Aberfan brings all these things to mind. 50 years ago I sat up in a double bed with my grandmother and brother Tom, watching the Nine o'clock news on our black and white portable telly. We saw images of a school building, covered with black slag, and children being dug out and - occasionally - carried away, led away (few of those) crying.
My grandmother grew up in a Welsh mining town - Abertillery - which had, I believe, 6 collieries. Mining disasters were not uncommon during her youth. The 6 Bells Colliery had one of the most famous ones, and that colliery was in Abertillery, although it didn't happen until 1960, years after she left the valley. However, I already knew about mining disasters - I'd seen "How Green was my Valley" on telly, with Grandma, probably, at least twice and I seem to remember there was a mining disaster in that film. So I already "knew" about these events and the emotions that they evoked in my grandmother, a sort of pride, knowledge, belonging as well as the normal sentimental feelings.
It was a strange relationship, I was very close to my grandmother, she was foul-tempered, narrow minded and very annoying. She was also an extremely loving woman whose love offerings were frequently misunderstood and rejected. She tried to please people and be kind - and was frequently given short shrift. I did not realise her good qualities until she died, when I suddenly recognised them in a moment of epiphany.
The memory of that evening is very clear, as it was the night before we moved out of London, into our new house, the 16thC haunted house on the edge of Slough. After that evening I don't think we thought much more about Aberfan, I was only 9, I didn't yet read the papers. There were reports of the deaths, the funerals, the miraculous escapes but those faded against the excitement of the new larger house, and the enormous garden, full of trees, the stream, the fields.
I only realised how this feature of history - mining disasters - was closely linked to my life, while to Mark there were simply "facts". And of course I realised that mining disasters meant nothing to my children, they have barely been to Wales (except en route to the Irish ferry) and the mines all closed before they were born. They have seen the old mines around here, what's left of them. We've been for walks on the shaley park at Fowlmead.
And this made me reflect on the sadness of family history - once I die, all connection of memory with that life in the valleys will be gone. My mother never cared much about it, and I know so little about it. I don't know exactly where they lived in Abertillery (I thought Bridge Street sounded familiar) and I don't know which colliery they worked in, although the name "Rose Heyworth" sounded familiar (although that could just as well have been a girl they were at school with). By "they" I mean my grandmother and Aunt Eileen, and perhaps Jimmy and Joe too. The older children were already at work, either in the mines or in service.
These are melancholy reflections, and they are eternal - each generation cannot pass down the memories to their children, otherwise our brains would be too packed with precedent to create anything new. When we went to Abertillery last year (my first visit) all the collieries had gone.
There are signs, and memorials, to mark the sites, but no buildings there. The man I spoke to pointed out an abandoned leisure centre, that had been built on top of a colliery. It was so long ago that the leisure centre too was defunct. It seemed a symbol. The bright plastic system built leisure centres of Thatcher's time (for the redundant miners to spend their free time in ) were now gone too, unloved. The fine buildings of some collieries still stand - a beautiful redbrick miners' welfare building had become a health centre and nursery in another village; the beautiful Edwardian shops were also still there.
In September, when we went to Cardiff, I was surprised to see a painting in the National Museum, I immediately recognised it as Abertillery - I don't know how, but before I saw the label. Something about the contours of the valley must have been distinctive and memorable. I took a photo of it. The colours are much less yellow - and I was surprised by the fact that it was Lowry. I didn't know that he left Salford much! Abertillery is an interesting choice.
My grandmother grew up in a Welsh mining town - Abertillery - which had, I believe, 6 collieries. Mining disasters were not uncommon during her youth. The 6 Bells Colliery had one of the most famous ones, and that colliery was in Abertillery, although it didn't happen until 1960, years after she left the valley. However, I already knew about mining disasters - I'd seen "How Green was my Valley" on telly, with Grandma, probably, at least twice and I seem to remember there was a mining disaster in that film. So I already "knew" about these events and the emotions that they evoked in my grandmother, a sort of pride, knowledge, belonging as well as the normal sentimental feelings.
It was a strange relationship, I was very close to my grandmother, she was foul-tempered, narrow minded and very annoying. She was also an extremely loving woman whose love offerings were frequently misunderstood and rejected. She tried to please people and be kind - and was frequently given short shrift. I did not realise her good qualities until she died, when I suddenly recognised them in a moment of epiphany.
The memory of that evening is very clear, as it was the night before we moved out of London, into our new house, the 16thC haunted house on the edge of Slough. After that evening I don't think we thought much more about Aberfan, I was only 9, I didn't yet read the papers. There were reports of the deaths, the funerals, the miraculous escapes but those faded against the excitement of the new larger house, and the enormous garden, full of trees, the stream, the fields.
I only realised how this feature of history - mining disasters - was closely linked to my life, while to Mark there were simply "facts". And of course I realised that mining disasters meant nothing to my children, they have barely been to Wales (except en route to the Irish ferry) and the mines all closed before they were born. They have seen the old mines around here, what's left of them. We've been for walks on the shaley park at Fowlmead.
And this made me reflect on the sadness of family history - once I die, all connection of memory with that life in the valleys will be gone. My mother never cared much about it, and I know so little about it. I don't know exactly where they lived in Abertillery (I thought Bridge Street sounded familiar) and I don't know which colliery they worked in, although the name "Rose Heyworth" sounded familiar (although that could just as well have been a girl they were at school with). By "they" I mean my grandmother and Aunt Eileen, and perhaps Jimmy and Joe too. The older children were already at work, either in the mines or in service.
These are melancholy reflections, and they are eternal - each generation cannot pass down the memories to their children, otherwise our brains would be too packed with precedent to create anything new. When we went to Abertillery last year (my first visit) all the collieries had gone.
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| The Rose Heyworth Colliery, Abertillery - in 1985, just before closure |
In September, when we went to Cardiff, I was surprised to see a painting in the National Museum, I immediately recognised it as Abertillery - I don't know how, but before I saw the label. Something about the contours of the valley must have been distinctive and memorable. I took a photo of it. The colours are much less yellow - and I was surprised by the fact that it was Lowry. I didn't know that he left Salford much! Abertillery is an interesting choice.
