oolitic limestone highly prized during the 18th and 19th centuries for its workability and aesthetic appeal. This stone significantly contributed to the construction of Bath’s grand Georgian architecture, imparting the city with its characteristic golden hue that led to it attaining the status of "World Heritage City". Iconic structures such as the Royal Crescent and the Circus owe their splendor to materials sourced from quarries like Browne’s Folly.
In the 19th century, at the zenith of quarrying activity, workers carved an intricate labyrinth of tunnels into the hillsides, creating chambers and passages that formed the heart of the Bath stone industry providing stone for the entire nation. However, the 20th century brought a decline in demand due to the advent of cheaper building materials, leading to the gradual abandonment of quarries including Browne’s Folly. Nature began to reclaim these sites, transforming the mine into a haven for endangered species such as the greater horseshoe bat.
However the mine's story was not over yet, during World War II, the mine was revived and repurposed for military use along with many other Somerset quarries. Their natural subterranean environments offered
a safe location for the Ministry of Defence to store ammunition, weapons, and other military supplies away from the eyes of the German bombers, protected by metres of thick stone. After the war part of the Monkton Farleigh mine was used to house important records from the National Archives, due to it's stable temperature and humidity levels making it perfect for
Now the site is classed as a site of special scientific interest due to the endangered greater horseshoe bats that inhabit the cave.
Explore
Access to the mine was easy, though a bit muddy. Once inside, the tunnels opened up into expansive chambers, some spanning several meters in height, with walls that glistened in the light of our torches due to the abundance of crystal formations. Following the rusted tracks, we ventured deeper, surrounded by the faint echoes of dripping water and the occasional rustling of bats overhead. To navigate, we left glowsticks as markers, their soft glow piercing the pitch darkness to help guide us out (we made sure to pick them up on our way back). The mine was remarkably well-kept, with no rubbish and minimal graffiti, thanks to Brian, AKA the caretaker (unfortunately I've heard he is no longer maintaining the mine due to health reasons). We spent four hours exploring the expanse of the mine before finally rejoining society above and heading back to our Airbnb, where we huddled around the wood burner to warm back up from the chill of the mine.
Photos
Emerging into the mine
Wooden pillars supporting the mine ceilings
The old loading bay where stone was transported
The old loading bay where stone was transported
Close-up of the stunning crystal formations
What remains of a once-functional minecart
Memorial plaque honoring a fellow explorer
A dining table that was contructed in rememberance
Behind this wall lies the National Archives storage
An old trough now adorned with crystals
Historic stamp left by miners
A sealed entrance from the WW2 era
An area nicknamed “St Paul’s Cathedral” due to its grandeur, shape and height
Sections of the mine have succumbed to time
An old well deep within the mine
A rusted nail that underwent the test of time
Rusting remnants of rails
The power of a good torch
Final glimpse before heading out
Thanks for reading
Thanks for reading
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