BARGOED: COOLING TOWERS AND ANGELS

The link to the ‘Angel of North’ statue in my last journey reminded me that there was in the Valleys an angel statue in Bargoed. My plan was to park the car at Pengam and cycle through ‘Parc Coetir Bargod’, the country park landscaped over the sites of the Gilfach, Bargoed and Britannia collieries and of course the famous record-breaking tip painted by Lowry. I wanted to be certain of the route and so I did some wanderings on the Internet and looking up some history of these collieries. I knew there had been a power station in this place, so I put into Google, ‘Bargoed power station’ and to my surprise I discovered that there is a highly respected black and white photograph of its cooling towers by Bernd and Hilla Becher. These German photographers took pictures of industrial architecture throughout Europe.  Their work has artistic appeal as well as being a record of large structures that were built when industry was more widespread and they point to an age now gone.  Certainly ‘Cooling Towers, "Bargoed" Power Station’ is of a time well past for this area. This photograph is indeed internationally well known and amongst those images of the Bechers’ work that are critically acclaimed. It was taken when they visited South Wales in 1966 and is the chosen image on the front cover of their book ‘Cooling Towers’ (2006); a volume which is of course available from Amazon but rather overpriced for my pocket. 

Copies of the photo are placed in galleries around the world and can be found, for example, in the J Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, California; the Harvard Museum, Cambridge Massachusetts; the Moderna Museet, Stockholm; the Museum of New Zealand in Wellington and of course in the V&A London. Bargoed gets around a bit. For all its fame, surprisingly, the existence of the particular image is not well recorded on local sites. 

As I peer at old photographs, it looks to me as if the towers were located near the railway line between Gilfach Fargoed  and Bargoed but I know that there are no remnants or recollections to be found on the ground. I returned to my route making exercise leaving the power station memories scattered through the Internet and the images on walls a long way from Bargoed.

Despite my planning, my cycle ride begins all too quickly with a wrong turn. I end up pedalling hard up a steep hill almost going back on myself. Then establishing the route to Bargoed from a by-passer I have to carry my bike up a long flight of steps. Eventually, hot and bothered, I arrived on the valley floor following the river upstream. The man-made terraces, built in an effort to put something right with nature start from the valley bottom, then there is a cycling/walking path, then the railway line to Rhymney, a road bridge and then on top of the valley side is the dominant sight of the Morrison’s supermarket - green and yellow sign glowing in the sun. No German photographers to record this construction. Cycling up the valley side it's a steep pull to the road. Then a daffodil appears, very large and very yellow metallic looking. 

It is placed in a car park and questioningly overlooks the railway line and the bus station. I take some photographs and cycle the short distance to the end of High Street and to the Angel.

It is a metallic statue made with golden steel staves, standing upright at the end of a road and looking as if it is waiting for a bus. 

It is not in a prominent spot. It does not look up the road or oversee the Valley. It just looks across the road to a chip shop, holding its hands out in succour to the customers. By some creative framing, a photo can be taken in which an ‘Angel of the North’ type image appears widely bestowing its blessing over the surrounding country. 

But, this is not Angel of the North, it is an not an imposing statue. It does not have the dominance that the industrial structures of recent past history held. It is a tall angel, waiting for a bus, in front of a car park, with a chapel and war memorial in the background and the Cosy Fish Bar opposite. Contemplating this, in typical fashion, I find refreshment in Rossi's just up the road and order coffee and a bacon sandwich. 

In the cafe, there are some daffodils in table vases with a more pleasing look than the nearby transport overseeing work of art.

A conversation begins about comings and goings. A man speaks about the visits of his adult children who come, spend time with friends, go shopping in Cardiff only then to the leave. Disappointedly he says, “They may as well not come.” The lady behind the counter smiles at me and then at him. “But it's touching base, even if they are a long way from here. At least it's giving recognition to where they come from and where you are.” He shrugs his shoulders.

I leave the café and cross the road. I take some photographs of the ornate iron fence, ‘Emporium Windows’, which is in front of the odd shaped flatiron building, once a department store and now looking for both a purpose and a new owner. At one time, a clock adorned the top of the building but that with its business has long since gone. In remembrance of past functions the fence is supplemented by a cast iron clock face now permanently fixing time. 

The fence was constructed by the same sculptor that created the Angel and the Daffodils; Malcolm Robertson a Scotsman who has lots of statues placed in Florida. Now that's a million miles from here.  Perhaps the placement of the Daffodil and the bus waiting Angel is to point to the means of our leaving. 

I return to the Angel, in a different frame of mind. I can see that it stands grounded with a secure solidity, naturally rooted and nourished just in this spot.  It is firmly and most definitely where it is. It has an openness as if it is saying, “Here we are.” No coming or going. It may be in front of a car park watching people leave the chip shop, but this is an angel that offers us a different way of returning home. 

shunning the prospect of adoration
the angel
here stands

My return bike journey is now thankfully downhill, past the over-large daffodil, past the now gone, tips, pits and cooling towers and onto our home where I hopefully always recognise the presence of the Angel.

GUARDIAN - SIX BELLS

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.

 

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.

A BOOK'S TRAVELS

I buy a copy of the Big Issue in the centre of Cardiff. As always, I read the book reviews and there's a very good one of a collection of short stories written by a U.S. veteran of Iraq. The stories are based on his experience as a soldier in that conflict. I would like to read it and I look for a copy on the

Redeployment by Phil Klay

Internet, finding a second hand one on Abe books. I can buy it for £3.56 + £2.34 postage. I order it from Motor City Books near Detroit Michigan USA. When the book arrives three weeks later, I find it used to be a library book belonging to the US Air Force at Misawa Airbase in Japan. The information in the book also tells me that it was purchased on 30th March 2014 in USA for the price of $26.95 and then presumably flown to Japan. Some librarian employed by the military obviously thought it would be a good book for Air Force personnel to read. But at the airbase, nobody borrowed the book. There were no military personnel wanting to read this particular veteran’s collection of short stories of his war experiences. So unused it was shipped back to the US and ended up at a second-hand bookseller and through the Internet, it was then shipped to me in UK. A long journey for a book to be read for the first time. It was a good collection of stories - well worth the read.

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.

LOWRY AND BARGOED

Visiting Bargoed always brings to mind the artist L. S. Lowry. He came to the South Wales valleys on several occasions and produced a number of works. He was brought by a friend who lived in the area. His painting of Bargoed is now in ‘The Lowry’ gallery in Salford.  

It depicts the town in a grey green evening light dominated by the coal tip to its south. Indeed, for those of us familiar with the place we recognise it as a tip because we know it was there, but now it has been removed and the area is now known as a country park - ‘Parc Coetir Bargod’ - translated as Bargoed’s woodland park. It’s not so much a woodland at the moment but has the look of an area of large shrubs and small trees that we have come to recognise as the flora that covers old tips. This particular tip painted by Lowry has a claim to fame in that it was the largest man made colliery tip in Europe.  At one time it stood as a testament to labours being undertaken underground but now landscaping has softened out and removed the monument and with it Bargoed’s claim to fame. Lowry’s painting also removes this knowledge of the spoils of industry and the view not of a ‘tip’ but simply a flat-top conical hill standing in a similar manner to the spiritual tor at Glastonbury.  Glastonbury being a location to which pilgrims came to pay homage as an important pagan and Christian site. The only pilgrimages that made it to Bargoed were to pay respect to King Coal. Only Wanderers and memory makers now cross the lines of reverence to the tip at Bargoed. 

Lowry’s view of the area suggests the way in which a human shaped spoil heap is also a part of a scenery devoid of the trappings of industrial creation. Lowry’s painting naturally forges the link between an industrial landscape, its underlying history and the ground on which it stands. He was able to see that in Wales there is a way in which nature is still larger than the havoc that men have inflicted upon us. Industry as undoubtedly scarred and altered the scenery but these intrusions into the natural habitat can be shaken off.

Lowry captures a feature always present in the valleys, town and country are one place; the boundaries between the two are everywhere and indeed defy definition as boundary. Lowry's other works on the valleys pick up this theme and point to the mystical past in a way that open land and human tenancy of that land are intertwined. His painting of ‘Hillside in Wales’, now in the Tate Britain Museum, places the valley houses as if they are a Celtic hill fort with terraces and earth mounds setting out a place of safety. 

In reading psychogeographers of Britain there is strong tendency towards Englishness. But the English identity is one that goes back only to the 11th Century, our Welsh identity goes back way beyond this to earlier tribes and inhabitants of these islands. In this painting, Lowry points to our ancient battles and struggles of this place which merge into the struggles and battles undertaken in order to survive and live well.  

Lowry was noted as being cynical about authority, an attitude which undoubtedly matched that of the local residents. The painting of Bargoed was at one time seen in the town when placed on exhibition in the library in the late 1980s. The myth developed, but some say it is true, that the police would remove the painting every night to ensure that it was not stolen. Whether Lowry would have approved of this we will never know but we can only wonder at what the thieves have really taken from Bargoed.

ABERFAN EXHIBITION

I saw the 'Exhibition - Photography' advertised on the Internet.

“Aberfan -  Remembrances Of A Photojournalist. A Digital Exhibition

In the week following the Aberfan Disaster of 1966, the young American photojournalist I.C. (Chuck) Rapoport set out on a journey from New York City to capture the aftermath for LIFE magazine.

Chuck arrived in Aberfan on 29th October, after most of the world’s press had already left and spent six weeks living in and observing the community. His iconic photographs record life in Aberfan during that period and are a remarkable and unique record of ‘The Days After’. Chuck’s original selection of photographs for ‘The Days After’ was shown in a major exhibition at The National Library of Wales in 2005, with a book of the same title.

This new, digital exhibition includes the original images plus many additional, previously unseen images, together with Chuck’s narrated story of his emotive recollections – ‘Six Weeks in a Community of Survivors’.”

There are two incidents in my life in which I can remember exactly where I was when I heard the news. The Aberfan and Hillsborough disasters. With Aberfan, through the vicissitudes of my life there is a way in which I have always been connected to it. I knew Rapoport's work as I bought the 2005 book. I was unable to see the exhibition in Aberystwyth but here was an opportunity of viewing the photographs. The advert explained, “Continuous daily showings in the Keir Hardie Room (no showing on 21^st October). The Keir Hardie Room is occasionally used for functions. If travelling, please contact REDHOUSE first to ensure that the Keir Hardie Room will be open to the general public during the time of your planned visit.” I did not question why the exhibition was not on display on the actual date of the 50th anniversary but dutifully I rang the Redhouse to ensure no competing functions and after some confusion about what I was referring to from the person on the phone I was assured that the exhibition would be open when I planned to visit.

The morning was grey and drizzly when I took the train to Merthyr and as we travelled alongside the Taff the mist obscured the scenes of the valley and I only knew we were near Aberfan when we stopped at Merthyr Vale station. At Merthyr Tydfil, I walked through the rain to the Redhouse, the art centre hosting the exhibition, once the town hall, an elaborate Victorian building of red brick. The entrance hall, as one would expect of a 1890s municipal building, is terracotta tiled floor and bright glazed tiles below a dado rail of more tiles. Opposite the entrance is a double staircase leading to the first storey with a stained-glass window greeting the visitor. 

I looked around for some signs indicating where the exhibition was and my lost demeanour attracted a member of staff who had the ever-present identity card hanging from his neck.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I'm looking for the photographic exhibition about Aberfan.”

“Oh, it’s not really an exhibition.,” he said somewhat ruefully. “There are some photographs on the board down the corridor but not many. What it is, is a DVD that we have on a TV in the room. There is someone looking at it now. It started about 10 min ago.”

I was clearly a bit bewildered.

“You can go in now or wait until it finishes and I'll start it again you.”

He led me upstairs to a small room above the entrance. Over its door was inscribed ‘Keir Hardie’

The room was no bigger than a sitting room in an ordinary house and there in the dim light I saw one man seated watching a large screen TV resting on a chair. I peered in and saw familiar images appear on the screen. In this darkened space I felt that to remain I would be intruding into someone else's grief and so I backed out.

  

observing grief

  we all await 

  our turn

I told the identity card man that I wanted to watch it from the beginning and I would come back. He nodded and apologised for the monitor being on a chair, explaining that they had another presentation somewhere else in the building and their posh display monitor on its stand was needed for that.

“Is the programme on a loop?”

“It is supposed to be,” he said, “but it just doesn't work. I have to come in and put it on and off when people want to come and watch.”

“So everyone has to request a viewing.” I commented. Again he nodded. After a pause, I asked him to point out where the photographs were.  He directed me to a downstairs corridor. At the corridor’s end somewhat squashed up into the corner was a folding display stands with six uncaptioned but again familiar Aberfan images on them. As I looked at them, people passed me and as an observer I was clearly in the way.

 I walked around the rest of the building. There was a yoga class in a room with black curtains; in another room two women were putting up a display encouraging over 60s to have flu vaccination; in the central room people were congregating for a meeting, all clutching their cups of coffee. There was a busyness in the building. I whiled away some minutes looking at the displays outlining the building’s history and I took some photographs. Around the walls were painted images of heroes of Welsh Labour history - so the red in the name referred to the colour of the building’s politics and not just the bricks.

I returned to Kier Hardie. The room now had its light on, but quietness and stillness remained. I sat for a while and nothing happened. I went to find the identity card man and on discovering him I asked him to start the DVD. He led the way telling me that sometimes there was a problem with the laptop computer starting, but hopefully, “fingers crossed”,  it would work for me. I settled into a chair as he fiddled with the electronics. Eventually the programme started and as it did, three other people filed into the room and sitting in the remaining chairs. The man put the light off and we sat in the darkened room listening to the American photographer describe how he took his images of Aberfan in the weeks following the tip slide. The words he spoke appeared on screen and were interspersed between his photographs. It was a sombre presentation that invoked a personal sense of grief and compassion for those who had suffered loss; people I had never met but with whom I felt a connection. The film ended and the screen went blank. The four of us just stood up and walked out. We did not look at each other and we said nothing; we had shared something but it seemed impossible to open a conversation. We were like mourners leaving a church or chapel after a funeral except there was no one to shake your hand as you left and no one to approach cautiously and say, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Afterwards in the café I sat quietly. I felt there was something just not respectful about the way the exhibition sat in the building and how I had watched it in small room on a telly balanced on a chair. There is always a poignancy in the way grief is positioned.

Returning on the train the weather had improved. As we approach Merthyr Vale I could see Aberfan across the valley and there stark amongst the natural contours and curves that shape the landscape and the higglety-piggletyness of the houses, stands the straight-line of the graves of the Memorial in the cemetery. It always stands out and it always will.

THE ABER VALLEY CYCLE TRACK. Penyrheol to Senghenydd

Here is a picture of my Auntie Bet probably taken at the end of the 1940s.

Penyrheol Station

She is standing at Penyrheol station, which is on the line from Senghenydd to Caerphilly known as the Aber branch.

Of course the line is no longer there. Passenger traffic was stopped in 1964. The station at Penyrheol is no longer there. If you don't know where to look, you just wouldn't know where the railway line was and where the platform stood. The only clue is in the name of the road ‘Station Terrace’. As you go towards B4263, it is on the right before you come to the roundabout. The road rises but there is not even a railway bridge to let you know that trains passed underneath. Here is a picture of the spot now - just a little bit wasteland leading to some industrial units.

 As you look towards Caerphilly you can see the hint of straightness left by the impression of the tracks.

On the left to where the station stood is the entrance to the Aber Valley Cycle Track which is the path for today’s journey. The track runs next the sound of the small river and as always with these ex-railway cycle tracks there are only a few reminders of what they were originally - the gate of a small level crossing. a bridge over the line and occasionally piles of limestone ballast.

After a mile or so, all uphill, is the remnants of Abertridwr station. I walk over the raised area of the platform and stand where the ticket office probably was. 

Abertridwr Station 

I find the entrance to the station and walk up a  side street. An old lady is waiting for a bus.

She smiles, “Are you taking photographs because your family came from round here?”

“Sort of.   Do you remember the station?”

“Yes of course. It was the only way we could travel then. No buses. Just scandalous that they closed it all.” She pauses. “Everything changes.” She looks back toward the valley side. “I live in that terrace over there. Out my back I could just look and see the mountain. But then they build houses and I tell you they're the worst looking houses in the world. Townhouses they call them. Ugly three-storey things. That's all I see out my back window now houses. Lost my view I have. But all told, it's a nice village to live in.”

I tell her about the little flowery china vase I found amongst my mother's possessions when she died. It had ‘A Present from Abertridwr’ written on the side in gold paint, just like the ones you see from Blackpool or Barry Island. “I know it's nice to give gifts but I can't imagine why they made something as a present from Abertridwr.”

She laughs at me. “Well, we did that sort of thing then. And I bet I know the shop that it was bought from. That shop sells kababby things now.” Another pause. “Everything changes.”

The bus comes and she tells me she's only going one stop, just to the square as it saves her legs and she has her bus pass.

I go back to the station and cycle just a few yards and go over a road and take a photograph of the Working Men's Institute. John Roberts known as ‘Jack Russia’, the Communist councillor and Spanish war veteran was the manager here, obviously not being a desirable employee for the coal owners after his activities.

Abertridwr Working Men's Institute

He too was a cyclist, but of a different order, as he cycled from Abertridwr to London in 1936 to support the Unemployment March.

From Abertridwr the cycle path seems to go in a variety of loops round the area that was Windsor Colliery. The area now flattened. There are some new houses and new school on part of the site.

I visit the memorial to those who died in the pit. It is a black round column and if you look closely at the top you can make out a model presumably of the pithead. To really see it you would have to be level perhaps on by standing on a ladder. In comparison to the images of miners and the names of those who died underground the model is small. The whole monument does imply that there was a top but the activity and the deaths were all underneath.

Windsor Colliery Memorial

The  cycle path goes past Senghenydd rugby club and comes to an end at what would have been the entrance to the station. The area is now used for houses and bungalows. The dwellings that form another ‘Station Terrace’ appear somewhat stranded.

As you leave the cycle path the bridge that would have been over the railway has printings in commemoration to the mining disasters of 1901 and 1915.

I cycle into Senghenydd Square, signified by the War Memorial which as always in these cases was erected by the great and good of the area long before the Memorial to those who died underground in pursuit of coal.

Senghenydd Square

In the cafe a man eating his jumbo breakfast says, “I see that you locked your bike to the War Memorial. You have to be careful around here.” I nod.

“Have you been to the mining Memorial yet?” he asks.

“Not today. Bacon sandwich and then home. Downhill now”

“Like everything else around here.”

We laugh together.