An Outing

When Mervyn drove us to the bus last weekend (Oh, wow. Was that only last weekend?) he pointed out a former colliery (coal mine)(pit) that has been turned into a museum. He worked in the pit there for 32 years and said he loved every minute of it. Since brass bands started with coal miners and this entire region of Wales was created because of coal mines, we thought it important to visit. Because of coal mining, the population of the valley had grown from 550 in 1801 to 152,781 in 1911. I know, it’s a hundred years, but still, wow.

Keith learned about the train and off we went first thing this morning. The train platform is near the co-op, and I sent him to hurry to buy a beverage for me, as we had 18 minutes until the train was scheduled. I was having a dry, sticky mouth and thought I would be uncomfortable on the ride without a drink. (My heart was extra thumpy, as it is, and I was only able to go very slowly, so that is why I sent him instead of going myself.) Of course, the instant he disappeared into the store, I panicked that we would miss the train. I texted to forget it and come back. He reappeared soon and it wasn’t until he arrived at the platform that he pulled the cutest, tiniest sodas out of his pocket.

At the Welsh Mining Experience, we had about an hour to look at museum type displays before our scheduled tour. The time went very quickly. As with everything here, the displays looked longer than they actually are because everything is in both Welsh and English. Rhondda valley coal was sent all over the world, even powering the Titanic. The mine we visited pulled up 40 tons of coal/day during its heyday. It is considered a shallow mine, only 1400ft deep. The cages (lifts)(elevators) went 45 feet/sec. Per second! He said it was not for the faint of heart. Fifteen hundred men worked each of two shifts in the busy years leading up to WWI.

I think everyone knows that mining is really dangerous, but I was astounded to hear that an average of one miner died every six hours within the UK – at some point in history, at which point I have forgotten. I am thinking it was during the busiest time, in the years right before WWI. After WWI, the treaty of Versailles made Germany pay France and somewhere else in coal as reparations, and that cut a huge chunk out of the Rhondda Valley’s customers.

I took a picture of the signs below – one from the 80s because I thought it was comical, and the other because I was wondering if the management committee would severely deal with the mums or the children in our tour. (Ok, I wasn’t really upset or anything, but they were like an SNL skit of bad behavior and the sign struck me as funny in that context.)

Our guide, Graham, worked in the mine for 40 years. It was terrific to be able to ask questions and get answers from someone who lived it, rather than just learned it. It had been very quiet in the museum until just before our tour was scheduled. Three mums arrived with 8 children, aged about 4-8. They were without doubt the worst behaved children I have ever witnessed. It was extraordinary. Their feet never stopped moving. Literally. They ran, jumped, hopped, climbed, and stomped through the entire hour long tour. Their mothers did not intervene, except to explain several times that the one shouting over Graham was talking about Minecraft. (To be clear, just to explain, not to quiet him in any way.) Graham seemed to be made of patience. I felt a little happy that American kids weren’t this bad. (I do realize my sample size is very, very small.) We walked through the original buildings, then went through a great faux mine. We stayed and chatted with Graham for a while after the tour. We admired each other for our patience with the kids.

It took us about 25 minutes to walk from train to museum and I estimated we would not make the next train, but have to wait 30 minutes for the next next train. That made us linger a bit before setting off. As we went, I realized we were only going to miss the train by just a little bit, which frustrated me. We approached the station about four minutes after the train was scheduled and started up the stairs to go across to the correct side. Keith said the train hasn’t been there yet. It was running 6 minutes late, should be here in 1 minute. I said RUN! I scurried up the two flights of stairs (for those of you who know how fast I can go, imagine it. It’s hilarious to even think about it. I am slow.) I scurried over the track and the train was in sight as I started down the steps. Keith was not running. He did not seem to be hurrying. I got there in time. And so did he. We hopped on the train for home. WIN! (I was feeling extremely victorious. Keith just looked sleepy. That is probably because I accidently woke him up at 4:20am and it was his turn not to be able to get back to sleep.)

We were going to look at the Pizza/Döner shops for lunch as a treat on the walk home. Both were closed. Only open for dinner. I suggested we stop in at the butcher. There are pasties and meat things in the window and that struck me as something Keith would like. We had to queue outside, as it is small and only two people allowed in at a time. I splurged and had a Sunday roast dinner, and Keith had a Cornish pasty and a faggot. (Ooooo. I said an offensive word. But it’s not here.) It is a local specialty, I guess. We asked a lady we were queueing with what it was and she said it was the reason to be there. It is a meatball in a gravy. She said they were originally made with offal, but now it’s just pork. (Offal is just pork, if you think about it.) Keith liked it a lot.