The time between Christmas and New Year’s Day has a habit of smudging together like charcoal on an artist’s page. I imagine this is what Salvador Dali was experiencing when he produced ‘The Persistence of Memory’, depicting clocks melting and dripping to the ground below. It was in this period that I decided to brave the late December conditions to take a stroll down memory lane.
This is a story about memories - and how the context of politics colours these images in our mind.
It seemed not much had changed since I left for my placement in July. The house up the road was still clad in scaffolding and that one pesky pothole was still unfilled . A haze of boiler smoke clung to the red brick and terracotta tiles as it always did.
Soon I reached the playground where I spent many evenings after primary school. Only now, it was fenced off and completely overgrown. In fact, all the green space in the village had been encircled in metal fences; the kind you see at festivals and factories, and knee-high grasses thrived on the lack of human intervention. This area now belonged to housing developers who planned to build hundreds of new homes on what was once a coal mine.
all the green space in the village had been encircled in metal fences; the kind you see at festivals and factories, and knee-high grasses thrived on the lack of human intervention
Coal
In 1927, coal was struck here and almost overnight, hundreds of homes were built to accommodate miners looking for work, many of whom had been blacklisted from working in their home areas for participating in the General Strike of 1926. The pit remained open until the late 1980s, when the government at the time, run by Margaret Thatcher, made the decision to shut down coal mines in Britain which were deemed unprofitable. Despite strong resistance from the unions culminating in a Miner’s Strike in 1984, the collieries were closed. The thousands who lost their jobs were seen as collateral damage and the economic consequences of this can still be seen in the local areas today. For this reason, Thatcher is remembered unfavourably by many.
It was a time of immense political change, painted in red, grey and blue.
In the present, the machines which once marked the pit head are long removed, and all that remains is buried asbestos and traces of barbed wire. There is no grass here, only the crushed down rubble extracted from the mine. Naturally, to the intrepid 10 year old, this seemed the perfect place to spend summer evenings with friends.
I found a hole in the fence and made my way to the spot - a few trees with a tyre swing and the crumbled remains of the miner’s bath house. To my relief it was unchanged, except for the presence of excavators in the background, parked as if they were waiting for me to take one final look at my childhood before they bulldozed the lot.
The last time I was here was during Lockdown. I would quite often walk here for my permitted fifteen minutes of exercise before starting a campfire and staying out until darkness fell. Rather paradoxically, coming to this secluded area was the only way I got any form of social interaction during this period. Dog walkers would pass by, waving from a distance and reminding me not to set anything on fire.
I would quite often walk here for my permitted fifteen minutes of exercise before starting a campfire and staying out until darkness fell.
Many of my memories from Lockdown are a hollow blue, but some glow a warm orange.
And with that thought, I walked back home, through the same field and past the same sparrows in the same bush which chattered when I disturbed them on my way to the bus stop each morning.
I found myself angry at the housing development. It is often said that we have a housing crisis in the UK. This doesn’t mean there aren’t enough houses to go around. Instead, house prices are increasing at an unattainable rate, pushing many into the unstable rental market. Looking at similar estates from the same housing developer, it seemed like I would never be able to afford one of these homes. Maybe this is why I was annoyed – the realization that owning a home in my childhood village may soon be out of reach.
No, it wasn’t that.
Perhaps it was the fact that this land had changed hands three times over the last three years, with each developer promising a great benefit to the community. A college, local shops, new green spaces - none of which had made it through to the final plans. And now, as I write this, the land has been bought by another developer, once again halting progress and leaving the village encircled. Was I frustrated by the process of land-banking? Yes, but this still wasn’t it.
Memories
The tree I fell out of when I was 11 has its own fence around it. The tyre swing has been cut down. I can no longer see the circle of rocks arranged into a fire pit. As I grow up, the memories formed in these spheres slowly desaturate. The trees, the climbing frame, the mud - all rendered in black and white. I can no longer revisit the true colour of these scenes.
Other things become more important. Politics, the economy, the climate. World affairs dye the fabric of our memories, tinting them with the political context of the time. And now, I feel angry at something as mundane as a housing development for dyeing my childhood memories too.
Today our future looks uncertain. Wars happening halfway across the world can be experienced through a phone screen and the effects of the climate crisis are quickly becoming apparent. It can be hard to remain optimistic in these circumstances. In a society determined to colour our memories in despair, we must all strive to paint a brighter world. One of hope, justice and equality for all.
11/02/2024