Life without coal
Alan Gibson
perhaps the most sympathetic argument that the miners have used in the strike is that pit closures would destroy communi- ties. Villages, small towns, with a loved life of their own, built up over many years, would be derelict. There is always some- thing sad about a deserted village, even if 'Wealth accumulates and men decay', even if it has not itself been a thing of beauty. I live in a village which was, not so long ago, entirely dependent on coal. Here at High Littleton we are the middle of what was °nee the North Somerset coalfield. The last pit, Kilmersdon, closed in 1973.
Everyone knows about Somerset, or imagines they do. Somerset is where the cider apples grow. It is where the green hills go rolling — or is it striding to the sea? It is where Alfred burnt the cakes, a considerable achievement since he had to do it at Athelney, which spends much of its time under water. We're all king's men in Somerset, as we were long years ago, cries the song: another piece of nonsense, be- cause one of the epics of the Civil War was 8Iake's defence of Taunton, for the Parlia- ment. Summoned to surrender, on the Point of being starved out, he replied that he still had three pairs of boots left, and Would eat two of them first. You can see his statue at his home town, Bridgwater. Later he took to the sea. He was probably abetter admiral than Nelson: Nelson won his battles against much feebler opposition. Somerset was also, it has been said, where Jesus landed, at Glastonbury on the Isle of Avalon, with 'his uncle, Joseph of Ari- inathea'. Arthur on the improbable assumption that he ever existed, is buried at Glastonbury. Et cetera. A long and lovely catalogue. But we do not often think of Somerset as industrial territory. Coal was worked here, in the northern Part of the county, near Bristol and Bath, for centuries: possibly as far back as Roman times. Down and Warrington, in their History of the Somerset Coalfield,
record 79 pits which have existed since 1750, though not all of them lived very long.
Coal mining (and I write as a miner's son, with some background information) has always been a dirty and dangerous business, and the Somerset mines can never have quite harmonised with the rest of the county. But what were the Welsh valleys like before they were mined? 'Look what the bastards did to Wales!' Aneurin Bevan is reported to have said as he surveyed the wreck of what had once been a beautiful valley. We did not suffer so badly down here. We had some thoughtful coal-owners,. notably the Jarretts of Camerton and .the Rees-Moggs (yes, that family) of Clutton. It was because of such ownership that strikes, even in hard times, were rare. But the coal was not so good. The seams were thin. The great port of Bristol, the natural market of first inst- ance, preferred Welsh coal, even though it meant bringing it across the Channel. So it petered out. There are still a few slag- heaps around, and a lot of those knobbly little green hills where the grass has co- vered the slag. But nearly all the equip- ment was taken away for scrap, and you could walk for miles about our pleasant countryside without realising you had been walking in coal country.
I came back to High Littleton, which may stand for many neighbouring villages. How have we fared? There have been losses. For one thing, the railways have gone, because most of their trade was in freight. The Somerset Coal Canal is mostly a brambled dry ditch. We are only about a dozen miles from Bath and Bristol, but buses are rare and eccentric. For another thing, there used to be three pubs in the village, when the miners had money to spend, but now there is only one. For a third, the village does tend to separate into two parts: the commuters (teachers, dons, businessmen, social workers) and the loc- als. You might almost say that the division can be marked by the doors between the parlour and the public bar at The Star. Some like juke-boxes, some don't.
Yet I think we are a happy village. We have no vandals, barring one family who become less of a nuisance as they grow older, and spend more time in jail. There is some unemployment, but not very much, compared to the country as a whole. An old-established printing firm from the neighbouring small town of Paulton, Pur- nell's, had a fine new factory built, playing fields and all, with some government assist- ance. They have had occasional bothers at Purnell's, now part of the IPC, notably at the time when the future of the Observer was in doubt, since they were responsible for its colour supplement. But redundancy has not been high. Most of the sons and grandsons of the miners are printers. They are not so high up the league table for wages, but it is a pleasanter job.
High Littleton is not one of the chocolate-box villages. A run down the main street (which is practically all there is, except for two or three small housing estates branching off) still suggests the mining tradition of stern, grey cottages. The common accent is sharp, with an industrial twang, not the old Somerset burr. The centre of life is the pub. It ought to be the church (an admirable mediaeval building) but the church does rather keep itself to itself, or its own small flock. The one remaining Methodist chapel, though it has no minister of its own, is a much livelier affair. But it is on The Star that most of the communal action centres. The landlord, a former policeman, has two darts teams running, two at pool, one at shove-ha'penny, and has hopes for a skittle alley soon. We have a soccer side, for which The Star sponsored jerseys. We even entered a rugby side for the Clifton Pub Sevens last year, and won our first two matches. We have an excellent representa- tive on the district council, and a post- master who, apart from running his busi- ness efficiently, is working on a book about the history of the village, though he is so conscientious about it that I sometimes wonder if he will ever finish it. What we have not yet achieved, though the battle is in progress, is a village hall, badly needed.
There is no need for a village, because what it has believed to be its staff of life is snatched away, to become a desert. Yet in a wistful way we do miss the mines. Old Mr Hathway died last year, one of the last of the `Greyfields' men (Greyfields was the biggest colliery in the field early in this century). His son is the village bookmaker, and one of his grandsons a Methodist local preacher. We can still see the old names on the maps and the signposts: Woody Heigh- grove, Frys Bottom, Bilboa, Sweetleaze, Vobster, Ruth's Arse (I have never disco- vered where Ruth's Arse is, but it is in the records). Oh yes, we are proud of our mining tradition. But I doubt if, should the opportunity be given, there would be a rush to return. For better or worse, that's that.
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