A Simple Life in the Welsh Valleys: Coming of Age in the 1950s

A memoir of community, faith and family in rural Wales

The rooster’s crow woke me as the sun’s first rays of light slipped through the window.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and slipped out of bed, shivering as my bare feet touched the cold wooden floorboards.

In the kitchen, Mam was already busy stirring a pot of porridge over the cast iron stove.

“Morning Keith,” she said warmly, “come help lay the table for breakfast.”

I set down three bowls while Mam readied steaming plates of eggs and bacon alongside thick slices of homemade bread.

We said grace and tucked into our meal, ravenous after a long night’s rest.

Da wouldn’t join us yet as he worked the late shift at the Celynen South coal mine on Saturdays.

Once the dishes were done, I went out to play with my friends until it was time to dress for Sunday school.

We laughed and played together in the lanes between the stone houses, kicking an old leather ball until mothers’ calls summoned their children inside to scrub up.

Reluctantly, I said goodbye to my friends and went in to change from my old clothes to my white shirt and black pants as Mam brushed dirt from my cheeks.

Dressed and ready, we made the short walk through the village to Cae Gorlan Chapel’s Sunday school.

I sang hymns, said my prayers, and listened eagerly to tales from the Bible, cherishing this special time each week.

All too soon, the lessons ended, and I joined Mam for the main service held next door.

As the kindly parish minister spoke, I gazed around at the faces, feeling God’s presence surrounding us.

Afterwards, we met Da emerging tired but content from the pit head baths.

“Come on boy, let’s get some dinner into you,” he said, putting an arm around my shoulders.

I was indeed hungry, looking forward to Mam’s roast awaiting us at home.

Winters were long and cold in the valleys, with heavy snowfall sometimes blocking the winding mountain roads for days.

On those bleak evenings, we would huddle around the fire, telling stories and singing old Welsh folk songs handed down through generations.

In summer, the landscape transformed into a verdant green paradise.

Wildflowers bloomed everywhere, and the air was heady with their sweet scents.

My friends and I played outside from dawn until dusk, swimming in mountain pools, climbing trees, and catching frogs down by the riverbank.

All too soon each year, it was time for the new school term to start once more.

I began attending the village primary school a short walk away, learning my letters, numbers, and the history of our little community.

Recess times were spent playing rugby or rounders in the yard with classmates, shrieking with laughter.

The years passed by in a joyous, carefree blur, it seemed.

I will forever cherish those memories of life in the Welsh valleys.

You can read more stories like this one by following the link to Tales from the Welsh Valleys — Growing Up in Rural Wales

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