A trip to Clydach Vale. Going on the motorway and then on
the Llantrisant bypass, it seems as if I'm forever on roads designed to avoid
places and consequently they have numerous roundabouts with smaller roads off to
somewhere else. The last of these thoroughfares follows the line of the Ely
Valley Railway from Tonyrefail to Penygraig - a train journey long since ceased.
Quickly it seems that I arrive on the valley road of Clydach Vale without any
preparation for the change of mode required for travelling on the long narrow residential
streets. The road is steep, the terraces tight and the shops are infrequent unlike
one area where there seems to be a plethora of chapels, for opposite St Thomas’
church there are three in a row. Only Noddfa,
the Welsh Baptist Church appears to be meeting the purpose for which it was
built, for the English Baptist Chapel, Bethany, is for sale and the Calvinist
Chapel, Libanus, is now a centre for parents and children. However, to ensure
that the spiritual needs of the area are not entirely bereft, the Bethel Bush
Free Mission is only a few yards down the valley. But then, further up the road
the Zoar Welsh Independent Chapel has long given up its initial sacred function
and now serves as a home for the elderly.
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| Clydach Vale - Three Chapels |
At least some chapels seemed to be surviving
institutions and this in line with the pubs; ‘The Central’ is now a convenience
store; ‘The Bush’ has boards over some windows and looks run down but is
reputed to be open, but thankfully ‘The Clydach Vale’ appears functioning.
I drive past the school, where, in 1910, 3 children were
killed when all the pupils were trapped by water which had suddenly broken out
of old mine workings. In flooding the village, the deluge also killed a woman
and two babies. A portent of the Aberfan disaster.
I’ve come to Clydach Vale to look at a place where Tommy
Farr boxed and which is now the ruin of Clydach Vale Workingmen’s Club. On the
25th January 1930 aged 16 years, Farr fought his 66th fight against another
boxer originating from Clydach Vale, Llew Hadyn. In those days there were not
the same rules about weights and ages for professional fights - any kind of
matches were made to make up programmes in local venues. Haydn was older and he
fought mainly at bantamweight; Farr although younger was probably heavier - but
he still had some growing to do as later he fought Joe Louis for the
Heavyweight Championship of the world! Farr lost on points to Haydn over 10
rounds on that Saturday afternoon. He had fought 8 days earlier and he would
leave the venue, then named the New Inn Hotel, to travel the 16 miles to Blaengarw
for an evening contest where he beat Rees Owen of Treherbert also over 10 rounds.
Llew Haydn’s victory means that there are likely to be descendants of his, perhaps still living
locally, who can says that their grandfather beat Tommy Farr! I hope this
private memory is held and cherished by someone.
I arrive near the end of the valley road and the burnt out
building. As I take photographs, a woman comes to chat.
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| Clydach Vale Workingmens' Club - 'Top Club' |
We talk about what was
and what now is in the village. She asks why I am taking a photo of the old
“Top Club”. I explain to her that I am interested because it was a location of
a Tommy Farr fight. “I didn’t think there was boxing there.” she says. She even
seemed uncertain as to who Tommy Farr was. “My Dad never told me about that
happening in the club,” she said in a confident manner making me wonder about local
memory and supposed heroes. She can see that I am disappointed and seemingly to
make recompense she points to a building across the road and says, “That was
where we had our dances. We called it the Assembly Rooms. Like a lot of things
it’s all boarded up now.” But the thought of her dancing as a young woman seems
to buoy both of us up and jauntily she confides that she is now going to visit
her friend to see if she wants to go to a 60’s night in Tonypandy.
After our chat by the old club, I park at the end of the valley
road and amble the short distance along the path and over the little river bridge
to the Cambrian Colliery Memorial. Walking up to slope I noticed the ground is
made up of the detritus of demolition, bits of broken brick, concrete chippings
and lots of shaley stones all embedded in the black of the slag dust - every
now and then glinting in the sun a few
shining coal pebbles.
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| Cambrian Colliery Memorial |
I sit on the bench in the Memorial looking at the usual
features of the winding gear wheel and the tram with coal concreted onto the
top. Just outside the stone wall is a lift cage which would have been used to
carrying the trams up and down the pit shaft. Weeds are establishing themselves
in the stones around the memorial objects together with Coke cans, Lucozade
bottles and packaging from KFC.
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| Clydach Vale from Cambrian Colliery Memorial |
I recall the history. 1905, an explosion with the loss of 33
lives and serious injury to 14 others. 1941, at the 'Gorky' drift mine 7 men
killed and 53 injured when a trolley transporting miners ran out of control.
1965, an explosion in Cambrian Colliery killed 31 miners. I read the memorial
stone to those of 1965 which also makes mention of the “many who have died and
continue to die as a result of industrial disease”. I try to read the words on
the fading messages on the now rotting flowers brought as tribute. “In memory
of William Richards (1860 - 1915) A fatal accident victim in No 1 Pit of this
colliery, December 17th 1915 and his son Thomas Richards (1904 - 1969) a
workman in No1 and No 2 Pits.” A private grief and treasured remembrance of
fathers which escapes the public history with its focus on multiple deaths.
Another card honouring the three disasters pays tribute to “the women… whose
contribution caring for men and families was immense….many of these also found
early graves.” Some memories are held and the 'heroes' all live in families.
I sit quietly and hear the sounds composing the quietness of the place. The wind in the
trees, a crow cawing, dogs barking. I see some dog walkers, no doubt following their own routine, synchronised with nobody except those at home. There are domestic noises in the distance,
somebody is hammering wood and friends are calling to each other. For a few
moments the sound of an aeroplane way up high, hidden by the clouds and then a
return to the silence of nature. A wood pigeon flies past and I hear the flap
of its wings. The sun moves slowly across the sky, casting changing highlights on the
spokes of the pit head wheel. As I sit, occasionally, the wind stirs up the industrial ghosts,
the clunky bangs of heavy machinery, the falling thuds of stone and coal, the
shouts of working men, all echo in the still background.
above the ghosts
a buzzard circles
indifferent to my leaving
