Not quite foetal, but folded up tight, we rattled into the darkness, the only light a beam at the front of the little train, probing a black hole ahead. Without warning we were in a huge cavern; released from the tunnel and then from the miner’s carriage, we stretched ourselves upward to gloomy infinity.
A cathedral atmosphere swirled about our little group, the distant air of menace to be found in the hubris of a house of God only enhanced by the dank smell of the earth’s bowels. Our guide led us down a flight of rough-hewn steps to a chapel-like cave. Light from a single bulb brought relief as it spilled from its narrow entrance. Inside it illuminated the slate bench and table that in times past had served as a place of rest for long dead men.
One miner sat, forever frozen, with his galvanised lunch box partly open. A meal, never to be consumed, lurked inside. Another miner stood, pouring a drink, the tea permanently in transit from billycan to mug. Everywhere was a film of dust; nothing of artifice here though.
The tiny grey particles, lying benignly over the tableaux, could not poison the lungs of the mannequins on show but in the past, so great were the numbers of breathless flesh and blood men dying, coughing and spitting from its depredations that life expectancy in this part of Cambria was the lowest in the country.
Whilst Welsh slate had roofed the world a huge enterprise thrived, its owners revelling in their fortunes. Meanwhile miners, like monster moles, slaved underground to feed its insatiable demand, only to die young. Now with the market gone, the industry itself is reduced to satisfying the curious on wet holiday afternoons.
A cathedral atmosphere swirled about our little group, the distant air of menace to be found in the hubris of a house of God only enhanced by the dank smell of the earth’s bowels. Our guide led us down a flight of rough-hewn steps to a chapel-like cave. Light from a single bulb brought relief as it spilled from its narrow entrance. Inside it illuminated the slate bench and table that in times past had served as a place of rest for long dead men.
One miner sat, forever frozen, with his galvanised lunch box partly open. A meal, never to be consumed, lurked inside. Another miner stood, pouring a drink, the tea permanently in transit from billycan to mug. Everywhere was a film of dust; nothing of artifice here though.
The tiny grey particles, lying benignly over the tableaux, could not poison the lungs of the mannequins on show but in the past, so great were the numbers of breathless flesh and blood men dying, coughing and spitting from its depredations that life expectancy in this part of Cambria was the lowest in the country.
Whilst Welsh slate had roofed the world a huge enterprise thrived, its owners revelling in their fortunes. Meanwhile miners, like monster moles, slaved underground to feed its insatiable demand, only to die young. Now with the market gone, the industry itself is reduced to satisfying the curious on wet holiday afternoons.