On Friday 21st October 1966, I would have been in school. Wick Road Junior School in Brislington, Bristol. My mum would have walked me to the school gates and then carried on to nearby Sandy Park Road where she would have caught a bus into town in order to go to work. On that day, of the children who attended Pantglas School in Aberfan, South Wales, 116 would never go home. At 9.13am, the clocks stopped forever.
A colliery spoil tip collapsed and sent a torrent of slurry down the mountain, engulfing Pantglas Junior School and nearby homes, killing 144 people. The country was in shock.
I am not sure if I remember the actual day of the disaster. It is entirely possible that my memory has been influenced by what I saw and read about later. I would have been at my grandparents’ house after school when my mum would return from work, collect me and we would walk home. There were only two TV channels in those days and I am sure that the tiny black and white TV set in the corner of the room would have been on, with the terrible news coming from the South Wales valleys.
The BBC news was broadcast live from the town. The legendary journalist Cliff Michelmore stood before the rubble, illuminated by powerful floodlights. He was clearly in tears as he started to speak: “I don’t know how to begin. Never in my life have I seen anything like this. I hope I shall never see anything like it again.” Again, I am not sure if I remember Michelmore’s actual report from that terrible day. But it doesn’t matter. Having heard it many times since, it is arguably the most powerful reporting I have ever seen and heard.
Five or six years ago, my partner and I were on a mini-break in Hay-On-Wye, a bucket list destination with an incredible concentration of book shops. Driving home, we decided rather on the hoof to take a detour via the Heads of the Valley Road to Aberfan.
Aberfan is a small former mining town, just south of Merthyr Tydfil. We left the main road and arrived at the Memorial Garden, which stands on the site of the old school. We walked up the steps and into the garden. The air, I felt, was heavy with history. Without the signs, you would hardly know there had ever been a school or for that matter a colliery spoil tip up the mountain. But once you were in the garden, you were able to learn where the classrooms were. It was extremely affecting.
At no point did we even consider taking photographs of the area. I guess we realised that this was hardly a tourist venue. The tragedy was, in any case, etched in our minds, where the best pictures are kept. I hope we were respectful, speaking in hushed tones, when we spoke at all. There were no words that could add to what had happened here, little to describe the emotions we felt just by being in the same place.
We now know that the Aberfan tragedy, as with so many other tragedies, was wholly avoidable and the neglect of the National Coal Board remains a national disgrace. I do not propose debating anything about the scandal that surrounds Aberfan because this is about remembering something that happened 60 years ago, above all the people who lost their lives and their loved ones. But if you do want to learn more, I recommend you read this book. All I will say is that when it comes to terrible tragedies, so many happen due to negligence and poor decision-making, whether it’s Aberfan, Grenfell or Hillsborough. And the guilty never seem to pay for their crimes, if that’s what you call their negligence and poor decision-making.
For my generation, Aberfan became etched forever in our memories. 144 people, 116 of whom were young children, perished. Aberfan meant tragedy. It still does. It is good that we remember this most awful of accidents so future generations do not allow similar incidents to occur.
Today, my thoughts are with the people of Aberfan.
