Where my fascination for ovens began?

All this recent talk about baking and ovens brought earlier experiences with 'proper' ovens to mind. I had an inkling that I had some old photographs somewhere and, much to my surprise, I came across them almost as soon as I started looking. They were taken with my first SLR camera sometime in the summer months of '66, '67 or '68, when I had a holiday job as a general dogsbody at a coke/coal-gas producing plant in my home village of Trethomas. Indulge my nostalgia whilst I elaborate.

The operation of the plant is, at its most basic, quite simple. Coal is burnt in large ovens to produce coke (sent to smelters at various steel works), the gas is washed free of contaminants (processed to make a host of coal-tar related products) and then piped to Newport for use. Or that's the way it was: the plant has been long closed - a casualty of the closure of the South Wales coal field (and I still bear a strong grudge against Thatcher for her part in this).

Students were employed in the summer months to cover shift holidays and it was a much sort after job as the wages were very good for the area (a 60 hour week could bring in a magnificent £19!). There was also considerable kudos attached to working in such an industrial environment - it was seen as a man's job and a definate step up from lazing around as a labourer with the erstwhile Bedwas and Machen Urban District Council (I know as I'd served my time there as well!). About ten of us would be taken on and allocated across the four separate shifts. I had a regular place on the ovens themselves and this suited me just fine. There was always something going on and the regular workers were a great bunch to spend time with. In retrospect, I learnt quite a bit about life from them, particularly in the area of politics. To a great extent, the political discussions (and they got quite heated at times) we had helped me shape my own views, the core of which remain largely unchanged from those days.

What about the work? No concessions were made to the fact that we were students and, apart from being given a pair of wooden clogs if you were working on top of the ovens, no protective clothing was issued. These were the days before Health and Safety! There was no training: you were just told to whom you had to report and they showed you what had to be done. Because we were all classed as 'brainy students' we were expected to pick things up quickly, otherwise hoots of derision came our way and, if we did something particularly daft, word quickly spread from shift to shift. But there was never anything malacious behind these comments: if anything there was a collective pride in the fact that some of their own were going to university and 'getting on'.

Here's just a little about what I spent a lot of my time doing: working on top of the ovens and charging them with fresh coal. Every batch of coal (maybe 20 - 30 tons at a time) was burnt in the oven and the resultant coke pushed out (the oven doors were taken off to allow this and then put back on - but I won't go into this just now). When empty each oven was ready to be refilled. This was done through four capped holes on the top. The caps had to be removed to do this and the first photograph shows the burst of flame that shot up as each cap was removed. In case you are wondering, the caps were shifted using a hooked rod, which was not as long as you might expect! Speed and agility were of the essence. Once the caps were off the 'trolley' (a coal hopper on rails) came up and, after some fiddling around, discharged their contents into the oven. This was accompanied by yet more flames and smoke, in the middle of which we had to go to make sure that the coal flowed through quickly. When it was all out, the trolley went back for more and we had to put the caps back on the oven. We did this with a pretty ordinary broom! I haven't seen these photographs for years and I'd forgotten how dramatic they look. Yes, I am that person with the funny hat: it kept my luxuriant locks of hair from being burnt off. And, yes, every now and again the bottoms of our jeans would catch fire. Oh, how we laughed as we hopped around trying to douse the flames! It was certainly not the place to wear anything other than your oldest and most dispensable clothes. Ah, I forgot to mention the clogs. They had soles about 3 inches thick and embedded with two steel strips. They were necessary because the tops of the ovens were hot (we regularly cooked bacon and eggs on a clean-ish patch, I kid you not) and made quick work of melting rubber and burning leather. I know: a prank for new starters was to get them going without giving them their clogs. Oh, how we laughed as we hopped around with burning feet!

Happy days! And that's why I love ovens.