The remains of Penuel chapel Ynyshir, taken from the beginning of Avon Terrace.
I hardly ever went to chapel. I was one of the number of naughty children who enlarged the congregation when the summer trip to Barry Island loomed in the close distance.
I have written a few short 'muses' or stories, one of which is called 'Barry Island in a Thunderstorm'. There isn't the room for it here, but a part of it recalls the crowded Ynyshir Station as the steam train chugged and puffed its way to a halt.
I can remember Glyn the religious station master running up and down the platform, herding the passengers into the safety of the train compartments, like sheep into a pen.
Very welsh was Glyn. With bible in hand he would issue a blessing from the Lord for us to have a good, safe, day.
What we did at Barry Island was far removed from good or safe! But that is another story.