My maternal grandfather and several uncles worked in mines around Nant-Y-Moel, S Wales. (Gareth, I know Llanbradach well, too, my Auntie Flo lives there) I spent many happy summers as a boy staying with my aunts and uncles down there. For a kid from the mean streets of Sparkbrook, Birmingham, it was a real culture shock to be in a place where a sheep might wander through the back door at any time. I know what you mean about the the valleys being greener now , Gareth, much more than I remember (I once started writing a song about that --- I must dig it out and finish it). One thing I do remember though, apart from the singing, is the pride the miners took in their gardens. However small, and however steep the land, my uncles (and it was always the men) packed in as many colourful and sweet-smelling flowers as possible, presumably to make up for their monochrome existence underground. Life wasn't glamorous, and it was bloody hard, but the people in the mining communities I remember had an unquenchable thirst for life and laughter.

BJ