The Gospel According to Angel Cake: How a slice of sponge cake bought our eternal salvation at the Ebenezer Gospel Hall
In the Danygraig area of Swansea during the late 1950s, life for a young boy had a certain rhythm. That rhythm included school, playing endless games on a patch of wasteland we called "[the Bank](https://catsandbirdsandstuff.bearblog.dev/kick-the-can-and-second-world-war-shootouts/)," and the non-negotiable weekly visit to Sunday school.
Like many working-class kids in that post-war era, we were sent not out of burning religious conviction, but because it was expected, and, letâs face it, it gave the grown-ups a bit of peace for an hour.
Ours was the Ebenezer Gospel Hall, a squat little church that always smelled of floor polish and damp hymn books. It was run by Mr Godsell (a name that practically guaranteed him the job) and sat near our house like a polite, slightly watchful neighbour. Looking back, I am not entirely sure what flavour of Christianity it offered, probably something Baptist-adjacent. What I remember more clearly are the strange rituals, the annual outing, and the garden fork incident.
The Baptismal Dungeon
The most memorable moment came courtesy of an older girl being baptised in a concrete-lined pit in the middle of the hall. It was hidden under the floorboards most of the time, but one day they opened it up and marched this poor girl down the steps and into the cold water. She was fully submerged, came up coughing and spluttering while everyone looked vaguely pleased. I watched in horror, decided this was absolutely not for me, and quietly pledged to avoid any church that kept a secret bath under the carpet.
The Angel Cake Scam
The one genuinely joyful part of Sunday school was the summer outing. On the big day, a red South Wales Transport double-decker bus would arrive outside the hall, and we would be bundled off to Bridgend Park, an exotic destination about 10 miles away.
Each child received a small paper bag containing a snack. I distinctly remember a slice of angel cake, and not much else about the actual trip, except that it involved running around like lunatics and probably traumatising the local ducks.
As we got older and stopped attending Sunday school regularly, we became strategic. We would turn up for just a few weeks before the trip to make sure we still "qualified" for the outing and, more importantly, the angel cake. Mr Godsell, to his credit, probably knew what we were up to and let us come anyway.
The Fork Incident
On one memorable afternoon, I was in the Godsellsâ back garden, armed with a garden fork and what I assumed was permission to dig. Mrs Godsell appeared at the upstairs window, clearly shouting something I could not hear, probably something like âput the fork downâ. I looked up to try and decipher her hand gestures and, in doing so, stabbed the fork straight through my wellington boot and into my foot. I still have the scar today.
Cue a familiar trip to the hospital for a tetanus jab, which I seemed to collect as frequently as birthday cards. I suppose that is what happens when you give small boys pointy tools and insufficient supervision.
A Rounded Education
Looking back at the Ebenezer Gospel Hall, it seems my experiences there were a perfect summary of childhood itself: a strange mix of the sacred, the sweet, and the slightly hazardous. It was a place where you could contemplate damnation, scheme for a slice of cake, and learn a hard lesson about garden tools, all in the space of a few seasons. For a boy in post-war Swansea, that was probably as close to a rounded education as you could get.
Note: In the photo the red brick building to the left of the church is a community centre. It has been built on the area we called "the Bank"