“ Just as people shape a place, the place shapes us.”
My father grew up in the mining village of Cwmcarn, in South Wales. The Pit was the centre of town. Generations of men made their way underground each morning and returned to the pithead each evening blackened with soot. That’s what men did. The Pit was the lifeblood of the town.
The house where my father was born stood in a row of miner’s cottages built on the edge of a stream called, Millbrook, not far from the pithead. The town was shrouded in coal dust and surrounded by slag heaps but to my father it was home. He never mentioned the coal dust or the slag heaps, he talked about climbing the mountains above the town, of picking wimberries when they were in season and his mother making wimberry pies and wimberry jam. He talked about learning to catch trout by hand in the mountain streams by tickling their tummy. He did what boys did, while he waited in line to be the next generation to make their way underground to dig coal and earn a living.
My father grew up in the mining village of Cwmcarn, in South Wales. The Pit was the centre of town. Generations of men made their way underground each morning and returned to the pithead each evening blackened with soot. That’s what men did. The Pit was the lifeblood of the town.
The house where my father was born stood in a row of miner’s cottages built on the edge of a stream called, Millbrook, not far from the pithead. The town was shrouded in coal dust and surrounded by slag heaps but to my father it was home. He never mentioned the coal dust or the slag heaps, he talked about climbing the mountains above the town, of picking wimberries when they were in season and his mother making wimberry pies and wimberry jam. He talked about learning to catch trout by hand in the mountain streams by tickling their tummy. He did what boys did, while he waited in line to be the next generation to make their way underground to dig coal and earn a living.
Cwmcan mountain stream 1984
Up on the mountaintops in 1984
Cwmcarn village set in the valley, 1984
Cwmcarn became as much a part of who he was as the blood pulsing through his veins. The harsh and brutal valley life shaped the boy into the man who emerged, courageous, adventurous and determined. I have no doubt that while he embraced life in Australia, he left a significant part of his heart in that small Welsh valley.
His roots were there, grown deep into the soil of a mining community who understood hardship, tragedy and mateship. Someone said, “To be rooted is perhaps the most important and least recognised need of the human soul.”
His roots were there, grown deep into the soil of a mining community who understood hardship, tragedy and mateship. Someone said, “To be rooted is perhaps the most important and least recognised need of the human soul.”
People in my father's village had a relationship with place in a way few of us do today, especially if we dwell in cities. Place was essential for their survival as they relied on the ground for their existence. So often today place is a mere background to our busy lives.
All of our stories happen somewhere. Every memory involves a place … your first day at school, your first kiss and the time you broke your arm, bought a boat or met your best friend. Place shapes us, it is an integral part of our history.
Just last week, I was heading into Coles to buy some groceries when a woman coming towards me spoke my name. I was surprised she recognised me, I hadn’t seen her for about 35 years. She was my neighbour when I was a young mum, raising my family. Within minutes we were back in that place, chatting as we had done over the fence all those years ago. A place we’d once shared united us again as the past collided with the present. In that beautiful serendipitous moment I was reminded that we may move on in life but the past places of our existence will always remain part of who we are.
It makes me realise that where I am at this moment is precious. This place is not some incidental to my life but an intrinsic part of it. God has a purpose for me in this place and I want to embrace it, savour it, share it and make it the best it can be. I want to build memories in this place and know it with more than a cursory acquaintance, I want to know it with my heart.
I hope you'll take a moment to gaze at your place with fresh eyes, discover its uniqueness, find a sense of place right there where you are.
Take a few minutes to watch this delightful video clip -
A Sense of Place.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1YMwRe6YkiI
All of our stories happen somewhere. Every memory involves a place … your first day at school, your first kiss and the time you broke your arm, bought a boat or met your best friend. Place shapes us, it is an integral part of our history.
Just last week, I was heading into Coles to buy some groceries when a woman coming towards me spoke my name. I was surprised she recognised me, I hadn’t seen her for about 35 years. She was my neighbour when I was a young mum, raising my family. Within minutes we were back in that place, chatting as we had done over the fence all those years ago. A place we’d once shared united us again as the past collided with the present. In that beautiful serendipitous moment I was reminded that we may move on in life but the past places of our existence will always remain part of who we are.
It makes me realise that where I am at this moment is precious. This place is not some incidental to my life but an intrinsic part of it. God has a purpose for me in this place and I want to embrace it, savour it, share it and make it the best it can be. I want to build memories in this place and know it with more than a cursory acquaintance, I want to know it with my heart.
I hope you'll take a moment to gaze at your place with fresh eyes, discover its uniqueness, find a sense of place right there where you are.
Take a few minutes to watch this delightful video clip -
A Sense of Place.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1YMwRe6YkiI
Footnote: Photos. Sixty years after my father left Cwmcarn, I had the joy of going to see where he had grown up. There was no coal dust or slag heaps, just a green, green valley. Millbrook still flowed from the mountainside but the miner’s cottages were long gone and a memorial marked the spot where once the Pit had been. The mountaintops, once denuded to build and maintain the mines, had been reforested and the wimberries were coming into flower in anticipation of a summer harvest.
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