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If there is such a thing as a lucky pub, you are looking
at one now. When I first knew the Whistle it was a forlorn, forgotten tavern -
hidden behind the derelict buildings of the old pithead baths of a previous drift
mine, dwarfed by slag heaps and surely not long for this world. It was the perfect
place to bring someone else's wife, as the chances of being seen by another customer
were negligable - in fact most people who even knew where it was didn't think
it was still open. To make matters even worse, a large scrap metal yard opened
up next door. But the Whistle hung on - before long the yard closed, the baths
were demolished, slag heaps were creatively reformed and all of a sudden it was
overlooking lakes and a sculptured landscape. The final surprise was that the
old railway lines, rusting at the end of the garden for so long and the iron nearly
sold as scrap, once again rang to the sound of steam trains climbing the steep
incline from Blaenafon. Railway enthusiasts have renovated the line and at the
moment the Whistle Inn Halt lies at the end of their available run. All those
thirsty punters are drawn into the pub by the prospect of a pint of Brain's, or
more feasibly to view the fine collection of miners' lamps hanging in the bar.
The Whistle Inn is one very fortunate public house. |
