New Haven's English Station

 

I have a thing for industrial ruins. Smokestacks, turbine halls, boiler rooms with ceilings high enough to swallow a cathedral. Something about these places pulls at me. So when I first stumbled across English Station, a coal-fired power plant squatting on Ball Island in the Mill River between Fair Haven and Wooster Square, I felt that familiar tug in my chest.

It started with a set of old photos from 2012, posted by someone who had slipped inside years before the place became a pilgrimage site for urban explorers. The images stopped me cold. Barrels lined the floors in long, quiet rows. The exterior loomed like a fortress slowly losing a war with time. And then there was the shot that really got me: two men standing on the roof of the structure, grinning wide, the whole New Haven skyline stretching out behind them like a reward for the climb.

I wanted in.

Within seconds, I had Google Street View open in another tab, scanning for an approach. What I found cooled my enthusiasm fast. The front gate bristled with coils of barbed wire along the top, and below that, someone had bolted together a patchwork wall of galvanized steel sheeting, crude but effective, clearly designed with one purpose: keeping people like me on the outside.

There was, I noticed, another way. But "another way" is generous language for what amounted to scaling a narrow stretch where one bad grip, one slipped foot, would send you plunging into the cold Mill River. The water below sat still and green-tinged, the kind of murky surface that doesn't invite you to test its depth.

I'm stubborn, but I'm not reckless. I dropped a location pin in my MyMaps, bookmarked the massive plant in my mental filing cabinet, and moved on. Connecticut is full of quieter, more cooperative ruins, places that don't demand you gamble your ankles or your dignity just to get through the door. Over the years, I explored dozens of them. But English Station never quite left my mind. The best ones never do.

Then one day, J messaged me with surprising news.

Someone had deftly cut a hole in the fence line. A clean opening, deliberate, the kind of gift that urban explorers leave for one another like a secret handshake. No death-defying scramble over the river required. I could hardly believe it.

We drove up to confirm, and there it was. A fresh gap in the chain link, just wide enough for a person to slip through sideways. We didn't go in right away. Instead, we sat in the car and watched. We waited for the foot traffic to thin, for the last few vehicles to clear the road, for that window of stillness that every trespasser learns to recognize by feel. Then we moved.

J went first. He was halfway through the gap when the rolled concertina wire snagged his pant leg and bit into his calf. He hissed, pulled free, and kept walking. A thin line of red bloomed on his calf. He waved it off. We had bigger things ahead of us.

The sun was brutal that afternoon, pressing down on us like a weight as we crossed the open ground. Then we reached the entrance, and I stopped. Above the doorway, gold lettering spelled out the name of the former power plant in a marquee that still carried a faint sense of ceremony. Whatever English Station had become, it once wanted visitors to know they were arriving somewhere important.

We stepped inside and immediately found evidence of the cleanup crews who had worked the site before remediation and partial interior demolition had stalled. The long-closed Station B building had already been demolished. It was the leftover decontamination materials from that previous work that sat scattered near the entrance like the remnants of an abandoned camp. But the real scale of the place didn't hit until we entered the turbine hall. You can see old original photographs of the turbine hall in its full glory in this WTNH News8 news segment below if you are interested. 

The turbine hall has been like this since 2012.

The room stretched longer than a football field. Its raw, open length ran the entire remaining spine of Ball Island, and standing at one end, you could barely make out the far wall through the haze of dust and heat. The ceiling rose high enough to make your voice feel small. This was not a room designed for people. It was designed for turbines, and the turbines had been enormous.

On the ground floor, we moved slowly past induction conductors and heavy equipment, working our way toward the remaining turbine platform. One turbine had already been pulled, reclaimed for its considerable scrap value. The second sat partially disassembled, its innards exposed, a clear plastic sheet draped over the picked-apart carcass like a surgeon had stepped away mid-operation and never come back. The others had already been decommissioned and their concrete platform removed. 

To the right of the platform, a secondary area opened up into a maze of oversized metal pipes and catwalk grating that crisscrossed above our heads. We spent a long time in there, craning our necks, photographing everything, until the heat caught up with us. Slowing us down before we took a quiet refreshment break before moving on.  

The next level revealed the plant's circulatory system. Pipes ran everywhere, branching and converging in patterns that seemed chaotic until you studied them long enough to see the logic. Clustered among them stood large cone-shaped cylindrical tanks, which I took to be fuel oil storage. Despite the name and the coal conveyors we would find later, fuel oil had been the secondary energy source here. Coal served as the primary energy source for decades. 

The coal conveyor system manufactured by Robins Conveying Belt Company resided at the top of the building.

One of my top five photos I took here. 

The brickwork on the roof was craftsmanship, but I did not get close-ups. Hopefully, I get to see it one more time. 😏

Those coal conveyors were something to see. The main belt system, manufactured by the Robins Conveying Belt Company, ran in parallel lines with a long catwalk built right down the middle between them. You could walk the full length and imagine the noise this place once made, the grinding and rumbling of thousands of tons of coal moving through the guts of the building.

When we finally pushed through to the rooftop, the reward was immediate. A massive tunnel system fed directly into the smokestacks, the arterial network where steam, heat, and airborne particulates had once been funneled upward and released into the sky above Fair Haven and Wooster Square. Standing next to those tunnels, you could feel the engineering ambition of the thing. This plant had not been modest.

But what caught me off guard was the brickwork. Up here, far from public view, in a place likely seen only by the workers who maintained the stacks, someone had taken the time to lay an intricate decorative pattern into the masonry. Between sections of deep red brick, gold or brass-colored lightning bolts had been embedded into the design, catching the afternoon light. It was the kind of craftsmanship that nobody would ever notice from the street. It existed purely because someone had cared enough to put it there.

We stood at the base of the smokestacks and looked up. They were climbable, technically. But we had already been baking in the heat for hours, and the prospect of hauling ourselves up those ladders felt less like adventure and more like punishment. We let them go.

The control room.

Views from the control room nerve center.

We were nearly at the exit, ready to call it a day, when it hit us at the same moment. We hadn't found the control room.

We doubled back to the entrance and noticed a staircase we had walked right past on our way in. It led up to a corridor where the air felt heavier, older somehow. At the end of it, we found what we were looking for.

The control room sat buried under decades of dust. Metal panels lined the walls, their gauges and switches frozen in place, rusted into a permanent silence. This had been the central brain of the operation, the room where someone once monitored every boiler, every turbine, every kilowatt leaving the building. Now it just stood there, dark and still.

J wandered into a small office tucked behind the main room and called me over. The space was packed floor to nearly ceiling with waterlogged documents. Business paperwork had fused in damp clumps. Design schematics curled at the edges. Telephone book-sized equipment manuals sat swollen with moisture and speckled with mold. An entire administrative life, left behind as if it didn't matter anymore.

We made our way back through the gap in the fence as the sun finally began to ease off. My legs ached. My shirt was soaked through. J's shin had dried to a dark scab.

We hadn't seen everything. We both knew that. Whole sections of the plant, catwalks we had skipped, rooms we had glanced into and passed by, remained unexplored. Before we reached the car, we had already made the promise out loud: we would come back. English Station had earned a second visit.

We came back. Of course, we came back.

The second visit revealed layers of the plant we had barely glimpsed the first time. More of that massive metal piping, some of it wide enough to crawl through, running vertically between floors, bending horizontally through walls, snaking around corners, and through ceilings in every direction. Huge cylindrical containers jutted up from lower levels and punched through to upper ones, connecting the floors like a vascular system built for a giant. The sheer volume of pipe work was staggering. Engineers had designed and fitted every inch of it with purpose, each bend calculated, each joint welded to spec. Standing in the middle of it, surrounded by silent metal that once carried steam and fuel and pressure, I kept thinking the same thing: what I would give to see this place running. To hear it. To feel the floors vibrate under a full load.

Even after two full visits, we hadn't covered every square inch. Not even close. English Station was simply too big, too dense with infrastructure, too layered with catwalks and side rooms and mechanical bays to absorb in a couple of afternoon trips. We figured it would take at least a few more to do the place justice.

We never got the chance.

Somewhere between our second visit and our plans for a third, the secret got out. A handful of social media posts, the kind that rack up likes and shares and inevitably draw a crowd, brought a wave of new visitors to the site. Foot traffic spiked. The once-hidden entrance, the quiet gap in the fence that had felt like our private doorway, was discovered and sealed. And then came the police. A New Haven cruiser started parking at the driveway entrance with a regularity that made the message clear. The window had closed.

That was the end of it for us. Any plan to return would have meant walking straight into a confrontation with local law enforcement, and neither J nor I had any interest in that conversation.

Since then, the current owners have added another full layer of barbed wire fencing around the plant entrance. The perimeter that was already difficult has become genuinely formidable. English Station still stands out there on Ball Island, massive and quiet, its smokestacks visible from the surrounding neighborhoods. But getting inside now requires a level of determination, creativity, and physical effort that puts it beyond the reach of casual visitors.

The plant keeps its secrets a little tighter these days. And part of me respects that. Some places don't give themselves up easily, and English Station never really did. We just happened to catch it during a brief moment when the door cracked open, and we were smart enough to walk through. I'm glad we did. I only wish we had walked through one more time.

History

When the United Illuminating Company (UI) logo was displayed prominently on the building in 1974.
 Photo courtesy of Andy Blair

Long before anyone dreamed of building a power plant on this sliver of land in the Mill River, it belonged to a farmer named Allen Ball.

In 1641, Ball received the property through a deed from his brother-in-law. At the time, Ball was working for John Davenport, the religious leader and co-founder of the New Haven Colony, a man whose influence shaped the earliest contours of the settlement. The land that came into Ball's possession was not exactly a prize. It was low, wet, and prone to flooding. But it was his, and his name stuck to it. For nearly two centuries after that deed changed hands, Ball Island remained largely untouched. The constant flooding and mud made it impractical for farming or building, and so people simply stayed away.

It took until the 1830s for anyone to find a use for the place, and even then, the ambition was modest. For roughly three decades, from the 1830s through the 1860s, the island's primary contribution to New Haven's economy was grass. Workers harvested it from the marshy ground, and that was about the extent of human enterprise on Ball Island.

The 1860s brought the island's first real commercial purpose. L.W. Sperry Lumber Company, which operated adjacent to the site, took ownership and converted the land into a working lumber yard. Stacks of timber replaced the marsh grass, and for the first time, Ball Island had an industrial identity.

That identity would deepen considerably in 1890, when the New Haven Electric Light Company purchased the island from Sperry and constructed a masonry power house along Grand Avenue. It was a utilitarian building for a utilitarian purpose, but it marked a turning point. Ball Island was no longer a lumber yard. It was in the electricity business.

Four years later, in 1894, New Haven Electric erected a one-story brick building on the island at $7,000. The structure was simple, functional, and in keeping with the modest scale of electrical generation at the time. The company was still small, still local, still years away from the consolidation that would transform it.

After James English folded the New Haven operation into the newly formed United Illuminating Company in 1899, investment in the Ball Island site accelerated. In 1903, UI added a one-story addition to the existing facilities. Between 1910 and 1912, the architectural firm of Palmer and Townsend designed a further addition along with a boiler house and steam stacks. The plant was growing in pieces, one structure at a time, each expansion reflecting the rising demand for electricity across the region.

In 1914, architect H.R. Westcott drew up plans for an entirely new brick power station on the island. UI approved the project at $90,000. Over the next several years, from 1916 through 1921, the firm of Westcott and Mapes oversaw a series of additions, fireproofed the new station, and installed the heavy plant equipment that would allow it to generate at scale. By the early 1920s, Ball Island had been transformed from a single masonry power house into a genuine generating complex. But the most ambitious chapter was still ahead.

In 1927, contractors began laying the foundation for a new electric power station on the site. The cost of the foundation work alone ran to $150,500. What followed was a construction effort that would stretch across a full decade, from 1927 through 1937, as the massive English Station facility took shape on Ball Island. This was the building that would become the centerpiece of United Illuminating's New Haven operations, the towering structure with the turbine hall longer than a football field, the intricate brickwork on the roof, the gold-lettered marquee above the entrance. When it was finally complete, English Station was not just a power plant. It was a statement of permanence, built to last generations.

Alterations continued through the 1940s, with modifications to the power house between 1940 and 1947 keeping the facility current with evolving technology and wartime demand. For decades after that, the plant simply did what it was built to do. It burned fuel, spun turbines, and sent electricity out across the wire to homes and businesses from New Haven to Bridgeport. Then, in 1992, it stopped.

What followed the shutdown was a slow procession of ownership transfers, each one carrying its own set of promises and complications. From 2000 to 2009, Quinnipiac Energy held the property. From 2009 to 2019, it passed to Evergreen Power LLC and Asnat Realty. In 2019, the current owners took possession: Haven River Properties and Paramount View Millennium, the two entities now sitting across the negotiating table from the City of New Haven.

The property has traveled a remarkable path since Allen Ball accepted that deed in 1641. From muddy floodplain to grass harvest to lumber yard. From a modest masonry power house to one of the largest coal-fired generating stations in the region. From active industrial workhorse to sealed-off ruin.

If Mayor Elicker's administration gets its way, whether through a negotiated purchase or the blunt instrument of eminent domain, the city itself may become the next name on that chain of ownership.

To understand English Station, you have to go back more than a century, to a time when electricity itself was still a gamble.

In 1881, a small outfit called the New Haven Electric Lighting Company opened for business in New Haven, Connecticut. It did not thrive. Within two years, the company had faltered badly enough to require a full reorganization, reemerging in 1883 under the slightly revised name of the New Haven Electric Company. The change was more than cosmetic. Under its new structure, the company adopted the business model common among fledgling electrical firms of the era: selling annual contracts for individual lighting units, one customer at a time, one lamp at a time.

That approach didn't last long. The industry was evolving quickly, and the New Haven Electric Company evolved with it, shifting to system-based electrical service and aggressively courting businesses and institutions. Among its early clients was Yale College, a partnership that lent the young utility both revenue and credibility. Through the 1880s and 1890s, the company kept adding capacity, kept growing, and by the close of the century, its ambitions had outgrown the city limits of New Haven entirely.

The man who recognized that moment was James English.

English served as president of both the New Haven Electric Company and the Bridgeport Electric Light Company, based some twenty miles down the coast in Bridgeport. In 1899, he made his move. He merged the two firms under his leadership and scooped up several smaller utilities in the surrounding area: the Bridgeport Illuminating Company, the Stratford Gas and Electric Company, and the West Haven Power Company. The vehicle for this consolidation was a new entity, incorporated specifically for the purpose. He called it the United Illuminating Company.

The combined operation launched with $200,000 in capital, a management team drawn from the absorbed firms, and a board of directors that reflected the regional coalition English had assembled. It was a bet on scale, on the idea that a single utility serving two cities and their suburbs could outperform a patchwork of smaller competitors.

The bet paid off almost immediately. In its first year, United Illuminating posted revenues of $428,539 and profits of $36,515. By 1919, revenue had climbed to $3 million, with profits reaching $140,000. By 1930, those figures had swelled again to $8 million and $541,000 respectively. The company grew steadily within its New Haven-Bridgeport corridor, adding customers year after year, yet its leadership largely resisted the kind of massive, sprawling mergers that were reshaping utilities elsewhere in the country. United Illuminating preferred to deepen its roots rather than spread them thin.

What the company invested in was infrastructure. During the 1920s, United Illuminating undertook a sustained campaign to modernize and expand its power generation and distribution systems in both cities. Around 1920, it replaced one of its earliest generating stations on Grand Avenue in New Haven. In 1922, it built the notable Steel Point Power Station in Bridgeport. And then, in 1929, the company broke ground on its most ambitious project yet.

The new plant rose on Grand Avenue in New Haven, on Ball Island in the Mill River. It cost $3,250,000 to build, a staggering sum for the era, and when it was finished, the company named it after its founder. English Station was, in every sense, a monument. A monument to James English's original vision, to the utility he had assembled from spare parts thirty years earlier, and to the raw industrial confidence of the late 1920s. By 1930, bolstered by the new capacity that English Station and its sister plants provided, United Illuminating's customer base had grown to more than 116,000.

The company continued to expand through the 1940s and 1950s, riding the wave of postwar American consumerism. More improvements came to the New Haven and Bridgeport plants during the fifties, incremental upgrades to keep pace with suburban growth and the electrification of seemingly everything in the American home.

But the 1960s brought a philosophical shift. United Illuminating's management, long content to operate independently, began looking outward. In 1962, the company partnered with the Connecticut Yankee Atomic Power Company to build a nuclear plant at Haddam Neck, Connecticut. It was a significant departure, a regional utility placing its chips on a technology that promised abundant, clean power but demanded cooperation and shared investment on a scale the company had historically avoided.

The pattern continued. In 1971, United Illuminating joined the New England Power Pool, a cooperative arrangement for emergency generation and transmission sharing across the region. In the late 1970s, the company invested in a nuclear plant in Seabrook, New Hampshire. In the 1990s, it bought into the Millstone nuclear facility in Waterford, Connecticut. Alongside these nuclear commitments, the utility increased its investment in hydroelectric power.

Together, these moves accomplished something that would have been unthinkable in James English's day. They allowed United Illuminating to begin walking away from fossil fuels.

The plant that bore the founder's name had already begun its own quiet retreat years before the final shutdown.

English Station burned coal from the day it opened until 1960, when UI converted the facility to run on residual fuel oil. The switch reflected broader industry trends and tightening environmental expectations, but it also signaled something subtler: the plant was no longer the company's flagship. It was adapting, adjusting, making do.

The real demotion came in 1974. That year, United Illuminating built Harbor Station on the East Shore, a newer and more efficient facility that assumed the bulk of local generating duties. English Station was downgraded to a "peaking unit," a backup generator called into service only during periods of peak demand, those sweltering summer afternoons and bitter winter evenings when the grid strained under the weight of every air conditioner and space heater running at once. For a plant that had once powered tens of thousands of homes and businesses around the clock, it was the industrial equivalent of being benched.

By 1992, even that limited role had become too expensive to justify. United Illuminating placed English Station on "deactivated reserve," a clinical term for a simple reality: the plant was done. The turbines went still. The workers left. The doors closed. Sixty-three years after it first fired up, the building that had hummed through the Depression, through the Second World War, through the postwar boom and the energy crises of the 1970s, fell silent.

English Station might have slipped quietly into demolition and memory if not for a series of ownership transfers that turned the site into something closer to a legal and environmental quagmire.

In 2000, a Connecticut energy-restructuring act forced United Illuminating to divest its generating assets. The company transferred ownership of the defunct plant to Quinnipiac Energy, a transaction that cost UI $4.25 million. It was an unusual arrangement: paying someone to take a liability off your hands. But that is what English Station had become. Not an asset, but a problem with a price tag.

The property changed hands again when Evergreen Power LLC acquired it. Evergreen appeared to have a straightforward plan. The company hired Grant McKaye, an industrial demolition firm based in Utah, to knock the building down by early 2012. Wrecking crews would reduce the old station to rubble, the site would be cleared, and Ball Island would move on to whatever came next. Then the testing came back.

Workers discovered PCBs, polychlorinated biphenyls, in the oil that English Station had produced and stored over its decades of operation. PCBs are potent carcinogens, synthetic chemicals once widely used in electrical equipment and industrial applications before their dangers became undeniable. Their presence at the site changed everything. Demolition plans halted immediately. You cannot simply knock down a building saturated with cancer-causing compounds and let the dust settle over a residential neighborhood. The discovery triggered intense regulatory scrutiny of the plant itself, its soil, its structures, and the water surrounding Ball Island.

In an instant, English Station went from a demolition project to an environmental crisis. And the building that was supposed to be gone by 2012 kept standing, kept accumulating contamination concerns, and kept passing from one owner to the next. Evergreen Power eventually gave way to the current holders, Haven River Properties and Paramount View Millennium, who now face the City of New Haven across a negotiating table that grows more complicated with every passing year.

Today, United Illuminating remains a regionally focused utility, serving roughly 325,000 customers across the New Haven and Bridgeport metropolitan area. The company that James English built from a handful of struggling local outfits at the turn of the twentieth century is still here, still powering the same stretch of Connecticut coastline.

A Future Still Unwritten

English Station sits in limbo. It has for years. And the forces pulling at its fate are numerous enough, and contradictory enough, that no resolution has felt close.

On one side stands the Connecticut Attorney General's office, which has been pressing the site's current owners to clean up the property. The legal basis for that pressure stems from the terms of a merger agreement and a partial consent order, which set out specific remediation obligations. Those obligations, by most accounts, remain unfulfilled. The legal sword, as it were, has been drawn. Whether it falls with any real force is another question.

The complications run deeper than ownership disputes. English Station is not just an eyesore or an abandoned building. It is an environmental hazard. Decades of coal and oil-fired power generation left behind a legacy of contamination, hazardous chemicals embedded in the soil, the structures, and the very ground the plant sits on. Any serious plan for the site, whether demolition, renovation, or something in between, must first reckon with the length of time of cleanup efforts, the enormous cost, and the complexity of cleaning that up.

At the same time, the building is architecturally significant. The brickwork, the structural design, and the sheer physical presence of the place on Ball Island all give it a claim to landmark status that preservationists are reluctant to abandon. Politics, environmental science, and architectural heritage are all pulling in different directions, and for years, that tension has produced the most predictable outcome of all: nothing.

Mayor Justin Elicker has attempted to break the stalemate with a proposal that is ambitious by any measure. His administration envisions transforming the former power plant site into a revitalized open waterfront park, anchored by an educational aquatic center. It is the kind of project that sounds transformative on paper. Public green space on the water, community programming, a reclaimed industrial site reborn as something the neighborhood can actually use.

The city has taken the first formal step. Letters of interest went out to the two entities that currently hold the property, Paramount View Millennium LLC and Haven River Properties LLC, inviting them to enter "good faith negotiations" for the city to acquire the land. The phrasing was diplomatic, but the subtext carried weight. If negotiations fail, the city has signaled it is willing to pursue eminent domain, the legal authority to take private property for public use with compensation.

That word, compensation, is where things get complicated. The city and the current owners will need to agree on the property's value, no small feat when the land in question is simultaneously a prime waterfront parcel and a contaminated industrial site carrying significant remediation liabilities. Tax assessments, environmental consent orders, and the staggering cost of cleanup will all factor into a purchasing price that neither side is likely to accept easily. These are the kinds of negotiations that take years, consume legal budgets, and test the patience of everyone involved.

Meanwhile, the community watches. Residents of the Mill River district have lived in the shadow of English Station for decades, first as a working plant, then as a ruin, and now as a symbol of promises deferred. The frustration is real. People want to know whether something of genuine benefit will ever rise from this site, or whether it will simply pass from one set of owners to another, one mayor to the next, one plan to the next, while the building continues to stand unused.

The honest answer is that nobody knows. English Station has outlasted multiple mayoral administrations already, and there is no guarantee that the current vision will survive the next election cycle, let alone the grinding reality of environmental litigation and property negotiations. The park and aquatic center that Mayor Elicker describes could one day become a place where families walk along the Mill River, and children learn to swim through their city government programs. Or it could remain what it is now: a proposal, a rendering, a letter of interest filed alongside all the other letters that came before it.

Only time and the steady, often maddening machinery of local government will determine what becomes of the place that once powered tens of thousands of homes and businesses across the New Haven and Bridgeport metropolitan area. For now, English Station keeps standing. It keeps its lightning bolts hidden on the roof. And it keeps waiting for someone to finally decide what it gets to be next.

One of many forced draft fans located in the building.

If you have a connection to English Station, United Illuminating Company, or New Haven Electric Company, or have preserved a fragment of their history in your family's life, a photo, a video, a product, an employee badge, a redacted electricity bill, or an old advertisement—I would be honored to share your piece of the story here. These tangible memories and personal accounts are what truly animate the silent shells we see today; they give voice to the past in a way that maps, news articles, and corporate filings never can. Every image or recollection you share helps to fill the gaps, honoring the skill and community that once filled these now-quiet spaces. Please feel welcome to contribute, and know that you will be fully credited for helping to preserve this important chapter of our local heritage.

Source(s):

1. English Station Remediation. Avangrid.

2. Mortiz, J. & Turmelle, L. (2023, September 25). What to do with an abandoned CT power plant? Officials ponder future for New Haven's English Station. CT Insider.

3. Grace-Flood, N. (2023, May 3). English Station Mess Put Back In Spotlight. New Haven Independent.

4. Zaretsky, M. (2024, January 30). CT files lawsuit to compel UI to clean up old English Station site in New Haven. New Haven Register. 

5. United Illuminating Co., English Station. Connecticut Mills. 

6. Chedekel, L. (2013, April 11). State Orders Clean-Up Of English Station In New Haven. Connecticut Health I-Team.

7. Swetliz, I. (2012, December 20) Powered Down. The New Journal.

8. New Haven Building Archive. Yale.edu.

9. Zaretsky, M. (2025, July 28). New Haven hopes to buy old UI 'English Station' island, build 'Mill River Park'. New Haven Register. https://www.nhregister.com/news/article/new-haven-ct-ui-english-station-development-20789658.php

10. O’Leary, M. (2019, June 21). Portion of English Station in New Haven set for demolition. New Haven Register.     https://www.nhregister.com/news/article/Portion-of-English-Station-in-New-Haven-set-for-14029409.php

11. So, M. (2026, January 20) City officials show residents park plans for unused power plant site. Yale News. https://yaledailynews.com/articles/city-officials-show-residents-park-plans-for-unused-power-plant-site