Once, not so long ago, the landscape around Sydney was speckled with coal mines. All around the outer edges of the coastline mines were dug that plunged miles under the sea in narrow passages. The mines were surrounded by the the houses built, in seemingly random order, to house the miners who spent much of their lives in a deep dark pit. Each mine was named to define the group of houses. There was Victoria Mines, Lingan, and many others including Sydney Mines. These were the days of the colleries of Cape Breton.
The coal miners were a proud and humble lot. They would ride the coal trains for as much as a hour, out to the end of the mine, where they chipped away at the coal which was used to make steel, provide power and heat, and drive the economy of this country. In NewWaterford stands a memorial in remembrance's to all those who lost their lives in the belly of the earth. If you ask you will still hear the tales of the lives of the miners, both hard and honorable. The folk songs of Cape Breton are unique in that they remember this lost heritage, and mix a sorrow and nostalgic pride unknown elsewhere.
Now the mines are gone. The risers removed and the trains buried. Scant traces remain only in the bare fields between the random scatter of small cottages, where coal rocks litter the earth and are slowly fading under the new growth and vegetation. Lost is the symmetry and order that the mines added to the lay of the land. The dwellings now appear out of proportion and in need of new meaning. Like the fort behind me, they have been left to find a new way, on their own.
