MAESTEG, MEMORIALS and ….

The train is crowded leaving Llandaf.  A young woman stands next to me, the smell of her perfume blows towards me on the wind from the open door - it reminds me of the market odours of sweets on a pick-and-mix stall for kids. A remembrance of soft squishy marshmallows comes to my mind.

War Memorial, Maesteg

When the train arrives in Maesteg I walk past the town’s War memorial where World War I and II are remembered as well as the Falklands War. 

The last probably honouring young men who became squaddies

 in an attempt to avoid a life down the pit. 

There at least was an option at that time, but no longer. 

Another valley town bereft of its initial reason for being.

Colonel North Memorial Hall, Maesteg

I come to the Colonel North Memorial Hall and I wonder how many would think about a man once considered so important that he should have a building as a memorial.  The eponymous John Thomas North was a native of Yorkshire described by some as “a quintessential imperialist capitalist plunderer”. He made a fortune in the 1880’s with a monopoly of nitrate mining in Chile, having acquired his controlling interest by a degree of “chicanery”. He had other businesses of gold mining in Australia and South Africa, trams in Egypt, rubber in Africa, cement works in Brussels, a hotel in Ostend, and silver mining in Bolivia. The link with Maesteg came in June 1888, when he acquired the Llynvi and Tondu Company, which owned coal mines and iron works in the area. At the time in Britain he was lauded as a self made man who became a high society gentleman, being friendly with the aristocracy and the future Edward VII. He was lampooned by cartoons, satire and Music Hall songs, but today he is largely forgotten. He spent large sums on refurbishing an old mansion in Kent into a gaudy ‘Italian Palace’ and a fortune on race horses and greyhounds. As well as becoming Master of the Mid-Kent Staghounds, he was made an Honorary Colonel of the Tower Hamlets Engineers, a voluntary army unit. He was not therefore a colonel in the sense that he was ever a serving army officer, he merely had a ceremonial position and as a member of the nouveau riche he was happy to use the title.  “The Nitrate King”, never cared if his money was earned exploiting Chilean miners or the poor of sub-Saharan Africa; these workers had to cope with a truck system that took over 60% of their wages with their human rights constantly abused.

However, in Chile, North was vilified as a thief, and there he remains a dark figure often seen as contributing to bringing down the progressive president, Balmaceda. North, though, was not a major political schemer, but a speculator bent on manipulating the price of his nitrate stocks to increase his own wealth. He also made money by the knowingly overcapitalization of his businesses and by engaging in what is now termed ‘insider trading’.

However, such was the nature of deference in Victorian Britain that on his first visit to Maesteg in 1886, he was warmly welcomed by the populace. He was so pleased with his reception that he sent a cheque for £500 to the committee that ran the reading room and library, which in effect was the Miners’ Institute. Over time, the local workers through weekly contributions added a further £1,500 to pay for the construction of a new building on the site of the old one. Despite contributing a significantly lesser sum than that from working men’s wages, the hall, when opened by his son in 1897, was named the ‘Colonel North Memorial Hall’. It no longer is a centre of learning as it is now ‘Leisureland Amusement Centre’. 

At the present when more prestigious locations such as the Coulston Hall, Bristol and the Rhodes statue at Oriel College, Oxford are having their benefactors names questioned because of previous engagement in the worst excesses of capitalism, then perhaps Maesteg may wish to query the name of building carrying a similar association. Unfortunately, the demise of industry and economic neglect of the area means that no one is bothered and perhaps the name of a neglected building housing a few slot machines for wayward gamblers is an appropriate memorial for such a man. When I visited, it was shut.

Town Hall, Maesteg

I move on to the large building over the road, the Town Hall and I make my way to the indoor market located in the basement. There are some steps down to it and as I approach it looks shut and for a moment I am confused, so I walk around the building and go in on the side.  All the stalls are deserted apart from one. No warm welcome from the populace here for anyone.

Indoor Market, Maesteg

There is an eerie emptiness made even more surreal by the strains of Abba coming out of a PA system playing the Ken Bruce Radio 2 show. Soon the daily quiz is introduced but there is nobody now to share their guesses along with the contestants.  Only one stall is left open - a sewing stall. It has a defiant air but also the sad hopelessness of a seriously injured animal. I chat to the lady and she tells me that it's the end of the market.

 “It has been there for 136 years but now the council will close it and they are going to make it into a ‘cultural hub’.”

 We look at each other and wonder what that means. “I think they’ll move the library here”. Well at least reading still takes place in Maesteg. She shakes her head, “It’s all ‘perhaps’ and ‘maybes’ with artist impressions in the local paper of a place with sunny glass walls, but I don’t think anything will happen.”

Last Stall at Indoor Market, Maesteg

Clearly there is no wealthy patron looking for naming rights, willing to inspire the locals with a donation. Deference had some sort of dividend in the 19th century but not now.

A man and two boys come into the market. He is seeking a repair on his son's jacket and the boy takes off his coat to show the lady. She explains that a repair is possible but that he will have to leave it in the stall for a few days. “What's he going to wear?” she asks. “I suppose he’ll have to go home cold,” says the man.

                              Counters, 

                                   displaying nothing

                                                  heavy with memories

Outside of the market is an open space around which new stall-type small shops have been built. Clearly some of the traders from the market have relocated here, but some are not open and there are certainly very few customers. It feels rather soulless and a sculpture of what looks like a silver Easter Egg in the middle adds nothing to the square’s ambiance - in fact the six-foot egg looks out of place as if it has been put there as an afterthought. It is not a memorial to anyone.

Market Square, Maesteg

I walk past some shops, around the corner and into a café, where I order a coffee. No Italian style coffee menu here - it comes milky and hot, the choice being between a cup and a mug. I have a mug to accompany my bacon sandwich. The man serving chats to two women at the next table to me. They ask him where Bill is. “He decided to give up after he broke his leg. He said he did not want to come back then. So I'm doing this on my own, but I'll be going soon as well.”

“Yes we heard that”, say the ladies.

“I've been here 42 years and the building was here in 1880. I've sold the lease to somebody. He wanted to make some changes, like changing the sign and name, but I said you just have the lease so you can’t make any changes. I wanted him to keep it the same. I don't think he was keen to do that because he then said ‘if I buy it I can do what I like with it.’ I said, ‘of course you can, you can change the name if you like.’ So he's looking for the finance now. As always money will decide it.”

“He’ll change the name”, chip in the ladies. “It'll all change.”

“Bound to, like everything else. Can’t stop it”

“That'll not keep the regulars”, and they all nod at each other.

As I walk back toward the station, I pass the memorial to the miners of the area outside the council offices.

Council Offices and Mining Memorial, Maesteg

This is yet another coal laden tram on rails coming from nowhere and going nowhere. Because of the proximity, it is easy to compare this public display of remembrance of labour with the more substantial war memorial that sits outside the church and the hall of the coal/nitrate/gold/silver/rubber owner. The offices are still bedecked with Christmas lights even though those festivities passed two months ago and we are now moving toward spring.

Passing Asda a waft of the soap powdery smell common to all supermarkets engulfs me. It reminds me of the other smells of the day, the mustiness of the market and the welcoming smell of bacon sandwich. I wonder what nitrate smells like. I sit in the station shelter waiting for the train. Two young lads are there also… and now comes the smell of cannabis.

On the train a community support police officer rides shotgun and looks interested in that practiced way of all bored members of the constabulary. Two young women dressed up for a weekend in London get on the train…… Ah marshmallows again.