You will be hung for stealing a sheep from the mountain, but for stealing the mountain you will be made a Lord.
My name is Owen and I’m a slate miner…. My father is a slate miner as was my grandpa…. As are my three brothers.
This morning we are walking back down the mountain and going home. Down in the valley, a mornings walk away, is our house. I can just see it in the distance and it looks very welcoming.
For three weeks we have been on the mountain, up on the high terrace, cutting slate. It’s October and the rain hasn’t stopped, so a warm coal fire and some home cooking will be much appreciated. I expect we’ll have a rabbit stew tonight or if we’re lucky some mutton.
As I look down on the slate roofs of Dinorwic, a feeling of comfort embraces me……. Home!!
It’s been a harsh three weeks. The slate, being wet, is very slippery….. like ice. All I have is a rope and a crowbar, and in the rain and the wind, I feel lucky to be coming down in one piece. Rhys, our neighbour fell off his perch six days ago and is probably laid out on the mortuary slab today.
Life on the mountain is cheap.
Our Lord is a harsh man and although we get paid a ‘piece rate’ for what we produce, by him….. he takes out all ‘wastage’, directly from our pay packets.
So we as a family cut out a ton of slate from the top terraces, they’re moved down to where the Griffith family are in the lower terrace. In turn they split the blocks into smaller pieces and move them down the mountain….. this happens until the smaller blocks arrive in the water powered workshops in the valley. Other members of our village then split the slate into roofing tiles and flag stones and stack them onto the rail cars. They then go to the port of Caernarvon and are sent to New York, Auckland, Sidney, Halifax and Capetown…. All over the world. By the time the slate tiles arrive at their destination, there are some broken tiles. This quantity is deducted from the total and then deducted from our wages!!!! Yes, unfair, but this is our lot.
When I get back home I’ll have to pay a visit to the company shop and buy some new boots and a rope. The one I have has stretched and is fraying. My mallet is splitting so I should perhaps buy a new one, but it’s all so expensive, and may not leave me with much left to give to my mama.
Since the 1880s we have been trying to organise into one of those new trade unions, but our Lord has made it very difficult for us. He’s a vengeful man.!
Our Lord, Baron Penrhyn, (isn’t even a local man), now lives in a palace near the water and is much reviled by us. It is said that in the next village over, the 80 men who worked his quarry near Bethesda, were fired for not voting for his son in the elections…. A despicable man!
The menfolk then couldn’t pay the rents on their cottages and most families were evicted.
Ahhhh, I can hear Gareth singing, up ahead of me. He’s been honing his vocal skills up at our cabana for three weeks. He’ll probably sing to mama when we see her in a few hours.