THE WINDING HOUSE

Of course when you find yourself in Aberbargoed where do you go? Downhill across the valley and into Bargoed or straight on towards New Tredegar and Rhymney? The mist pulls me on into the north of the valley. Then in the clearing visibility a meccano-like bridge appears that some designer thought would be good to construct in the shape of a pit’s winding gear. It’s a quarter the size of what it would be in reality and this looks toytown flimsy. Oh why did they bother? A poor half-hearted sop to the solidity of what now only exists in memory. But at least it does indicate the nearness of the Winding House Museum in Elliott's Town. This is the way the journey pulls me.

The Museum is a large extension made mainly in glass in a modern square style appended to the old winding house for Elliott’s colliery. An architect would say that the old and new blend well together but I'm not sure.

I sit in the entrance hall cafe and have a cup of coffee.

“Pretty woman walking down the street.”

The sounds of an informal choir come down the stairs

“Somebody singing here?” I ask.

“Yes. It's the Alzheimer's group. The old songs get the memory going. I think they come once every week.”

“You look lovely as can be.

Are you lonely just like me?”

I drink my coffee and eat my welsh cake

“There’ll be tomorrow night, but wait.

What do I see?

Is she walking back to me?”

I go into the smaller exhibition hall which has a display about the Welsh division at Mametz woods during the Battle of the Somme. This is to help us frame a different memory.

It includes a mockup of a trench about 6 foot long. There is a continual recording of pretend machine gun fire. It drowns out the singing from the Roy Orbison memory makers. 

As I return to the entrance hall, the choir have now moved on.

“I'm getting married in the morning.

 Ding dong..”

I visit the winding gear machinery in the old portion of the building. It’s a beast of a machine; a very large wheel and big pistons to drive it. Nothing like the travesty outside.

The smell of oil is very strong. It reminds me of the odour surrounding my father when he came home from his job. I look and take in the wafts of remembrance. For 15 min on the last Saturday of every month the machine moves. Today is Tuesday and the singers exercise their voices more often.

“Why? Why? Why? Delilah.”

The larger exhibition space has a history of the area from prehistoric times with lots of interactive exhibits. I look around and realise that I’ve moved back through time starting in the modern period and ending up in the Neolithic. Perhaps I should have gone around the other way and moved forward through time. As I leave I say goodbye to the man behind the desk who served me coffee.

“Please come again.” He politely replies.

“..I feel happy inside

 It’s such a feeling

 that my love

I can't hide

I can't hide..”

It’s quiet outside; the car sounds muffled by the mist as they go underneath the toy winding gear bridge. I'm still humming, “Pretty woman,” to myself.