IT HAPPENED!

[JohnPitt]

IT HAPPENED

A monthly essay about memorable events in and around Ferndale/Tylorstown 1910-1955 by a local Baker in his journal is now complete.

[JohnPitt]

I am wondering whether visitors realise that this is a freely available journal presented on my facebook
Surprised it's generated no comments in 4 months



Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

[GaryLockyer]

Hi John,
I am one of the non-visitors.
This is all due to my internet access. My company supplies and pays for my access both at work and home. As we are a large company, everything is run through our own server array.
We have an internal IT team of 18 people - to give you an idea of the size of the company.
Because so many individuals have access, we are restricted to what we can visit.
We are barred from Twitter, Facebook, U-Tube any Poker site and anything similar.
So, I have not been able to visit your page - even to look at all of the hard work that you have put in to tagging the 1960 photoroll. I cannot give you my input to it, as I can't see it.
Thus I have not seen this 'roll' call from the baker either.
Maybe, one day when I see the light and stop working I may be able to visit.
In the meanwhile, keep up the great work - the more folk we can get involved here - the greater the chances of filling in all of the names in the photo.
Regards,
Gary

[JohnPitt]

IT HAPPENED Chapter 1.
By "REGGIE"



Ferndale when Reggie was a child

It seems hardly credible that in thirty years so many changes would have taken place. A familiar sight years ago in the mining valleys of South Wales at about 4.30 each day was that of children taking their home-made dough to be baked in one of the many small bakeries which flourished at that time. Some bakeries had a 2 o'clock as well as a 5 o'clock baking, the loaves from the first baking having been cleared by the time the people came with their bread or cake dough at tea-time, which was more convenient for them. Three-halfpence or tuppence was charged per loaf for this service, and bakers who had idle ovens during the afternoon used what heat was left in them for the benefit of the public to avail themselves.

The youngsters recruited to the baking trade in those days had to know the arts and sciences of public baking. Each family had two, three or even four tins which were perforated at the side with the family initials. Some tins were not perforated at all, a scratch with the point of a knife serving to engrave the initials which, as you can imagine, in time became coated with grease and burnt flour, thus totally obscuring the letters. Other housewives had quaint markings on top of the dough, such as two crossed spoons, a cross slashed with a knife, three circles embedded with an eggcup and many other fantastic devices.

As the housewife was largely dependent on her children Taking these loaves (always exposed, by the way, and carried under each arm through the streets! to the bakehouse, she had to wait until the children were home from school, thus some of the loaves would arrive at the bakehouse in a freshly-moulded state, others puffed up like pumpkins. The baker, however, never interfered with these unless the loaf had dropped in the centre, but set them as soon as 5 p.m. arrived and very often a child was sent back weeping loudly at the cry of "Too late, bach" from the baker. Modern, normal baking temperatures of 450 to 500°F. would be hopeless to deal with most of the dough that arrived. Often one met with loaves with evident signs of scalded yeast: some with only a suggestion of fermentation; some tins filled so full that the dough fell off in big chunks on to the oven floor.

A popular bakehouse built solely for the purpose of public baking was situate near the school to which I went in early childhood. It was run by a woman of very muscular make-up possibly developed from her habitual elbowing of her way through the crowds to identify someone or other's bread. Now, in mature years we can appreciate the business acumen of this woman baker building her bakery in a convenient place near the school so (hat the children could bring their afternoon baking on the way to school. The oven seemed very efficient, although I never saw anything but small coal being used. On fresh days we smelt our bread being baked while we played in the school yard. This bakehouse with its low ceiling and candle lighting in dark evenings bespoke the dinginess of the past. and its owner with her one joy-the pet parrot-reminded one of a witch out of a nursery rhyme. There was a peculiar smell attached to this bread-cum-cake batch when baking which defies description. It not only wafted through the air but became ingrained in all the furniture and woodwork.

Let us return to our own bakery and look around near Christmas. A shift was sheer Bedlam, for, besides the extra bread required for the horse vans for the Christmas rush we had two bakings daily for the public to be seen to. Imagine the bakehouse full of chatting people waiting for their bread when we went on night shift. Some of the cakes left over after filling the oven had to be baked before we could touch our own baking for the rounds, and often it was nigh on midnight before a start was made on our own work. Cakes had to be baked which definitely refused to be baked. What they were made of only the owner knew. Fat oozed out of the tins and the ovens were swimming with grease which smarted our eyes as we tried to get a view over the haze of some loaves in the back of the oven.

In this badly arranged bakery the hot water tap was placed at a point furthest from the machine so that the buckets of water had to be carried right through the length of the bakehouse. The reader may imagine that as this space was filled with amateur cake-makers eager to see the result of their latest recipe, it was no joke holding a heavy bucket while a gangway was made, and I wish to be excused if any of my readers were the ones who got some water tipped over them because they did not move out of the wav in time. Amid the hubbub and confusion, rising above the noise of coins being dropped in the old bread tin we kept for the takings - the shouting of impatient customers-- the running of buckets of water and the drone of the old dough machine came the opening line-, of " Hark the Herald Angels Sing." The Welsh singers were oytside the door, and the hat was being passed around Yes, Christmas in those days was a full life, never a dull moment!

August 1956

[JohnPitt]

We are barred from Twitter, Facebook, U-Tube any Poker site and anything similar.
Regards,
Gary

No internet cafes down there? Ah well there's a downside to sun & surf.
I'll sneak the odd chapter here from time to time.(The baker is my father, Reginald Pitt)

I know the Oz phonelines get over used 'cos we rarely have a skype conversation without either vision or sound break-up

[JohnPitt]

IT HAPPENED Chapter 2.
By "REGGIE"


Customs change considerably these days, but in the days which began this century. Many customs were in vogue which had been unchanged for a century or more earlier.

Let us look for a few minutes at the tradesmen who trod our streets here in Wales in sunshine and storm, in heat or blizzard, year in year out, upon whom many of the Welsh housewives depended. There was the pedlar-man who sold lace and other feminine requisites only. The one we have in mind was a fresh-complexioned, stockily-built man of about fifty years whose cry was " Two yards a penny lace ! "

After calling out this sing-song for a few times he would drop the huge sheet full of lace, lingerie and other dress embellishments on to the middle of the street, where it would open out and display a galaxy of oddments. There were no cars in those days, so the police never interfered with this array of stock plonked in the middle of the road, nor yet the crowd of women who flocked around to see if he had anything new or anything for which they-had been longing. Time was no object in those days and our pedlar was kept there perhaps for an hour displaying and selling his wares.

In due course he was thrown out of business the idea of using a horse-drawn van with shelves fitted to either side stacked roof-high with still more attractions for the ladies. One could enter this traveling shop by mounting the three steps at the rear of the van, this fully solving the problem of serving in pouring rain. So the voice of " Two yards a penny lace " was hushed for ever, a peal of the handbell taking its place whenever the new draper appeared in the vicinity.

Let me take you for a peep into the past at the sandman. Practically every housewife in the village bought sand once a week for use on the floors of the cottages where bare flagstones were Where a family had more than one collier, the dust from the nearby mines being brought into the house continually caused the women to think of some way of keeping their floors cleaner and more attractive. This was done, a thick slate was used to whiten these flags, the slate being rubbed on vigorously while the floor was still wet after washing. To preserve this sky-blue appearance the women scattered sand over it. The sandman's job it was to convey this sand around to the hundreds of cottages with his pony cart. He was a red-haired, bearded Welshman whose cry was "Sand y mor" (Sea sand). Out came the women with their bins and tins to buy this necessary substance, then, the load delivered, back scampered the little pony for another load. Then there was the harpist with the usual crowd of children following him from street to street until the tiny tots lost their bearings completely and had to be chaperoned home by the kindly policeman.

Writing about children reminds me of the traveling merry-go-round. This horse-drawn contraption was gaily painted, and, as far as myself was concerned came only too seldom. Usually on a Saturday or holiday we boys let up a roar of cheering when this vehicle came up the street.

It consisted of a dray on which the roundabout measuring some ten or twelve feet diameter revolves by a hand propelled worm wheel. Cries of glee, was the response to the showman's " Penny a ride, lovely ride." The kiddies were hoisted up to their seats, the pennies collected, and the children all facing each other gave vent to their reactions in tears, laughter or panic, while above their heads the gaily coloured flags went round and round.

The village had no cinema in those days and we recall that when a travelling cinema visited us they projected a picture of horses racing along a field. All went well and much applause accompanied this miracle picture, but when the horses appeared to be running straight for the audience some kiddies in the front seats rushed out!

This ground, on which the cinema was pitched later, became the rendezvous of various traveling fairs and menageries. Very early in the morning one would see the caravan of component parts of these menageries trailing through the streets. Lions' cages with roaring, narling beasts in full view were drawn by elephants or horses. The procession through the streets of the village would continue through the morning, accompanied byclowns on stilts who delivered handbills of the circus feats for the day, not in the orthodox way, but usually by tapping the bedroom windows and giving them out to lingering sleepy-heads. Camels, zebra and diminutive horses headed the procession, kept orderly along the centre of the roads at the sound of the ringmaster's whip or the band.
An incident which stands out vividly in my memory was the slaying of a horse in full view of us children; cutting it up for lions, and then selecting nice little steaks from it for the workers The eyes of those hungry show hands who had worked this summer's morning since daybreak, lit up as the savoury frying pan was handed round for each to take his portion.

September 1956

[JohnPitt]

IT HAPPENED Chapter 3.
By "REGGIE"


During the hot summer days we boys used to dam up the brooks on the mountain-side and make our own swimming pools. Many and varied were the swimmers and the strokes used. Some of these strokes were quite powerful and I am sure very few people to-day can swim after those patterns. Bathing was done in the nude, no towels were used and we used to run about over the turf until dry, which was not long, for we had summers in those days. With so many boys using the pool at a time, it became congested and free fights took place for ownership. The desire for something roomier materialised when we hit on the idea of using the colliery feeder, for the river was black with coal dust and as much as we lads liked dirt we resented washing in this ink-like water. Indeed, it was like an overflow from a gigantic ink factory. The cistern at the colliery was clean and warm at all times, and with 25 feet of water, left nothing to be desired. The colliery policeman kept watch over this inviting stretch of water, but there were times when he was not present and correct, and we knew it, so, in order to prevent our being seen we crept into a disused boiler house which had a labyrinth of passages in its foundation. I repeat that we crept into it because we had to creep over a thick blast pipe with a drop of some 30 feet or more. Over this pipe the burly cop would not venture and so the trump card was in our hands.

But one day, things went wrong. Another young policeman was on duty whom someone spotted coming along the pipe towards us. We were cut off from our clothes, though many of us were oblivious to danger—happily diving and splashing. When the alarm was given we all forgot about our clothes in the mad rush to get away, and the spectacle of a score of boys stark naked, running for dear life through the streets to their homes is a memory most vivid.

While the children of the village enjoyed themselves bathing during the evenings many of the menfolk swarmed the locals to quench their thirst. There was a pub on every corner of the main street, and at one time if was customary to ''fight it out " in the space between The Mule and Cart and The Flag. Nobody, visiting this spot in 1956 would have imagined the activity that went on after stop tap on a Saturday night, which was also pay night, at the turn of the century. The police never interfered unless property was damaged in the fierce tussles, for many of the cops were confirmed topers themselves, one I recall earning the pet name of " Cakewalk" so well did he perform this old fashioned dance when inebriated.

Writing about beer reminds me of an incident that happened during this period. A dray of hogsheads was being unloaded for the Mule and Cart. As this pub was situated at the top of a very steep hill, entrance to its cellar was at the side door some ten yards down the hill. The barrels were lowered by guide ropes until they reached the cellar hoy. One of these barrels broke loose while we boys were playing in the street below, and, hearing the crashing and lurching we looked up just in time to see it crash into the lamp-post, which bent like rubber with the force. Downwards it careered with the beer oozing out of the holes in its splintered sides. It came to rest in the gutter with a spray of beer steadily founting up. From nowhere people seemed to gather round with jugs, basins or anything handy. It happened that a well known toper, living only a few doors away from this frothy scene arrived rather late, but not too late to go on all fours and drink from the pool that had formed in the gutter!

Soon after this time the Mule and Cart changed hands, and the new owners, while maintaining the same staff, organised a thorough renovation; this extended even to the disused stable which was adjacent to the hotel. A lot of dust-covered junk had to be got rid of and one old barrel was found filled with cork granules similar to those which pack our imported grapes of to-day. It seemed heavy to be full of cork so they tipped it out to see what else it contained. There fell out a side of bacon as fresh as the day it was put there, and it must have been there for many years, as the oldest of the staff affirmed. The new proprietor could not believe this, so it was left to the staff to share out. And it was eaten with relish- -a finer bit of bacon you never tasted! What virtues are there in cork for storing bacon ? Ask me another. Anyway—-it happened !

October 1957



Even Barrels have a story

[JohnPitt]

IT HAPPENED Chapter 4.
By "REGGIE"


A constant source of amusement to the average Englishman is the Welsh practice of labelling people with nicknames. In the villages such as the one in which we live everyone knows everyone. A man's home is by no means his castle. One might expect a friend to call at any odd,
inconvenient moment, and he would be expected to be received with welcome—and he usually is! Now, to direct a stranger to Mrs. Jones in our street we would first have to ask "Which Mrs. Jones"? "Is it Jones North, Jones Small Coal or Jones The Oil? "

We as brothers at home had a novel way of getting to know the inhabitants. Mother had a herb beer trade and my job it was to wash the bottles every Friday night ready for the brew on Saturday, which was fermented sufficiently by Sunday morning for our rounds.

With a bottle under each arm we sallied forth to get done by dinner, as this effervescent drink was intended to wash down Sunday dinner. Mother had briefed us as to which Mrs. Joneses were to be served and no memorising of numbers was needed. A name was an address.

There was usually some underlying reason why a pet name was attached to this or that person, Mr. Jones Pro Boers is self-explanatory. He fought against us and on behalf of the Boers in the Boer War. Then there was Mrs. Jones Gof (Blacksmith), the widow of the old village blacksmith. Mrs. James Arian Barod (ready money) was a woman who would never open an account but always paid on the nail. Jones Small Coal was the man who gathered up the siftings of the load of coal which was, (and still is), tipped on the road outside the miners' cottages. He gathered a huge pile of this unwanted coal and sold it to firms for making by-products.

Three families by the name of Williams lived on the opposite side of our street, and we used to differentiate by Williams Edith, Williams The Office and Williams Sincwr (Sinker). We will deal with the second named. An office worker in those days was a rarity in the district, and certainly a person to be looked up to. A man who went to work in his best clothes and got more pay for so doing was a distinguished person. I believe I am right in saying that his home was the only one in the street of a hundred houses which had a room set apart for a nursery. I was friendly with his son, who had every conceivable toy that was up-to-date was extremely benevolent and tried hard to make friends with boys of the rougher sort but all to no purpose. He was hopeless on the playing field and dubbed "useless" - Just another example of the care that killed the cat.

The son of Williams Edith was quite different. As one of a large family he was handy with tools, kept pets of every sort, for which he made the cages and hutches and eveings went so far, or should we say, TOO FAR, and made a shanty for a pony which he intended buying on his eighth birthday.

Thomas Toffee, so called because she made red toffee, was the guide line, as it were, for directing purposes. Theirs was a corner house and if we wished to direct someone to Mrs. James Yorkshire it would be four doors from Thomas Toffee. Jones 'Wara Pel (Handball Player) lived half-way along the nether block. This was once a popular sport but was dying out even in those days. The enclosure in which it was played was constructed similar to a huge cheese dish and the player had to keep the ball going against the wall with hands only no footwork. Only one of these structures is known to me to be still standing in the district. It is at Nelson Village, where it occupies a very prominent position in the village square.

Williams Sincwr was the man who helped to sink the pit, and it became his duty in subsequent years to keep the walls of the shaft in good order. Clad in yellow oilskin I had often seen him getting into the cage to descend the shaft which is over half a mile deep.

We nippers could look down this black hole which appeared to narrow abruptly, and see Williams, not in the cage but ON it, walk about easily with trowel and cement board patching up holes where the river trickled in.

My mind ponders the might-have-beens of history. What if man had never discovered that there were coal seams? Let us imagine the scene when a company is formed for the purpose of "mining and merchandising coal.” A few officials gather round. A large circle is drawn in the grass to mark the opening of the yawning chasm out of which millions of tons of coal will issue forth. No thought is in the minds of these well-meaning men at this moment of ceremony in describing this circle of the hundreds of injured and dead bodies that will also issue forth!

How green, dewy and fresh is the beautiful vale which will eventually become so desecrated and contaminated by coal dust that even the flowers grow ill; the once infested trout stream looks more like ink; the linnets, finches and wagtails betake themselves to purer climes, away from the depredations of man. The sinker gets to work and the bowels of the earth are emptied. Where ? Anywhere ! On fernland, lee and dell. As the vomit increases more space is needed. Tipping gathers momentum, until, for miles Around the distilling of coal dust spoils all vegetation. Very old inhabitants tell me that a squirrel could travel on trees the length of the vale—so well-wooded was the hillside. In mv early boyhood, it would take a kangaroo to do that; But to-day we need a helicopter to take us from tree to tree - so devoid of trees has the place
become.

November 1956


Williams Sincwr or Williams the ponies?

[JohnPitt]

IT HAPPENED Chapter 5.
By "REGGIE"


The customs accompanying New Year's Day here in Wales have very largely died out. It remains now that the children rise early to wish their neighbours a happy new year in the hope of acquiring a few coppers. It was different years ago. At home we were six boys and we rose at six o'clock on New Year's morning in readiness to be on the road by 6.30, when the colliers' wives were still about after getting their husbands to work by seven o'clock when the day shift started in the mines. One of my brothers had lost a leg whilst playing near the colliery when he was eight and he appeared a pathetic figure leaning on his crutch with collecting box in hand doing the round of the streets. We always reckoned on his getting three times the amount of cash we netted. Since these days I have often wondered how much sleep the night men got on that day, as we were only one out of, say, a score of parties that rapped at the doors.

After the whole village had been wished "A Very Happy New Year " we had breakfast and again set out for the rest of the good things. In those days the shopkeepers used to " chuck out " as we called it. We might first explain that the village is much the same as depicted on the raditional Welsh picture post cards, with the terraces rising tier upon tier almost to the mountain top.

The shopkeeper would repair to an upper window, throw it open wide, and start throwing ranges into the road. By the time a few oranges had begun rolling, onward came the kiddies from all directions, scrambling over one another for the fruit. Soon some of the greedier boys thought of the idea of stuffing the fruit inside their shirts, and Jimmy, a big lad who towered above the rest, walked off the scene with his crest bulging out like a sophisticated sergeant major. We lived on a hill where the gradient was nearly one in one, and the apples and oranges bounced from the main road down this steep hill, being followed by half-a-dozen eager boys and girls falling over each other in an endeavour to reach the fruit.

Even the butcher had something to give away, and a shower of polonies from an upper window was no unfamiliar sight. Of course, the more strait-laced shopkeepers got the children to queue up orderly outside the shop at a certain time, when each was given a bag of sweets, nuts or whatever they had left over from their large Christmas stocks. One of the grocers, who was also a Justice of the Peace, arranged for the children to queue at the rear of his premises and give each one a penny and an orange. After the presentation he drew a cross with a large piece of chalk on the boys' backs to indicate that he had been served. Ingenious though it seemed, the lads were more ingenious and went home immediately to change their jacket and stand again in the happy queue.

Hot pennies thrown out from a frying pan was another trick designed to provide amusement. It was more like a game of football, because the only thing a boy could do was to put his foot on the penny until it cooled, but another boy would kick his foot away to claim the penny, so by the time it had changed feet a few times it was cool enough to be snatched up quickly and dropped in the pocket.

This J.P. I have mentioned had a stable in his garden that would house quite a few horses. He used to let it out to those traders unable to afford a stable of their own. I used to help a small baker brush and harness his horse in this stable yard, the door of which was too narrow to admit a cart. Only horses could pass this ordinary door with its adjoining flight of steps leading to the lane. The pony I had dressed on this particular day looked lovely as horses do when they feel fit, and I thought how nice it would be to ride him. As soon as the last trap was on him I caught hold of his collar, swung up and fancied I looked like a knight on a charger. The horse made straight for the doorway, and it looked as if the lintel was to hit me off his back. How fast can one act in such a predicament! and how profusely does one perspire! I dashed off that steed just in time, for I had read with horror of headless knights!

Even a funeral can be funny. The days of the public funerals are gone for good in this district, yet the memory lingers about those long corteges wending their way through the streets, holding up the traffic. Our nearest cemetery was three and a half miles away. People of all walks of life were present, and when the funeral undertaker arranged the men and women to walk in pairs one would never know who was going to be your partner, unless you arrived early enough to pair up with whom you wished. I was placed as second pair in one of these processions with an uncommunicative partner, but there was much entertainment, in store for me as the first pair were amateur pugilists, who talked all the way about the big fights they had witnessed. We had come to the town-centre of the next town and I had fully expected them to pipe down and set an example of walking reverently, but they were oblivious to surroundings. With more and more gesticulations, they probed the pros and cons of the fight, then, kneeling on the road one of them clenched his fist and sprang up, missing his partner's cheek by a hair. He was demonstrating the K.O. which sent the subject of this discussion prone on the ropes.

December 1956

Were they talking about Tylerstown's Jimmy Wilde who became world flyweight champion?

[JohnPitt]

IT HAPPENED Chapter 6.
By "REGGIE"

This was before the present parks were made. We lads used to make our own recreation. Mostly the shale tips were used for games as they had flat tops, suitable for football and bat and ball games. Also we often amused ourselves milking dens and caves in the shale once it had become solidified. To make these slag tips the colliery company had first to build arches over the streams which rushed down the mountainside. The nearer to the pithead the stream was the more of it had to be bridged, because there were many sidings and outhouses to occupy the room.

The culvert about which we are writing now was only about a hundred yards from home, and we often blocked up the entrance to it so as to make a paddling pool when the flow was feeble after a blazing summer. We forgot one evening to pull away the turves and old rags we had gathered for stuffing up its four foot high entrance. The water gradually rose during the night, and we heard next morning that Mr. Evans Top House had been rudely dragged out of bed to attend to his submerged hen-house in a neighbouring garden. Someone passing in the moonlight had observed this inundation by gurglings of water pouring into the gardens. Poor old Evans, clad in night clothes floundered through this mess and had the chickens all safe at last—in his bedroom!

After a while the water of the brook dried up entirely, leaving us with a dry culvert which gaped at us invitingly, as if to say, "Explore me." Now Mwcyn was a born organiser as well as being the oldest of our gang. He had recruited the bravest of the boys to explore this quarter-mile-long tunnel. Two candles were ready with a box of matches in Mwcyn's hand when he said, "I've got enough volunteers." The hollow sound of the voices as we entered
this culvert sent shivers down my spine. Soon big cobwebs dangled before our faces and slimy patches greeted our feet. We slithered and stumbled, the candle being flung out of the leader's hand. The complete darkness made the eeriness worse. Matches were struck and went out immediately with the strong draught running through. We couldn't find the candle so the reserve candle came into play, and we were on our way again.

Just over half way through this channel we noticed that the roof was becoming higher and there were steeply slanting boards, thick with slime to be descended, while the gradient was definitely becoming steeper. On hands and knees we were getting over the difficulty nicely when a swarm of rats rushed from under the boards. A short-lived panic was quelled by our leader, who soon had us on the march—or crawl— again. The candle had now burnt out, but straight in front of us we could see a very small circle of light. This was our last hope—to reach that light before we fainted from fear, and it looked too small a hole to get through. None of us was over seven years of age. Our fear now was the possibility of a sudden flood engulfing us at this crucial moment.

We eventually reached the spot of light that had grown larger and larger, and we found ourselves after reaching the end—marooned on a wall ! The culvert had ended half-way up the river wall. With difficulty we clambered down, all smelly and tired, and one thing we were all agreed upon : NEVER AGAIN !

As I said, a lot of our time was spent on these slag tips. We often watched the pit working, ringing up the dead horses from the mines to be buried in the tip. The horse was always brought up in the same fashion, hooves upwards, stuffed in a coal tram being drawn by a pit pony, never by the hauling winder. The reason for this we found later was that all burials were made at a point beyond the engine sheave. I wonder what our sanitary officials of today would say to some of these burials? Not a few horses were buried only a few yards from the miners' cottages. It seemed that the ponies had to die in midsummer, and the most odoriferous interred nearest to our homes. But we boys did not mind at all. There was pocket money for us in this pit pony business. After marking the spot and allowing several months to pass we would dig up the bones and hand them over to the rag-and-bone dealer. A thigh bone would fetch sixpence, which was a tremendous sum of money in those days. I visited this horse graveyard a few weeks ago and found that the miners have built gardens over the site. What toil and dogged perseverance and loads of manure must have gone into. bringing a slag heap into a pitch of tilth necessary to grow one's own table vegetables !

In byegone days no boundary whatsoever existed between the children's playing pitch and the tram-road of the colliery. We often crossed this tram-road to reach the mountain. It was inevitable that at some time or other a young child would be in trouble despite repeated warnings from his parents, " Don't play near the tram-road ! "

The continual ebb and flow of journeys of trams conveying shale to the tips had a fascination for young minds, and unless parents kept the children indoors interminably, they would be sure, at some time or other, to stand watching these trams. My elder brother, Teddv, had more than a fascination for watching these trams. He liked riding one of them, and although only eight years old he had the knack of swinging himself into them whilst in fast motion as he had often seen the experienced haulier do. One day he missed his footing, the left foot slipping' through the thick spokes of the wheel, and the foot wrenched off. Screams of pain attracted people in the houses bordering the playing field, and one of them had to run to the pit head to inform the winder what had happened, for there were no communicating wires between the colliery and the tip. It was while Teddy lay on the table at home with the floor bespattered with blood, being bound up by the surgeon, that the colliery staff were busy setting up communicating poles and wires. The claim for compensation was thus thwarted, but as a very generous gesture the Company made the concession that Teddy should have a new crutch as often as he needed one, made
by the colliery carpenter.

January 1957




Tramwheels of the kind that took off uncle "Teddy's" foot