Part 11 - Pushing My Luck: Back in the Green Art Deco Control Room

In this blog and ongoing series, you can follow Abandoned Nordic's urbex road trip as we journey from Finland to France along an extended route. The trip will take about a month. We’re currently in Budapest, Hungary, and here I am - crazy enough to go back to the Special K power plant.

Once you’ve managed to get in and out successfully, is it worth risking it all over again? If the place is good enough, if something was left undone the first time and the chance presents itself - I’d say yes. Especially when we’re talking about this place.

That’s why I woke up around three this morning, conveniently within walking distance of the site. Kimmo got up too; he’s here to help me get over the fence. Because of his job, he can’t come with me - getting caught inside an active power plant could put his work at risk. I’m a bit more reckless about these things myself; as far as I’m concerned, everything after “making it out alive” is just a bonus.

The place is known in urbex circles as Special K. I was here last May and even wrote about it on my blog. Kata and I explored it together, and the experience was unforgettable - truly in a league of its own.

Now that we’re in Budapest, a stop on our European road trip, I couldn’t resist going back - this time alone. Shooting with someone else in the same space always complicates things. It limits your angles, your pace, your focus. But now, I have the freedom to be exactly how I want, to move without compromise. Reflecting on my last visit, I realized my usual flaw: being too selective. It narrowed my shots, left gaps, made me miss something essential. So, I’m here to fix that too.

Of course, there’s no guarantee I’ll get in. And no guarantee I won’t get caught before I’ve even taken a photo. But if everything goes as planned, I’ll leave today feeling like I’ve captured everything I need - unless, of course, I just want to come back for fun.

In the dim morning light, we approach the spot where I’ll climb over the fence. No one’s around. Good. We find the familiar place from last time. I scale the fence and pause at the top, balancing as Kimmo hands me my tripod. The fence is tall, its metal mesh shaped like diamonds, offering only the tiniest footholds for the tips of my shoes. As I grab the tripod and shift it to my hip, my feet suddenly slip. It happens fast- I’m left dangling with one hand before falling backward off the fence.

Luckily, I land well. A few large rocks miss me entirely, and I’m not hurt. But my pride takes a hit. Within a split second, I’m back on my feet, brushing off the dust, and calling out to Kimmo in English, “All good, I’m fine!” No idea why I defaulted to English- nerves, maybe? Probably. Once I reset my brain, I wave to Kimmo and disappear into the bushes. He heads back to the hotel, staying on standby in case I need him.

Everything feels wonderfully familiar. I hurry across the yard, partially exposed to the active part of the plant, and slip through a small window into the abandoned section of the factory. The path to the control room is etched into my memory now, and I move faster than I did last time.

And then - I’m there. Oily, dusty, breathless. Standing alone in the control room.

It feels just as electrifying as the first time - this place is incredible. The light is strange, seeping through a massive ceiling window, casting sharp contrasts and eerie shadows. Maybe it’s the light. Or maybe it’s the ghosts of the past - I don’t know.

Being alone amplifies everything. My senses are sharper. Every creak, every echo feels louder. With no conversation to distract me, I’m hyper-aware of my surroundings. A faint hum from somewhere deep within the building reminds me the power plant is still alive. I don’t know how close the active areas are, and I’m not about to find out. I stick to the familiar paths the ones I know lead me back to safety.

I’m almost certain there are hidden cameras here. Someone, somewhere, is probably watching. The plant operators must know this place attracts photographers; installing cameras would be easy. But would they bother chasing us out unless we tried accessing the active zones? Probably not. That’s what I’m banking on - that in the early hours of the morning, there aren’t enough guards to care.

Of course, this is all just guesswork. I don’t know any of it for sure.

My favourite shot from there

I start shooting - that’s why I’m here. That odd, bunker-like booth in the middle of the room, with its half-meter-thick walls and hollow, echoing interior, must have been a safety shelter for staff in case of an explosion or catastrophic fire. Ironically, it’s also the reason my photos from the first visit fell flat. Subconsciously - or maybe even consciously - I avoided photographing it.

Not this time.

Now, I confront it head-on, framing it perfectly beneath the sprawling, dramatic ceiling. Last time, Kata and I stuck to opposite corners, each absorbed in our own process. That one precious hour we spent there flew by. Toward the end, we tried taking turns leaving the space to capture solo shots, but ten minutes alone isn’t much - not when you’re trying to feel a place.

Looking back, the best photos weren’t the wide shots of the room. They were the close-ups - the intimate details of rusted gauges, peeling paint, walls etched with time. The kind of shots most photographers overlook. Those felt the most personal, the most mine. Still, the goal is always the same: capture as much variety as possible. Mistakes only reveal themselves later, in hindsight. And every time I’ve returned to a location, the second round of photos has far outshone the first - especially in places like this, where weather doesn’t matter. All you need is light. And right now, as dawn breaks, the light is perfect.

Even though I want great photos, what I crave even more is the experience itself. That’s why I pause, let my camera hang at my side, and simply exist in the space. I look beyond the lens, breathing in the silence, the dust, the history embedded in the walls.

In these rare moments of presence, I often think about how fleeting they are—how this one hour is just a blip compared to all the meaningless hours we waste. And yet, here I am. Fully alive. Grateful. I am here, right now.

For some reason, this place is the one I retreat to in my mind whenever I need an escape.

Eventually, exhaustion sets in. I’ve taken all I can. It’s time to leave.

I descend the control room stairs into the dark, flicking on my flashlight. I retrace my steps - through narrow corridors, over piles of scrap metal, crawling through low spaces, sliding down ladders - until I reach the small window where it all began.

Outside, it’s broad daylight now. The window leaves me exposed, so I slip through quickly, heart racing. Only when I’ve climbed back over the fence do I allow myself to breathe, to reflect.

I did it. Again.