MORNING SERIAL

THEN came yellow, then orange, then red, then the most delicious black ones only at the end, when we were nearly home again.

Our route generally took us southwards along the old canal bank, and we walked it many times, in all the seasons of the year. We’d join the pathway part way up the hill leading to the cemetery, just where the old Aberfan railway station had once been. This railway track had been long since abandoned, leaving only one line, on the Merthyr Vale side of the valley. The old track bed was still walkable in places though, and ran by constraint of topology pretty much parallel to the route of the old canal.

We would pass the threestorey backs of Bryn Taff on our right, then Kingsley Terrace, then Pleasant View. Then we reached the old lock house, still there, though marooned for good now and bereft of its old purpose since the canal had silted up years before and the last barge had long since made its way to Cardiff, never to return.

Passing the lock house meant that we were now entering the nearest thing to proper countryside our valley could boast. Here we left the village behind. The cliffs of the Darren were on our right, and could be seen through the foliage of enormous beech trees rooted amongst a tumble of boulders, some of them as big as houses. These were the result of another, natural, landslide, one that had happened long before our village had ever existed, back when our valley was ancient woodland, and the River Taff had salmon in it, leaping their way back to their spawning grounds.

There was a line of electricity pylons here, running along the face of the cliff, roped together like mountaineers.

It was rumoured that halfway up the cliff face was a small cave called “Cromwell’s Cave”. This was because it had been used as a hiding place by royalist fugitives who were fleeing Cromwell’s New Model Army. Or by Roundheads who were fleeing vengeful Cavaliers. It depended on who was telling the story.