His day began long before any sensible person would even consider waking. At 4:30 in the morning, he and his wife dragged themselves from their bed, greeted not by comfort but by the biting cold. The morning’s first ordeal was the outhouse—an unenviable journey in deep winter, where snow, ice, and the ever-present risk of frozen pipes conspired to make an already miserable task even worse.
Inside, his wife busied herself with the previous day’s fire, scraping out cold cinders in preparation for another futile attempt at warmth. Meanwhile, the ironstone miner battled his own daily adversary—his work clothes. His trousers and boots, still damp from the previous day’s labours, had stiffened into something resembling armour overnight. Forcing his feet into the unyielding boots was a challenge in itself, mitigated slightly by a layer of toe rags or, if fortune smiled, stockings. His singlet and thick, coarse shirt were just as welcoming, having been dried in much the same unforgiving manner. Owning spare clothes was a luxury far beyond their means, so these same garments were worn, patched, and worn again, until they were beyond even the most desperate repair. A waistcoat, scarf, and jacket completed the ensemble, because nothing says “prepared for another day down the mine” like an extra layer of damp cloth.
Breakfast, if one could call it that, was as uninspiring as the rest of the morning. Bread with solidified fat, optimistically referred to as dripping, was a treat if it came from a rare roast; otherwise, a smear of cheap jam had to suffice. By midweek, plain bread was often the only option, as their meagre finances dwindled long before payday. If bacon made an appearance, its fat was hoarded for future meals—every drop counted.
The fire, when it deigned to light, provided warmth along with a generous helping of acrid smoke. If the wood was damp, the process became an exercise in patience and endurance, with a metal sheet or thick brown paper needed to encourage the reluctant flames. Boiling the kettle was a necessary first step, lest the addition of coal extinguish the fire entirely. Any remaining embers from the night before gave a faint hope of efficiency, but it was best not to be optimistic.
By 5 o’clock, the fire was grudgingly alight, and the sounds of other miners going through this same wretched ritual echoed through the terraces. His wife, ever the pragmatist, began her gentle campaign to coax him out of the house. Her encouragement was subtle but firm—reminders of the time, inquiries about his uninspiring lunch of bread and dripping, and silent gestures such as warming his waistcoat by the fire. His responses, predictably, were reluctant grunts of resignation. Muttering about the dampness of his clothes would get him nowhere; loud complaints earned him a warning to keep his voice down, lest he wake the children.
His reluctance was not unwarranted. No miner in his right mind looked forward to the darkness, filth, and danger of the mine. By 20 past, he could delay no longer. He trudged out into the cold, up Hall Fields, past Aireyholme Farm, and towards the mine beneath Roseberry. In his hands, he carried a couple of bottles of tea or water and a newspaper-wrapped sandwich. Over his shoulder, he slung a bundle of metal tokens, and in his pockets, he kept matches, candles, and chalk—the essentials for a job that might very well kill him.
Superstition dictated that seeing a woman on the way to work was bad luck—an excellent excuse to turn back, though few wives were naive enough to be caught outside at that hour. Upon reaching the drift mouth, he collected his black powder and squibs from the Powder Monkey, the cost would be conveniently deducted from his wages. Pleasantries were unnecessary; the mood was as heavy as the work ahead. With a tin of powder slung over his shoulder, clay for candles and shot-holes in hand, and a set of drills freshly sharpened by the blacksmith, he was ready for another day of toil. The watchman handed him a leather tally, a grim reminder that he was expected to return at the end of the shift.
On this particular day—4th February, 1921—the atmosphere was even more dismal than usual. Work had been steady the previous year, but now there were murmurs of economic downturn. The company, lacking its own blast furnaces, struggled to sell its ironstone. Rumours of redundancy spread, and sure enough, by the day’s end, the worst was confirmed: the mine would be made idle. The men trudged home to tell their wives, though most of the women already knew.
Our miner, however, was one of the few spared—for now. He remained as output dwindled, watching as the mine slowly died over the next three years. By 1931, when the final remnants of the operation were dismantled and auctioned off, he was among the last left as part of the ‘skeleton’ crew, maintaining the ruins of his livelihood until there was nothing left to maintain.
Today, all that remains are these concrete bases of the surface works. The main drift, once an entryway to daily misery, is out of shot to the left, buried beneath Roseberry Topping. Only the ghosts of industry linger.
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