I’d seen the petite, brick warehouse many times, nestled between the traditional green-grocers and terraced housing, in the gaze of it’s contemporary neighbour; Wickes. The building has obviously been there some time and I’ve always been intrigued to know what’s behind the door. I’d heard they are engineers.

It’s Saturday morning when I head out. I haven’t made an appointment. I don’t even have a phone number for them. I take a chance they’ll be working today and walk over the canal bridge and down the hill to Stirchley.

When I arrive I’m not quite sure where the entrance is. There’s a narrow, muddy path to the side of the building that runs behind the adjacent shops on the main high street. I’m looking for a sign-posted public entrance. There isn’t one down here. I re-trace my steps back to Ashtree Road, to see a small window-like hatch in the green warehouse wall. Like the entrance you might get at a garage when the metal shutters are down to the public. But this door is made of wood, and the padlock is open.

I rap on the door twice, to no answer and then push it gently inwards. It clicks open. I step over the wooden frame and gaze out in front to me. The room is dark, filled with old looking machinery, and tools hung on the wall. Two faces look out at me. I call out ‘Hi’. ‘Hi’ they respond. ‘Can I come in?’ ‘Yes, come in’. What I love about Birmingham, the Midlands even, is how friendly people are. The door always seems to be open.

I read their faces. Friendly, but a little intrigued to see why a 5ft 3inch woman with a camera bag has just arrived through their door. In his mannerisms John stands out to be the boss. I shake his oil-blackened hand. Pulling across the blue spring-like hose suspended from the ceiling, he describes how they primarily make compressor valves, the sort you may use to spray air in to tyres.

For the next 90 minutes, I’m given free reign to photograph John and Narinder as they focus on their work, stopping only to give me the odd explanation, before peering back in to machines with cogs and clamps, or dated looking digital controls and moving parts. This work takes a lot of concentration, boring precision holes and shaping small metal parts to the nth millimetre. I’m told not to stand in front of the steel, rotating wheel on the main machine, from which tiny, metal shavings dance in to the air fleetingly before dropping to the floor. I get as close as is safely possible with my 50mm, non-zoom lens.

Towards the back corner of the room is a solid looking, stand-alone heater, it’s tubes glowing red to heat the whole space. Narinder has a colourful, striped scarf wrapped tighly in the space where his blue, buttoned work coat doesn’t quite cover his neck. On his head is a neat, black turban. I keep my coat on too. It’s cold.

Next to the drill where Narinder is working, I notice an old work-bench butted-up in one corner, strewn with drill bits and a table top cabinet with protruding, shallow wooden drawers. It’s a relic of the past, overlooked by the clock keeping time above. There’s so much to look at here, but it’s noon and I’ve done enough for today. Their customer has arrived and it’s my cue to give them some space. Saturday is a half-day and they’ll soon be heading home to enjoy their weekends.

Before I go, John tells me enthusiastically about Haydn, the gun maker in the workshop above. He uses even older, machinery than I’ve experienced here today, passed down from his grandfather and through generations. I’m told he’ll be back in on Monday from 10am to 4pm, and well worth the visit. Apparently it’s a real gem.