Advertisement

Country diary: channelling past lives in a derelict coalyard

Country diary: channelling past lives in a derelict coalyard. Crambeck, North Yorkshire: I crouch at the broken grate and someone long ago becomes present, strikes a match, and we wait together for the glow

Nature is reinventing this wedge of land between the railway and the River Derwent, once a small coalyard. A half century of quiet work has created a skim of gritty black soil and in early summer the place is a riot of floral colour. In winter, though, it’s the buildings that draw me.

There was once a row of cottages here, of which I can find no physical sign, and the idea of them flickering at the edge of living memory troubles me. Still present, however, is the little stone hut next to the pit where coal was weighed. The slate roof is giving way and sprouting with hart’s tongue fern. The door sags half open and inside is an odd assemblage, co-curated by forgotten intentions, mischief, nature and neglect. A rotting blanket at the window, the rusting ironwork of the old weighing apparatus, a half dozen empty plastic carboys, a scorched tennis racket. I glimpse bits of myself on the floor in shards of broken mirror.

On one wall the name “Colin” is daubed in blue paint. Another has pencil scribblings: names, dates, a drawing labelled “Mr Vause”, and an odd little rant: “TRIPE TRIPE TRIPE TRIPE TR … Bad, bad”. Vause was the name of the owners of the coalyard business in the 1950s.

The fireplace has an iron surround but no mantelshelf; still, it’s a hearth, and hearths tug on a part of my mind that is far older than I am. I crouch at the broken grate and someone long ago becomes present, strikes a match, and we wait together for the glow and flare, hold out our hands and flex them to dislodge the chill, thinking about a nice hot brew. It’s cosy, this little seance in my head, until I realise that there’s nothing in it for him other than a premonition of ruin. The thought of scrutiny from the future is an uneasy one and it’s still in my mind when I drop my gaze to the floor, and almost yelp because there are eyes there: blue, unblinking and furious. They are only the spots on the dismembered wings of a peacock butterfly, but I feel their glare long after I leave.