I have visited places in South Wales that L. S. Lowry painted.
In Nelson he sketched a drawing of the handball court on a paper napkin, which
sold for a considerable sum of money some years ago.
And so a wandering to see this
court.
Nelson is now one of those places that you only go to if you
are going there. It used to be at the crossroads of a busy railway junction going
North-South and East-West all transporting coal; of course, the railway lines
gave up a long time ago when the coal industry died. The original Welsh name of
the place, Ffos-y- Gerddenin, proved difficult to pronounce for the incoming
workers who dug the pits and the railway cuttings and so it acquired its name
from a local pub ‘The Admiral Nelson Inn’. Not the only site in South Wales to
be named after a place to drink beer.
I park next to the library and walk out onto Commercial
Street which presumably would have been the centre of business of the town. Just
a few shops now - some open, some boarded up. The first Edwardian building has
two doors next to each other; over the right hand one, it says “Billiards”,
over the left-hand one it has the Welsh word “Ariandy”, signifying a bank.
speaking inhabitants, still struggling with the pronunciation of the place gave themselves up to more leisurely endeavours, while the Welsh would appear more abstemious in their pursuits. Entering the ‘Billiards’ portal now you encounter the world of the ‘Nelson Community Council’ with its minutes and agendas recorded on a board outside. Going through the ‘Ariendy’ (bank) door leads you into the financial transactions of purchasing pizzas. The premises that housed the modern bank across the street is now one of the boarded up businesses. Commerce is no longer booming in Nelson.
A few yards up the road, I come to the General Picton Inn
and the Dyneavor Arms. The former gave up its military inspired drinking
sometime ago, as it is now a greengrocer’s but the Dyneavor continues to serve
customers.
The roundabout in the centre of the village has a monument to its
industrial past - on one side a relief of railway engines and men working in a
mine and whilst on the other is a scene of terraced houses. Work and home.
Over the junction and up the road a little way is the
handball court. If you are passing in a car, you could easily mistake it for the
end of a building and miss it. But, the three sided structure facing a tarmaced
surface is clearly identified by its sign and is open to the air. As I approach
two young women, clad in lycra with big kit bags cross the court chatting
loudly. They clearly are going to a gym somewhere; no activity at this location
for them.
The court was built about 1860 and is one of a very few surviving
in the United Kingdom though in little use. In keeping with Nelson’s public
house related history there are two stories about how it came to be built, both
involving the publican of the Royal Oak. One version has the rector of St Mabon’s
Church several miles away being so fed up with locals playing handball against
the north wall of his church that he persuaded the Royal Oak landlord to build
the handball court across the road from his pub. The other story has the
landlord building it to draw custom away from the Admiral Nelson just up the
road. Both could have some truth in them. God and the dictates of business equally
have to be appeased.
A local authority sign by the court informs me in English
and Welsh “No balls games between Sunset and Sunrise”. I stand alone in the
middle of the court and fearful of breaking any bylaws check the position of
the sun - daytime - ball games definitely permitted. From my pocket, I take out
a tennis ball. I throw it against the wall. Immediately I am reminded of a game
I played as a boy, kicking a football against a wall, taking turns with an opponent
to put the ball into a position where it stopped or could not be kick against
the wall. We called it ‘spot on’. Just like the memory, the ball comes back to
me from the wall and I throw it again. I think about all the ends of buildings
and walls in back lanes, where children throw balls and make-up rules of games.
Places where children’s imagination turn scraggy urban places into arenas and Olympic
stadiums. This now unique historical place is also just the end of a building
for throwing a ball against.
I throw the ball again, this time in a way to make
myself move to retrieve it.
“Nobody to play with, love”, shouts a woman walking past.
“No. Nobody to play with.”
“At least you know who’s going to win.”
April 2017
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