In which The Author goes above and beyond
the call of duty
In the last seven days I’ve acquired over a dozen new books, read most of an unpublished book in minute detail, taken over two hundred photographs, visited four war memorials, and been to church twice in as many days.
I’d been hoping for a fairly quiet week. Fat chance!
My friend Geoff Evans is a very keen historian with a broad range of interests. I told you about his enormous collection of theatrical memorabilia in Television Killed the Variety Star. I mentioned then that he’s been toying with the idea of compiling a book about the old theatres and cinemas of Wales, based on his extensive knowledge of the subject.
That’s just one publishing avenue which Geoff’s explored over the years. He’s contributed articles to the Cynon Valley History Society’s semi-regular journal Old Aberdare, and others to Merthyr Historian; he compiles Hanes, the society’s quarterly newsletter; he’s also written accounts of St John’s Church and St Elvan’s Church in Aberdare, a history of the Aberdare Rotary Club, and co-edited an anthology of writings about the Cynon Valley, amongst other things. As you’ve probably guessed, since his retirement, he’s been able to devote a lot of his time to his hobbies.
In For the Fallen I explored the myth about Aberdare’s so-called ‘cenotaph’, the war memorial in Victoria Square. Geoff and I were talking about that entry several months ago, and he told me that he’d been ploughing a similar furrow for some time. He was very grateful to learn that my correspondence with the War Memorials Trust had saved him from pursuing the same line of enquiry.
I didn’t know it at the time, but his latest project is a history of the war memorials within the Cynon Valley, designed to coincide with the centenary of the First World War. At some point during my visit to Geoff’s home in June, I seem to have (been?) volunteered to proofread the entire book.
In the meantime, my ongoing Vanishing Valleys project has taken me to towns and villages throughout South Wales. On my travels I’ve photographed numerous memorials to servicemen from the local areas. I’ve been familiar with a lot of them for years, of course; others are relatively recent discoveries. In particular, the ‘cenotaph’ in Aberdare and the Clock Tower in Hirwaun have been part of my mental landscape for as long as I can remember. However, it’s only recently that I’ve taken the time to take a close look at them, and others which I’ve passed hundred of times over the years.
The monuments in this first batch of photos were erected by public subscription, to honour the ‘lions led by donkeys’ who never returned home from the Great War for whatever reason. Most of them are in pride of place in the towns and villages; one or two are a little bit harder to find. They all have heartbreaking tales to tell, as I’ve been finding out for myself over the last month or so.
I know it’s not in the Cynon Valley, but this is one of my favourite recent discoveries. I love the understated dignity of the memorial at Trelewis, near Nelson.
This next one was new to me until a couple of years ago. The war memorial in Mountain Ash is especially beautiful. It’s some distance from the town centre, in Duffryn Woods, alongside the minor road to Cefnpennar. Surrounded by mature trees, approached by a narrow path from the Gorsedd Circle, it almost feels as though it’s been transported from the battle sites of France. Representing Britannia triumphant over ‘Might’, it’s a striking and emotive piece of work. Unfortunately, the bronze panels were stolen in 2008, and the restored version apparently does not reflect its original glory.
In addition to the ‘cenotaph’ and the local memorials, there are (or rather were) a number of rolls of honour throughout the valley. Some of them survive, but others have been lost over the years. Here’s one example:
The Aberdare Urban District Council & Education Committee Roll of Honour used to be on the frontage of the old town hall in High Street. I took the original photo when it was still there. When the building was being renovated a couple of years ago, it was relocated to the foyer of Aberdare Library.
Until I mentioned the subject some way into my Vanishing Valleys project, it hadn’t even occurred to me that Trecynon doesn’t have a conspicuous war memorial. It turns out that there’s a Roll of Honour in St Fagan’s Church, a few minutes’ walk from my house. I still haven’t been along to check it out. It’s on my ‘to do’ list – along with about three hundred other items. Priorities, priorities …
To my mind, though, Aberdare’s most impressive war memorial isn’t the one in Victoria Square. A six-metre slab of granite on a traffic island is all very well, but it doesn’t give you the full story. The memorial which really fleshes out the bones is in St Elvan’s Church, the magnificent Victorian Gothic edifice which dominates the skyline of the town centre.
I hadn’t been inside St Elvan’s for about thirty years, so when Geoff told me that he’d been researching the stories behind the memorial there, it piqued my interest. A week ago, I decided to call into the church. St Elvan’s has been open to the public on Saturday mornings throughout the summer, and it seemed like a perfect opportunity to see the memorial for myself.
By now, I’d enlisted Clint. Geoff’s own photos weren’t great (as he’ll readily admit), so I roped in our resident Photoshopper to lend a hand. We met up in the Chapel of St Michael and All Angels, which was added to the church in 1911 and formally dedicated as a war memorial chapel in 1919. Here, finally, I saw the inspiration for Geoff’s current project.
These great oak panels list the names of 222 men from the Parish of Aberdare who died in, or shortly after, the Great War. As Geoff himself has written,
The men … came from all sections of the community, and the list of casualties include coal miners, bank clerks, a solicitor, a cellist in the orchestra of a local theatre, a landowner, a local hairdresser, fondly known as ‘Snips’, teachers, tram drivers, local footballers, and four former public school pupils. These men once walked the same streets we use today, were members of local churches and chapels, sang in local choirs, took part in sporting activities, attended the town’s cinemas and enjoyed the society of local pubs.
Clint and I spent ages in the church, taking hundreds of photos between us and chatting to Fr Robert Davies and his wife Christina. I’ve known Fr Robert by sight for years, and we’ve shaken hands at a couple of funerals, but we’d never spoken in detail until last Saturday.
They’re a fantastic couple, very approachable and welcoming. They told us about their recent holiday in Greece, where they’d made a point of visiting the graves of three Aberdare men who fell during the campaign there. Christina studied photography at university, and we chatted for ages about the good old days, where we really had to be conscious of the cost of film and processing. Clint has missed his true calling; he should have been a crime scene photographer, as he found every nook and cranny of the church.
They gave us the run of the building, and Fr Robert even took us up a very narrow spiral staircase into the tower. Here, we came up close and personal to the clock and the eight mighty bells. You definitely need a head for heights to venture up there! Unfortunately, the clock mechanism is enclosed in a timber surround to protect it, but the resounding hollow ticking filled the small chamber.
Clint is a steampunk enthusiast, as I’ve mentioned previously, and Fr Robert is a SF fan too. Just the small part of the workings which we could see was fascinating, and strangely out of place in the year 2014. We were in the room as it chimed the quarter. It was quite thrilling to hear the hands move, and the steady winding of the chain to strike the bell. I’d like to record the sound there one day, as it’s a really atmospheric space.
After spending a good couple of hours exploring the church, Clint and I thanked Fr Robert and Christina for their hospitality, and headed back into town. When I got to the pub, I realised I’d left my glasses behind. I walked back round to the main gates, but they were locked. I rang the vicarage, explained what had happened, and Fr Robert offered to come back into town and help me search for them. Fair play to him. I told him there wasn’t any great rush, and arranged to meet him after the service on Sunday morning.
Thus it was that I paid my second visit to church, less than twenty-four hours later. When I poked my head in at lunchtime on Sunday, I thought the parishioners had decided to mark the centenary of the war by re-enacting the Battle of the Somme. A few people have told me that Fr Robert is keen on incense, but I hadn’t taken them at their word. I made my way through the clouds of smoke and greeted him as he was chatting to some of the older worshippers.
He ushered me in and I started retracing my steps through the church, but to no avail. I told him that they’d probably turn up, and made a note of my phone number in case someone handed them in during the week. While we were chatting, I mentioned that the only other place they might be was in the bell tower. The leader of the ringers happened to be within earshot, and said that he’d spotted a glasses case on the parapet of the bell room. He unlocked the door to the spiral staircase and returned a minute later, holding my glasses.
By now I’d written my phone number down, so I gave it to Christina anyway, in case she thought of anything which I needed to bring to Geoff’s attention. I might even have got the gig for proofreading the Parish Magazine – although, as my friend Gareth remarked when I bumped into him the next day, the compilers probably won’t change the habit of a lifetime.
On Thursday I made my way to Abercynon, back up to Penrhiwceiber, and thence to Mountain Ash. I needed to re-shoot the memorials which I’d lost in the Great Hardware Crash of 2008. I’ve also pencilled in a visit to Ynysybwl some time in the next couple of weeks, to check out the memorial there.
But not next Saturday.
On 13 September, Geoff’s giving a talk about his research, in St Elvan’s Church, Aberdare, at 2 p.m. It’s part of the Rhondda Cynon Taf Open Doors initiative, during which historic buildings throughout the county borough welcome visitors from near and far.
By then, Geoff, Clint and I should have a pretty much completed book to take to the printers. The Cynon Valley History Society have agreed to publish it, and it’s due to hit the shelves on 11 November, which is Armistice Day, of course. We’ll have to take a trip to Dinefwr Press at Llandybie to talk through the technical details, of course, but it’s great experience for us all. Clint and I will even get a mention in dispatches.
All I have to do in the meantime is to stop Geoff from adding any more new material. I’ve already promised to collaborate with him on a second revised edition, to mark the centenary of the armistice. At this rate, we might actually finish it by 2018. Watch this space…
Being a Non-Linear Account of the Life and Opinions of The Author, Cross-referenced and Illustrated, with Occasional Hesitations, Repetitions and Deviations.
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