Explore a ghost village on Salisbury Plain through time travel.

Every year, the Routemaster fleet tours a WWII ghost town within an army training zone.

In an annual tradition, a convoy of London buses embarks on a journey across Salisbury Plain, tracing map markings in red ink. Leading this expedition is Peter Hendy, also known as Lord Hendy and the head of Network Rail. His passion for vintage Routemasters, owning two himself, propels this yearly excursion to Imber, a deserted village.

His voice resonates over the engine’s roar, likening the bus ride to a North Pole expedition. However, there’s a catch. The ride lasts a mere 25 minutes from Warminster, requiring entry into the Salisbury Plain training area, typically inaccessible to civilians. Tanks, once targets, now lay by the roadside, overrun by ivy and inhabited by crows. Signs warn against straying due to ‘unexploded military debris,’ creating an ambiance reminiscent of ‘Summer Holiday’ meets ‘A Bridge Too Far.’

The training area sprawls across Wiltshire’s vast expanse, juxtaposing peace and martial elements. Amidst live firing practices and decades of large-caliber rounds fired, over half the area holds the status of a special scientific site, home to ancient landmarks, soldiers, stone-curlews, and standing stones.

Our destination, Imber, bore the scars of war. Once dubbed England’s loneliest village due to its isolation, it inspired a rhyme: ‘Little Imber on the down, Seven miles from any town.’ Evacuated during World War II and left desolate, the village remained abandoned for nearly 80 years, a spectral settlement, a shell of its former self.

Vintage photographs depict a picturesque village, but disembarking the bus reveals a stark contrast. The thatched cottages and flourishing gardens are gone. Only hollow shells like the Bell Inn remain. The sole intact structure is the 13th-century St. Giles church, hosting visitors for a day. Within, volunteers offer refreshments while bees buzz in the churchyard.

The church holds mystery. A faded medieval mural depicts demons tormenting a sinner. The tower, off-limits to the public, hides secrets of its own. Guided by Neil Skelton, we ascend the narrow staircase to a rooftop view. In place of Imber, a mock village of concrete houses now serves military urban warfare training. The church, once the heart of the community, stands deserted.

In the churchyard, a small assembly surrounds Albert Nash’s grave, recounting his story. The blacksmith, unable to leave Imber, passed away in 1944, allegedly due to a broken heart. Adjacent lies Kelvin Nash, tending to his father’s grave. Raymond Nash, laid to rest here in 1936, marks the church’s last funeral service. His son, Kelvin, honors his father’s wish to rest beside his own father.

The churchyard, once tranquil, is now a hub of activity. Picnickers gather around gravestones, creating an unconventional scene. John Williams, one of Imber’s last residents, holds onto memories as the village fades into history. His mother, the schoolmistress, suffered greatly from the forced evacuation, spending her final days in what he terms an ‘asylum.’

As the afternoon progresses, I leave the churchyard, departing from a place where the past and present converge, boarding the bus back to Warminster, leaving Imber to its history once more.