Mapping a Lost World: A Return to Blaenymaes
In the attic of my mind, the timelines are scrambled and the details are hazy. But the feelings of a 1960s Swansea childhood remain crystal clear.
The more I remember, the more I remember, if you know what I mean. When I poke around in the attic of my mind, timelines get scrambled, and stories drift across years, sometimes bumping into each other in the wrong decade. This is not a formal history; it is a collection of the memories that bubble to the surface from the four years my family lived in Blaenymaes, from 1962 to 1966.
A Neighbourhood of Contradictions
Life in Blaenymaes felt like a step up from Wern Fawr Road, more cars, better houses, streets named after Welsh islands. But scratch the surface, and you would find the same working-class struggles, just dressed up a bit nicer. I know today’s residents have a strong sense of community, and some of what I write might not sit well with everyone. But this is my story, as I remember it, and I make no apologies for that.
Where I mention people, I have often used just an initial. In some cases, I have changed names slightly, partly out of respect, and partly because memory, after sixty years, has a way of losing the details while keeping the feelings.
The Ghost in the Machine
Like everywhere else we lived in Swansea, Blaenymaes was built on a hill. The map shows my main area of “operations”, the streets and gardens where we played, explored, and occasionally caused minor chaos. The layout has not changed much, but when I checked recently using Street View, the ghosts were everywhere. The rough ground along Woodford Road, which I think we called the “Orchard” and where we spent hours refighting World War II, has been cleared. The woods at the bottom of Bardsey Avenue were a favourite destination, but the Old Tree that once served as our gathering point is gone.
I also remember slag heaps where we would hunt for fern fossils. That might be a false memory, or it could have been somewhere else entirely—my brain is not too fussy about where it files things.
The Stories That Remain
We roamed far and wide, often walking miles to visit my grandmother or even into town, navigating by following the bus route. From this territory of memory, a few stories stand out. In the posts that follow, you will hear about:
- The time we saved Swansea from a Dalek invasion
- How I learned that being clever does not always pay off.
- Why our rented TVs were a goldmine for enterprising parents.
- The real reason seagulls sometimes fly upside down.
- Invaluable advice on cutting your electricity bill (the Murphy method).
- And yes, what to do when you have trouble with bailiffs.
I make no claim to being an author. There is no grand plan or literary structure here—just words on a screen, the occasional truth, and the enduring echo of a time that is long gone but not forgotten.