Unless you really know where you're going, it's difficult to
find the Guardian because all the pictures show its ‘towering’ structure and there
is the expectation that somehow it will loom up high above everything as you
travel on the road to Abertillery. It has been compared to the Angel of the
North, which stands on a horizon, easily seen from major roads and the train.
But the Guardian doesn't do that and it is only by consulting the map that I
found my way there. You only really see it from a distance as you leave the
main road and are halfway down the Valley. Unlike its northern comparator this
iconic piece, a memorial to a significant mining disaster, is somewhat hidden
away. It is placed in the only spot it could be, directly on the site of the
Six Bells colliery at the valley bottom.
The car park is next to Bethany Chapel, where someone has
neglectfully left up a set of lights depicting the Christmas nativity. There
are a lot of galvanised fences around, obviously the council is planning to do
something. At the entrance to the park is an information sign recounting that in
the 1700s locals frequently saw fairies at this place. I smile at the
likelihood of this, but then in the distance, the statue comes into view and
from where I am, it has an appearance of a slightly shimmering mirage. Its construction
with steel hoops give a quality to its substance of wraithlike moving shapes, similar
to when a thin net curtain moves slowly in a draft. Its solidity is always
changing.
embracing the memories for others
the fairylines
dance
On the fences along the path someone has stuck paper
leaflets declaring, “A Serious Crime
Happened Here. Striking miners were beaten up, fitted up and locked up. The
government have refused to investigate.” Not only is this a place of sorrow
for the 45 miners killed in the 1960 disaster but it is also a place with
another history of anger. However, these are not the emotions that the Guardian
radiates. It has a pose of vulnerability and acceptance; hands open and down,
head held up and forward looking. It welcomes a visitor to be present
respectfully as its shares, “This is what we have.” “This is what we are.” It carries a sense of hope in the human
condition.
At the base of the statue those who died are recorded which includes their nicknames, so we have, ‘Jack’, ‘Chucky Weston’, ‘Bright
Eyes’, ‘Smiler’ and ‘Goldy’ amongst those whose lives were lost in the
explosion of gas. There are a set of twins and a father and son. In its
statement of inclusion, the dedication is not just to those who were killed,
but also to “coal mining communities everywhere”. The statue invites us to
belong.
Nearby are some information sheets with pictures
of what could be any and every mining disaster - women looking on through railings, waiting for
news but already imprisoned by their anxiety and grief.
Looking at the memorial is an older man. He turns to me.
Nodding at the statue, he asks, "You related to someone on there?"
"No. Just taking photos." I hesitate then smile, "you related to anyone?"
"Yes, that's my father." He points to a panel of names. "The one that's five up from the bottom."
I read the name. I'm not certain what to say. A silence. "You must remember that day well?"
"Yes, very well. I helped carry him out."
We look at the names again.
"My mother thought I was in the pit but that boy there changed places with me." He points to another name.
"How come you changed with him?" I ask, not wanted to say 'how come you missed being killed'.
"Some of us argued with the manager and as a sort of punishment he put us on the night shift. He was a waster that manger. After the explosion they put a police guard on his house. What a waster."
He sighs very deeply and announces that he's off to the cafe.
I remain and look at the guardian. He now says "Why?"
As I am leaving a coach party arrives. A woman with a North country accent tells me that they are a party of tour operators who are being brought to look at local attractions that they may put on their own itineraries. “We've just come from Blaenavon and then go to the Royal Mint.” I ask if many overseas visitors want to come here. “A lot of ex-pats want to see where their ancestors came from; then some Chinese and Japanese. They’ve done London, Edinburgh and Stratford and they want to go somewhere different.” Through the eyes of somebody from foreign lands, this may seem different but the reclaimed pit site and the Memorial to sorrow feels very familiar to me.
Nodding at the statue, he asks, "You related to someone on there?"
"No. Just taking photos." I hesitate then smile, "you related to anyone?"
"Yes, that's my father." He points to a panel of names. "The one that's five up from the bottom."
I read the name. I'm not certain what to say. A silence. "You must remember that day well?"
"Yes, very well. I helped carry him out."
We look at the names again.
"My mother thought I was in the pit but that boy there changed places with me." He points to another name.
"How come you changed with him?" I ask, not wanted to say 'how come you missed being killed'.
"Some of us argued with the manager and as a sort of punishment he put us on the night shift. He was a waster that manger. After the explosion they put a police guard on his house. What a waster."
He sighs very deeply and announces that he's off to the cafe.
I remain and look at the guardian. He now says "Why?"
As I am leaving a coach party arrives. A woman with a North country accent tells me that they are a party of tour operators who are being brought to look at local attractions that they may put on their own itineraries. “We've just come from Blaenavon and then go to the Royal Mint.” I ask if many overseas visitors want to come here. “A lot of ex-pats want to see where their ancestors came from; then some Chinese and Japanese. They’ve done London, Edinburgh and Stratford and they want to go somewhere different.” Through the eyes of somebody from foreign lands, this may seem different but the reclaimed pit site and the Memorial to sorrow feels very familiar to me.
Outside the community cafe which used to be the ‘Horse and Groom’ pub is a blue plaque to “Mervyn ‘Sandy’ Griffiths - International Football Referee” - blue plaques to referees are certainly not familiar sights.
Inside I order coffee and after serving me the lady starts
to chalk up on the blackboard -
“Today's
specials”
Steak and ale pie
Cauliflower cheese (v)
Gammon ham, egg and chips
Gwent Yorkshire.
I wondered if the last item of Welsh- English fusion is
for the tour operators from up north but they had already boarded their bus and
left,
the lady continues writing -
(filled with sausage and mash.)
Ahh, I hope that comes with gravy.
