LOWRY AND BARGOED

Visiting Bargoed always brings to mind the artist L. S. Lowry. He came to the South Wales valleys on several occasions and produced a number of works. He was brought by a friend who lived in the area. His painting of Bargoed is now in ‘The Lowry’ gallery in Salford.  

It depicts the town in a grey green evening light dominated by the coal tip to its south. Indeed, for those of us familiar with the place we recognise it as a tip because we know it was there, but now it has been removed and the area is now known as a country park - ‘Parc Coetir Bargod’ - translated as Bargoed’s woodland park. It’s not so much a woodland at the moment but has the look of an area of large shrubs and small trees that we have come to recognise as the flora that covers old tips. This particular tip painted by Lowry has a claim to fame in that it was the largest man made colliery tip in Europe.  At one time it stood as a testament to labours being undertaken underground but now landscaping has softened out and removed the monument and with it Bargoed’s claim to fame. Lowry’s painting also removes this knowledge of the spoils of industry and the view not of a ‘tip’ but simply a flat-top conical hill standing in a similar manner to the spiritual tor at Glastonbury.  Glastonbury being a location to which pilgrims came to pay homage as an important pagan and Christian site. The only pilgrimages that made it to Bargoed were to pay respect to King Coal. Only Wanderers and memory makers now cross the lines of reverence to the tip at Bargoed. 

Lowry’s view of the area suggests the way in which a human shaped spoil heap is also a part of a scenery devoid of the trappings of industrial creation. Lowry’s painting naturally forges the link between an industrial landscape, its underlying history and the ground on which it stands. He was able to see that in Wales there is a way in which nature is still larger than the havoc that men have inflicted upon us. Industry as undoubtedly scarred and altered the scenery but these intrusions into the natural habitat can be shaken off.

Lowry captures a feature always present in the valleys, town and country are one place; the boundaries between the two are everywhere and indeed defy definition as boundary. Lowry's other works on the valleys pick up this theme and point to the mystical past in a way that open land and human tenancy of that land are intertwined. His painting of ‘Hillside in Wales’, now in the Tate Britain Museum, places the valley houses as if they are a Celtic hill fort with terraces and earth mounds setting out a place of safety. 

In reading psychogeographers of Britain there is strong tendency towards Englishness. But the English identity is one that goes back only to the 11th Century, our Welsh identity goes back way beyond this to earlier tribes and inhabitants of these islands. In this painting, Lowry points to our ancient battles and struggles of this place which merge into the struggles and battles undertaken in order to survive and live well.  

Lowry was noted as being cynical about authority, an attitude which undoubtedly matched that of the local residents. The painting of Bargoed was at one time seen in the town when placed on exhibition in the library in the late 1980s. The myth developed, but some say it is true, that the police would remove the painting every night to ensure that it was not stolen. Whether Lowry would have approved of this we will never know but we can only wonder at what the thieves have really taken from Bargoed.

ABERFAN EXHIBITION

I saw the 'Exhibition - Photography' advertised on the Internet.

“Aberfan -  Remembrances Of A Photojournalist. A Digital Exhibition

In the week following the Aberfan Disaster of 1966, the young American photojournalist I.C. (Chuck) Rapoport set out on a journey from New York City to capture the aftermath for LIFE magazine.

Chuck arrived in Aberfan on 29th October, after most of the world’s press had already left and spent six weeks living in and observing the community. His iconic photographs record life in Aberfan during that period and are a remarkable and unique record of ‘The Days After’. Chuck’s original selection of photographs for ‘The Days After’ was shown in a major exhibition at The National Library of Wales in 2005, with a book of the same title.

This new, digital exhibition includes the original images plus many additional, previously unseen images, together with Chuck’s narrated story of his emotive recollections – ‘Six Weeks in a Community of Survivors’.”

There are two incidents in my life in which I can remember exactly where I was when I heard the news. The Aberfan and Hillsborough disasters. With Aberfan, through the vicissitudes of my life there is a way in which I have always been connected to it. I knew Rapoport's work as I bought the 2005 book. I was unable to see the exhibition in Aberystwyth but here was an opportunity of viewing the photographs. The advert explained, “Continuous daily showings in the Keir Hardie Room (no showing on 21^st October). The Keir Hardie Room is occasionally used for functions. If travelling, please contact REDHOUSE first to ensure that the Keir Hardie Room will be open to the general public during the time of your planned visit.” I did not question why the exhibition was not on display on the actual date of the 50th anniversary but dutifully I rang the Redhouse to ensure no competing functions and after some confusion about what I was referring to from the person on the phone I was assured that the exhibition would be open when I planned to visit.

The morning was grey and drizzly when I took the train to Merthyr and as we travelled alongside the Taff the mist obscured the scenes of the valley and I only knew we were near Aberfan when we stopped at Merthyr Vale station. At Merthyr Tydfil, I walked through the rain to the Redhouse, the art centre hosting the exhibition, once the town hall, an elaborate Victorian building of red brick. The entrance hall, as one would expect of a 1890s municipal building, is terracotta tiled floor and bright glazed tiles below a dado rail of more tiles. Opposite the entrance is a double staircase leading to the first storey with a stained-glass window greeting the visitor. 

I looked around for some signs indicating where the exhibition was and my lost demeanour attracted a member of staff who had the ever-present identity card hanging from his neck.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I'm looking for the photographic exhibition about Aberfan.”

“Oh, it’s not really an exhibition.,” he said somewhat ruefully. “There are some photographs on the board down the corridor but not many. What it is, is a DVD that we have on a TV in the room. There is someone looking at it now. It started about 10 min ago.”

I was clearly a bit bewildered.

“You can go in now or wait until it finishes and I'll start it again you.”

He led me upstairs to a small room above the entrance. Over its door was inscribed ‘Keir Hardie’

The room was no bigger than a sitting room in an ordinary house and there in the dim light I saw one man seated watching a large screen TV resting on a chair. I peered in and saw familiar images appear on the screen. In this darkened space I felt that to remain I would be intruding into someone else's grief and so I backed out.

  

observing grief

  we all await 

  our turn

I told the identity card man that I wanted to watch it from the beginning and I would come back. He nodded and apologised for the monitor being on a chair, explaining that they had another presentation somewhere else in the building and their posh display monitor on its stand was needed for that.

“Is the programme on a loop?”

“It is supposed to be,” he said, “but it just doesn't work. I have to come in and put it on and off when people want to come and watch.”

“So everyone has to request a viewing.” I commented. Again he nodded. After a pause, I asked him to point out where the photographs were.  He directed me to a downstairs corridor. At the corridor’s end somewhat squashed up into the corner was a folding display stands with six uncaptioned but again familiar Aberfan images on them. As I looked at them, people passed me and as an observer I was clearly in the way.

 I walked around the rest of the building. There was a yoga class in a room with black curtains; in another room two women were putting up a display encouraging over 60s to have flu vaccination; in the central room people were congregating for a meeting, all clutching their cups of coffee. There was a busyness in the building. I whiled away some minutes looking at the displays outlining the building’s history and I took some photographs. Around the walls were painted images of heroes of Welsh Labour history - so the red in the name referred to the colour of the building’s politics and not just the bricks.

I returned to Kier Hardie. The room now had its light on, but quietness and stillness remained. I sat for a while and nothing happened. I went to find the identity card man and on discovering him I asked him to start the DVD. He led the way telling me that sometimes there was a problem with the laptop computer starting, but hopefully, “fingers crossed”,  it would work for me. I settled into a chair as he fiddled with the electronics. Eventually the programme started and as it did, three other people filed into the room and sitting in the remaining chairs. The man put the light off and we sat in the darkened room listening to the American photographer describe how he took his images of Aberfan in the weeks following the tip slide. The words he spoke appeared on screen and were interspersed between his photographs. It was a sombre presentation that invoked a personal sense of grief and compassion for those who had suffered loss; people I had never met but with whom I felt a connection. The film ended and the screen went blank. The four of us just stood up and walked out. We did not look at each other and we said nothing; we had shared something but it seemed impossible to open a conversation. We were like mourners leaving a church or chapel after a funeral except there was no one to shake your hand as you left and no one to approach cautiously and say, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Afterwards in the café I sat quietly. I felt there was something just not respectful about the way the exhibition sat in the building and how I had watched it in small room on a telly balanced on a chair. There is always a poignancy in the way grief is positioned.

Returning on the train the weather had improved. As we approach Merthyr Vale I could see Aberfan across the valley and there stark amongst the natural contours and curves that shape the landscape and the higglety-piggletyness of the houses, stands the straight-line of the graves of the Memorial in the cemetery. It always stands out and it always will.

THE ABER VALLEY CYCLE TRACK. Penyrheol to Senghenydd

Here is a picture of my Auntie Bet probably taken at the end of the 1940s.

Penyrheol Station

She is standing at Penyrheol station, which is on the line from Senghenydd to Caerphilly known as the Aber branch.

Of course the line is no longer there. Passenger traffic was stopped in 1964. The station at Penyrheol is no longer there. If you don't know where to look, you just wouldn't know where the railway line was and where the platform stood. The only clue is in the name of the road ‘Station Terrace’. As you go towards B4263, it is on the right before you come to the roundabout. The road rises but there is not even a railway bridge to let you know that trains passed underneath. Here is a picture of the spot now - just a little bit wasteland leading to some industrial units.

 As you look towards Caerphilly you can see the hint of straightness left by the impression of the tracks.

On the left to where the station stood is the entrance to the Aber Valley Cycle Track which is the path for today’s journey. The track runs next the sound of the small river and as always with these ex-railway cycle tracks there are only a few reminders of what they were originally - the gate of a small level crossing. a bridge over the line and occasionally piles of limestone ballast.

After a mile or so, all uphill, is the remnants of Abertridwr station. I walk over the raised area of the platform and stand where the ticket office probably was. 

Abertridwr Station 

I find the entrance to the station and walk up a  side street. An old lady is waiting for a bus.

She smiles, “Are you taking photographs because your family came from round here?”

“Sort of.   Do you remember the station?”

“Yes of course. It was the only way we could travel then. No buses. Just scandalous that they closed it all.” She pauses. “Everything changes.” She looks back toward the valley side. “I live in that terrace over there. Out my back I could just look and see the mountain. But then they build houses and I tell you they're the worst looking houses in the world. Townhouses they call them. Ugly three-storey things. That's all I see out my back window now houses. Lost my view I have. But all told, it's a nice village to live in.”

I tell her about the little flowery china vase I found amongst my mother's possessions when she died. It had ‘A Present from Abertridwr’ written on the side in gold paint, just like the ones you see from Blackpool or Barry Island. “I know it's nice to give gifts but I can't imagine why they made something as a present from Abertridwr.”

She laughs at me. “Well, we did that sort of thing then. And I bet I know the shop that it was bought from. That shop sells kababby things now.” Another pause. “Everything changes.”

The bus comes and she tells me she's only going one stop, just to the square as it saves her legs and she has her bus pass.

I go back to the station and cycle just a few yards and go over a road and take a photograph of the Working Men's Institute. John Roberts known as ‘Jack Russia’, the Communist councillor and Spanish war veteran was the manager here, obviously not being a desirable employee for the coal owners after his activities.

Abertridwr Working Men's Institute

He too was a cyclist, but of a different order, as he cycled from Abertridwr to London in 1936 to support the Unemployment March.

From Abertridwr the cycle path seems to go in a variety of loops round the area that was Windsor Colliery. The area now flattened. There are some new houses and new school on part of the site.

I visit the memorial to those who died in the pit. It is a black round column and if you look closely at the top you can make out a model presumably of the pithead. To really see it you would have to be level perhaps on by standing on a ladder. In comparison to the images of miners and the names of those who died underground the model is small. The whole monument does imply that there was a top but the activity and the deaths were all underneath.

Windsor Colliery Memorial

The  cycle path goes past Senghenydd rugby club and comes to an end at what would have been the entrance to the station. The area is now used for houses and bungalows. The dwellings that form another ‘Station Terrace’ appear somewhat stranded.

As you leave the cycle path the bridge that would have been over the railway has printings in commemoration to the mining disasters of 1901 and 1915.

I cycle into Senghenydd Square, signified by the War Memorial which as always in these cases was erected by the great and good of the area long before the Memorial to those who died underground in pursuit of coal.

Senghenydd Square

In the cafe a man eating his jumbo breakfast says, “I see that you locked your bike to the War Memorial. You have to be careful around here.” I nod.

“Have you been to the mining Memorial yet?” he asks.

“Not today. Bacon sandwich and then home. Downhill now”

“Like everything else around here.”

We laugh together.

ABERPERGWM HOUSE

I have the idea that I will follow the route of the Neath Valley Railway and a description of it on the Internet makes mention of the ruined Aberpergwm House at Glynneath.

This house, in various transformations, had been in existence since the early 1500’s. It has been long owned by the Williams family. During WWII it was occupied by a school of evacuated deaf children from East Anglia, who, lacking amenities in the house, had to shower in the nearby pithead baths. It was then leased as offices to the NCB, destroyed by fire, but not rebuilt. A house with an interesting history.

I drive up to Glynneath, leaving early in the morning and planning to have a latish breakfast somewhere. I had to work out from Google where this ruined building was - through Glynneath and to the right, going North. A public road was clearly once the entrance to a large estate, as on either side were large pillars which would have held a large gate. A little way up the road is a church called St Cadoc’s, it has a small cemetery and attached to it is a walled plot with several graves with the name Williams. The cemetery of the landowners, in the church of the estate.

To get to what looks like the building I seek, I have to carry on past some council houses probably now in private ownership.  Just beyond the houses are big wrought iron gates with a new lock, which certainly prevents entry by anyone other than the owner of the key.

I can make out the ruins of Aberpergwm House, mostly only bit and pieces of old wall, breeze blocks in what would have been windows and a piece of graffiti referencing a ‘Martin’. In front of the remains are a few corrugated iron shelters for pigs, but I can only see one, a black body with a wide pink stripe across the shoulder - a  saddleback. This is the antithesis of a visit to a National Trust great house. There is no entrance fee indeed no way to enter. No Capability Brown landscaped garden only the muddy ground and tall evergreens hiding the opencast works beyond the house. 

The ruins no longer even constitute a ‘shell’, certainly no tea rooms or ‘exit via the gift shop’. Only the boundaries, the fence, the gate and the drive define what would have been a substantial and historic house. Everything else is gone or almost gone. Even the ghosts of the English deaf boys walking silently in line for their morning wash have long since departed.

I drive back to Glynneath. I greet a man standing outside of his house. “Nice day for it,” he says. “Sure is”, I reply as I turn toward the Java Bean Cyber Café. I order a full breakfast (coffee included) and as it is served, I wonder if local saddlebacks pigs provided the bacon rashers.

RECLAIMING A PHOTOGRAPH

Here is a photograph of my grandmother's family. I found it in my mother’s possessions after she died. Like all old photographs it represents a chronicle of a family; being just the ‘leftovers’ of those who have since departed. At the time of it being taken, 1935, it was obviously meant to be a visual recording of an event with those present obediently looking at the camera to present themselves. As Susan Sontag says, it “bears witness” to their connectedness.  The photo shows my Nana Sleeman with her sisters-in-law, my great-grandmother and her sister. They are obviously on a day out at the seaside, sitting on deckchairs on sand in front of the big wall. Although names are mentioned on the back of the photo, the location is not. The family lived in Dowlais so what trip did they make to get to where this photograph was taken?

It seemed that the most likely places were at Barry Island or along Swansea beachfront, as it is in these locations that there are old Victorian beach walls and both were reachable from Merthyr by train.  The first place I go is Barry Island, but immediately I can see that the stone wall is more uniform in construction than the jigsawed backdrop in the photograph.

So to Swansea beach to find this spot. As soon as I start walking I realise that such is the unique nature of every foot of the wall’s construction that what I need to do is to find the long stone that is above the heads of the people in the middle of the photograph. It’s a stone on the third course down from the top of the wall.

I walk a long way constantly looking at the wall and not seeing anything like the placement of stones in the photo. I begin to think that I am on a fool's errand. Then, near what is known as the Slip Bridge pillars, I find that configuration of stones. The very spot. 

The actual position was behind a high bar of sand, now 3 feet lower than the level of where my female relatives were sitting. It is not a spot that we would sit at. There was some detritus from a high tide, broken and complete shells, dry bits of seaweed, small bits of wood, some bits of plastic bags and a very distressed empty bottle of Ribena.

I took my photographs of the wall to confirm its stone built configurations in my own records. Now I can say I have stood on this spot. Perhaps I would return at some time to have my photograph taken and then I would have a continuing record of my family at the same spot. Perhaps a future generation will return to this spot just too also record a connectedness.

Later wandering through the internet, I find some old images of the same spot.

TREORCHY

Llandaff to Treorchy, £2.90 with a seniors railcard. It's a clear fine day but the hills still have the browns of winter on them. The grass not yet believing it early enough to come through on the mountainside. The sky is streaked with aeroplane vapour trails -  all US bound. It must be mid-morning as early in the morning they all follow each other the opposite way bringing red eyed travellers from the states. Along the main road and into the Cardiff Arms Cafe. They have a modern coffee machine but their coffee 'menu' is a careful negotiation between the old and the fashionable.  I order a mug of what used to be called milky but is now identified as cappuccino, so the man asked me “Should I put chocolate on it?”  “Na, that's OK.”

I check my phone to see if I have a Wi-Fi signal. It tells me there is a locked account called SanSiro. There must be an Inter Milan supporter here.

As I walk back I see in a shop window a poster advertising a play called ‘Tonto Evans’, an “ex-miner, country and western fanatic, given to dressing up as a Native American … he dreams of visiting the Wild West”. Another poster informs us about a talk to be given by a Professor of History called “My Rhondda.” I ponder on the juxtaposition, whilst thinking about cowboys.

Waiting for a bus to Ponty I stand opposite a funeral directors in a wool shop. I could really fancy a knitted coffin but it would have to have a fairisle pattern that my mother used to put on short sleeved jumpers.