‘At the region’s heart, the River Taff ran black and devoid of life for much of its length. Coal dust particles were visible if you cupped your hand in the water and lifted it out. This was the early 1970s and I remember this river. For much of its forty-two mile journey from source to sea, you could smell it before you could see it’
The industrial heritage of South Wales has claimed many headlines over the years. The iron works of the late 1800s provided railway tracks to the world. As already written so many times previously, Cardiff was the world’s busiest port. The world’s first million pound cheque was written there. Iron works evolved into the coal mines of the 1960s, ‘70s and ‘80s; the geology of the area seemingly provided endless ‘riches’ for domestic and industrial use. Tens of thousands returned home every night blackened from their hard day’s work underground. The camaraderie and pride in their endeavours was obvious to all who witnessed that generation.
But it all came at a price. The work did not bring a good standard of living to the region. Deprivation and under-development fuelled a legacy of underlying health issues, burdening many of those who had served their time below ground. High levels of ill health and lower life expectancy was a troubling ‘badge of honour’ worn with great difficulty throughout South Wales.
And at the region’s heart, the River Taff ran black and devoid of life for much of its length. Coal dust particles were visible if you cupped your hand in the water and lifted it out. This was the early 1970s and I remember this river. For much of its forty-two mile journey from source to sea, you could smell it before you could see it; no invertebrates, no crustaceans, no plant life, no birds and certainly no fish. The definition of lifelessness; a dark polluted thread running through a tapestry of noise, dirt and mechanical industry providing fuel to those in need. Man’s apparent benefit from the earth’s bounty was nature’s certain demise in many areas.
Through the late 1970s and 1980’s, with demand falling and disputes arising between government and Coal Boards, the industry began to shrink. Case studies explored the economic and political contexts. Local government looked to mitigate the consequences of the industry’s contraction. Attempts were made to identify lessons that might be applicable to South Wales, from the planned transition away from coal mining in Shanxi Province, China. Despite all efforts, coal’s irreversible decline continued and its eventual disappearance in the 1990s brought much emotion and angst to the South Wales coalfield region. Ultimately, new industries and new ways of working were introduced but it was a bumpy ride. Society again needed to adjust, just has it had done at times of the Great Depression and during the war years.
And what of the river…?
As industry quietened, a chink of light began to appear, small at firstand not apparent to everyone. The odour was still there but the water course began its own very gradual process of cleansing itself. Helped by the pure, plentiful rainwater falling at its source in the Brecon Beacons, every day helped; ‘small margins’ as today’s sports coaches would say. With fewer impurities or pollutants being added on a daily basis, slowly but very surely the thread of water started to breathe, weakly at first but nevertheless breathing.
Walking the river in the mid-1970s brought new experiences; small shoots on the bank and the beginnings of clarity to the water, a few inches at first, then a foot, then two feet. It was no longer a vile, smelly vein of dark poison. By the end of the decade, the local angling club undertook a stocking programme. Brown trout were introduced to the river once every year. Anglers could be seen from time to time. Town areas and their inhabitants still deposited their occasional shopping trolley or tyre into the river but it was now in a position to withstand these blemishes and to fight back. Turbulent winter floods helped to flush sediment and deposits further and further downstream, slowly clearing, and the riverbed gradually ridding itself of its acrid coat.
Year on year, more bird life could be seen. In the early 1980s, in less than a half-mile walk along the river, I counted up to twenty grey wagtails and watched many dippers doing exactly what their name suggests. For the first time, I became rather proud of ‘MY’ river. At its closest, it was fifteen minutes walk from my parents’ house and our town was twenty miles from the river’s source. The sight of my first kingfisher darting upriver will stay with me forever.
When I left school and began an apprenticeship, I could walk to work. On the way, I could peer under a bridge to watch several trout at the head of a pool, lazily holding position in the current. It wasn’t just that they were there, but the fact that I could SEE them in the clear water. In the evenings I would wander down and cast either a free-lined worm or, as I became more adept and experienced, even a dry fly, to tempt the fish observed earlier that day. Invariably, success came my way. I’m not sure I fully realised it at the time but through the seasons, the river educated me, helped me, excited and fulfilled me.
When life allowed, I fished two or three times a week and truly loved it, fish or no fish. Bullheads, stone loach and minnows were everywhere. You couldn’t wade a metre without disturbing one or all three species. It was little wonder the trout (and the kingfishers) prospered.
Nowadays, I am extremely pleased to say, my river has transformed from a black, odorous, poisonous vein to a sparkling ribbon of life. Herons can be seen in town centres, a clear sign that food is present to meet their needs. Swallows and swifts swoop and dive above the shimmering summer water. The most beautiful brown trout reside along its entire length and, equally pleasing, it is blessed with barbel and chub in its lower reaches.
Indeed, the river can now be found referenced by the Barbel Society, such has been the size and pedigree of the barbel caught since the river’s recovery (I believe one of the largest was a 17lb fish caught in 2007).
Dippers, kingfishers, wagtails and wildfowl are commonplace; otters have been seen in several locations. Bankside foliage supports a multitude of insects and butterflies. Hawthorn, blackthorn, alder, bramble and wild garlic are waterside neighbours. It’s like a page from a natural history book and the plant life supports the insects. The insects support the birds and fish. I can see the diagram now in my Children’s Natural History Encyclopaedia. Yes, it still has to negotiate its way through numerous towns and industrial areas on its way to the sea but it is now a happy neighbour to these communities.
There is no longer suffering, the water no longer black and devoid of life. Some man-made structures have helped its recovery; fish-passes have been installed to help migratory fish. In the late eighties, for the very first time, the greatest migrator of them all, a salmon, was recorded thirty miles upstream from the sea. I cannot think of anything more uplifting. In 2009, the UK Rivers Fly-Fishing Championship was held on its middle reaches, recognising the varied, challenging waters it provides for anglers.
The river still bares many scars from its challenging past and it will never be an Avon, a Kennet or a Test. The busy towns along its length can still offer the occasional threat to the river’s well-being. Like many rivers, cormorants are a growing menace to fish-life. The people and the region may still be taking steps to offset the legacy of bygone struggles but the river, my river, has still managed to become a glowing example of a recovered, self-supporting eco-system.
The waterway and its banks provide a corridor of varied wildlife habitats.
It has overcome its industrial past.
It is a graduate from the school of survival.
It is truly a river re-born.
Writing & Images – Carl Hier, April 2024
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