Geraint Roberts - Ramblings of a would-be published novelist

Mist and Ice

Today it is -3.5. Not much if you are from some parts of the globe, but in this damp climate it gets inside your bones. The mist covers everything creating shadows in the gloom. Snow covers the land and ice is under foot as the previous day's melted fall becomes solid once more.

My pet project, the novel, is set in Ceredigion. Currently the time I am working on is 1887. I am sitting in my warm office imagining the scene now of an ordinary day's work. The valley is cold, the hills shelter a lot of sun, giving the snow time to collect. The wind and the hill contours allow drifts to form. I went up and studied the old mine in this weather once. I was fortified by a thermos of hot honey and lemon, which was a godsend for my bones felt the cold. Those who worked outside in 1887 or underground would not have had the benefit of a thermos. They would have been lucky to have a warm drink before returning home. Well, nigh on miraculous, unless they were lucky and worked close to fire.

The drifts were heavy in parts, I managed to jump in one and sank to my shoulders . In 1887, without the benefit of snowploughs, gritters or landrovers, the roads would cover pretty quickly.

The man leaves the relative warmth of his cottage, a dimly lit, smokey and stuffy place, but relatively dry. He walks down the road, coat lapels up and flat hat as tight as can be to keep warm. The tops of his ears get it though. His hands grasp the front of his jacket to keep out the cold. They are rough hands, more immune to cold than mine, even so they are soon stiff. He walks stiffly, slowly through the snow. Each step takes him up to his ankles, so soon his boots and socks and the bottom of his trousers are damp, clammy cold damp. His toes have stopped complaining of the cold, they are past that. On a day like this, a cut can go untreated, because you don't feel it. That could lead to frostbite or gangrene if you don't keep an eye on your hands and feet.

He walks past a lake, frozen and still. The land is like a photographic negative and there is no sign of life. His feet take him onward, up the hills and down until he stands overlooking the mine. A collection of buildings, lakes and spoil. No great pit heads, but many waterwheels now solid with the frozen water. They will require clearing with pickaxes. If it is too bad, they just won't work. The wheels pump water, they take water from the depths of the mine they send water to the machines that grind and seperate the ore from the waste. If it is too bad and the mine is too wet, perhaps the man won't get any work. He won't be able to reach his pitch underground. It will be flooded. If he can't get to do any other work, such as clearing ice above, he won't get paid. In this land, the miners are paid for what ore they produce. This mine is richer than some and has some steam pumping engines, though they are little used, as coal is an expensive commodity here. Today they are going well and the man wonders if he can call on a few favours from the boilerman and get a brew.

If he gets to go underground, he must negotiate ladder after ladder climbing down below. The metal under each rung will make his hands feel frozen as he grips them. Perhaps underground he will feel warmer. If he goes deep enough, far enough in. Away from the savage wind. His body will warm to the hard labour also. The digging and shovelling will cause his body to sweat. On a really bad day, the sweat will feel frozen on him if he stops, causing his muscles to shiver. So breaks are kept to a minimum. If he is unlucky enough to have to hold a drill, for others to hammer into the rock, he will bound his hands with rags, but will still feel the cold iron sear his flesh. If he is trying to lay a charge, he will find his fingers will not work properly to tie knots, to grasp the bung of a powder keg, to strike a flint to fire it.

Then there's the climb back at the end of the day. Muscles complaining, hands trembling through cold and fatigue and back into the cold wind, now colder as it is dark. Perhaps a blizzard has started making the walk back even harder. At home, perhaps a wife not working for young children, perhaps older generations too old to do the work anymore. Perhaps they have made a fire, put on a brew for tea. Tea is the drink that cures all ills, that provides some sustenance with your bread and jam or vegetables. Today, it will be nothing short of a life restorer, a brief warmth before the man retires to a straw bed with damp blankets to instantly sleep and let the body recover for it all to start again on the morrow.

I look around the office where I am sitting. perhaps it's no longer such a bad place any more...

posted by Geraint @ 10:21 am