Scotland's Secret Bunker

          ‘It may also have contained a secure store of cyanide for taking if, after three months of being sealed underground, there was nothing to come up for. Or, more realistically, if the inhabitants could not get out.’ 

          I listen to this grim piece of information inside the Armoury in Scotland’s Secret Bunker, a once secret Cold War installation that would have served as a Scottish governmental headquarters had a nuclear war broken out. It was completed in 1953 and remained in service for forty years. It is located beneath a flat stretch of land in Fife, a peninsula of farms and dreary towns between the Forth and Tay estuaries (or firths, as they are known here). 

Taken in isolation, the house beneath which it is situated looks rather mundane, although it does feature a very un-Scottish verandah. The air smells of dung and the only sounds come from the wind and the rattle of flagpoles. The surroundings, however, have the accoutrements of a high-security military base: there are fences topped with coiled barbed wire, armoured cars, a tank and a Soviet SAM-2 missile adorned with a red star and Russian inscription.

          I descend stairs that lead from the house to a long, cold tunnel bordered by twin red lines and white walls. A stream of incomprehensible chatter is piped in on speakers, creating a weird, almost paranoid atmosphere. Red blast doors have been opened at the end of the tunnel and I read that the bunker beyond is encased in ten feet of solid concrete, reinforced with tungsten. Doors open off a corridor inside the bunker.  

          Through one of these doors is the dormitory, a Spartan affair coloured a light yellow and featuring sixteen green framed bunk beds. Grey blankets have been tucked into the uninviting beds and the pillows are stained yellow with sweat. Bundles of bed linen wrapped in brown paper and white string sit upon the mattresses, while tall and narrow grey lockers stand against the walls. A night in here strikes me as a thoroughly unappealing prospect.  

Down a further set of stairs lies another corridor, off which can be found the aforementioned Armoury, a small room of grey walls and a wooden floor. It is a war lover’s wet dream: blue Vigilant anti-tank missiles marked ‘Drill’ have been placed near the door, and there is an assortment of machine guns and other firearms on display, including a Russian SKS assault rifle with attached bayonet and an antiquated Israeli Uzi. 

The bunker is fascinating. Perhaps not surprisingly, though, I also find my visit slightly unnerving. I’m very aware that I’m a hundred feet below ground, and the beeps of Morse code, air raid sirens and doomsday messages instructing people how to react in the event of a nuclear attack add to the sense of insecurity. The air is strange, too: the smell is like a combination of paint and dust, and it sticks at the back of your throat.

Before I leave I encounter one of the guides. Somehow we get on to international affairs and he expresses concern about the situation in Ukraine, as well as Chinese foreign policy. He tells me he saw a six lane motorway that terminated at China’s border with Nepal while in Tibet. ‘What’s it there for?’ he asks, rhetorically. It’s the first I’ve heard of it, but I don’t doubt him. In this place of unreality, just about anything seems possible.