One Lamp. Three Disasters. One Long Night – Part 3

I’ve made it.

I’m in Cardiff.

I find the multi-storey car park and immediately forget my carefully thought-out plan to park in a quiet corner and grab a couple of hours’ sleep. Instead, I park right by the pedestrian entrance.

I doze off a few times but never properly sleep. Every time someone walks past, I’m convinced they’re looking at the bloke asleep in his car. And, to be honest, you never get quality sleep in a car anyway.

Oh yeah...

I also desperately need the toilet.

I decide to head for the venue.

I should have thought this through.

I had all the outreach material with me. Leaflets don’t seem heavy until you’re carrying hundreds of them. Add a couple of miners’ lamps to the box—one of them still lit—and suddenly you’ve got a serious workout on your hands.

The box even had wheels.

Why didn’t I bring something to pull it with?

For a brief moment I considered threading my belt through the handle, but I wasn’t convinced my trousers would stay where they were supposed to.

Instead, I hoisted the whole thing onto my shoulder.

By now I was tired.

Hungry.

Desperate for the loo.

Trying to find my way around Cardiff Bay.

And carrying a heavy box containing a lit miners’ lamp.

Every now and then I could feel the warmth from the lamp through the side of the box, so I’d swap shoulders and carry on.

I just hoped it wasn’t much further.

It was now 8am.

Surely someone would be at the Pierhead by now.

One thing I did know was that the building had been built using Ruabon Red bricks, so as I rounded the corner, I knew instantly I’d found it.

It stood proudly in Cardiff Bay.

Magnificent.

I walked past the Senedd, but there was only one building I wanted to visit.

Although, if I’m honest...

The toilet was still my biggest priority.

The doors were locked.

I peered through the windows.

Nobody.

Plan A wasn’t looking too clever.

For a split second I considered leaving the box outside while I searched for a toilet, but the lamps were far too valuable to leave unattended.

Besides...

Can you imagine someone opening a box outside a government building and finding a lit miners’ lamp?

In my head I’d already pictured the bomb squad blowing up a box full of leaflets.

I’d hold on.

I sat down.

People watched.

Surely someone would turn up soon.

Thankfully they did.

I spotted a man walking towards the door and practically chased after him.

He turned out to be the sound engineer. He couldn’t let me in himself, but he knew someone who could.

Security arrived.

After a few questions they agreed to let me use the toilet and leave my box inside.

Then came the next hurdle.

“We’ll just have a quick look in the box.”

He lifted the lid.

Looked at the lamp.

Looked at me.

“I’m afraid we can’t allow naked flames in here.”

“It’s sealed,” I replied.

“It’s still a flame.”

“It’s a miners’ lamp.”

“I’ll have to ask for advice.”

Fair enough.

Off I went to Greggs.

Toilet... tick.

Breakfast... tick.

Coffee... definitely tick.

Lamp... still under review.

Food always makes life seem a little better.

So does photography.

I wandered around Cardiff Bay, took a few photographs and, by the time I returned, the Pierhead was open and everyone had arrived.

Then came the bad news.

The flame had to go.

Have you ever argued with someone who is simply following the rules?

You know they’re doing their job.

They know they’re doing their job.

Neither of you is wrong.

“Sorry... no naked flames.”

“It’s not naked.”

“It’s still a flame.”

“It’s sealed.”

Eventually I suggested a compromise.

“Can I just film it entering the hall first? Then I’ll put it out.”

To his credit, he agreed.

I filmed the moment.

My job was done.

Now all I had to do was extinguish the lamp.

Small problem.

I’d seen plenty of people lighting miners’ lamps.

I’d seen plenty of people trying to keep them lit.

I’d never actually seen anyone switch one off.

There I was, surrounded by venue staff, all patiently waiting while I fiddled around trying absolutely everything.

It was becoming slightly embarrassing.

Then, almost as if the lamp felt sorry for me...

It quietly went out of its own accord.

Perfect timing.

The event itself was a great success.

We spoke to invited guests who genuinely loved hearing about the Wrexham Miners Project.

We made some fantastic contacts with fellow exhibitors.

Around 11am, however, I suddenly hit a wall.

The lack of sleep, the heavy sweatshirt I’d now been wearing for well over 24 hours and the unexpected warmth inside the building all caught up with me.

For a few moments I genuinely thought I was going to pass out.

There was no way I wanted to keel over in the middle of someone’s speech.

I quietly slipped outside.

Water.

A chocolate bar.

And, perhaps most importantly...

A can of Lynx.

Miraculously, all three worked.

Refreshed and smelling considerably better than I had ten minutes earlier, I headed back inside just in time for my favourite moment of the day.

NEW Sinfonia used our miners’ lamp during a performance from Up From Underground, the opera they created about the Gresford Disaster.

Our little flame had travelled from Gresford...

To Aberfan...

To Senghenydd...

And finally to Cardiff.

It had become part of another story.

It had commemorated three of Wales’ greatest tragedies while helping tell those stories to a new audience.

For me, that made every mile, every hour without sleep and every aching shoulder completely worthwhile.

The Pierhead is a building made from Ruabon Red bricks.

It felt fitting that Wrexham should be there, reminding decision-makers in Cardiff that our city is built on strong foundations and deserves to become the UK’s City of Culture in 2029.

The Wrexham Miners Project is proud to be playing its part in that journey.

And I’m incredibly proud to play a small part in the Wrexham Miners Project.

Eventually it was time to head home.

There was just one final challenge.

That box.

It somehow felt even heavier on the way back.

Perhaps because I was exhausted.

Perhaps because I’d carried it around Cardiff all day.

Or perhaps because we’d clearly not given away enough leaflets.

I found myself wishing we’d been even busier just to make the journey back to the car a little easier.

The drive home passed without incident.

I even made it back to the Wrexham Miners Project in time to catch most of the visit from Wrexham AFC Women.

Not bad for someone who had been awake for what felt like forever.

Looking back, I questioned my sanity more than once over those three days.

The overnight drive.

The mountain road.

The police stop.

The argument over a “naked flame”.

Carrying a ridiculously heavy box around Cardiff Bay.

I’d probably do every single bit of it again.

Because that little flame didn’t just travel from Wrexham to Cardiff.

It connected three communities.

Three tragedies.

And countless people who still refuse to let those stories be forgotten.

Sometimes a light doesn’t just help you see.

Sometimes it helps others remember.

And that made every mile worthwhile.

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One Lamp. Three Disasters. One Long Night.

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So where are we?

The car’s parked outside the Wrexham Miners Project and, unbelievably, I have a lit miners’ lamp strapped into my passenger seat.

If you’ve missed Part One, please catch up here: www.wxmweekly.com. It’ll tell you all about the plan.

Here, I’ll tell you the results...

Now, the miners’ lamps are famously designed to be used in gassy mines, but at 2.30am, with my head still thinking I’ve completely lost the plot, it doesn’t seem right driving into a petrol station to buy fuel. I question myself several times, but I really need some diesel. I choose a pay-at-the-pump station because, even though I know it’s sealed, if it wasn’t, I’d only kill myself. I would become famous and hopefully get a candle at next year’s vigil. 🤣

...But it is definitely sealed.

Something I’d end up arguing about later in the day.

Things started out OK. I’m making good time because not many fools drive this route at that time of the morning. Leominster comes and goes.

No problem.

I’m about to enter Hereford when I see blue flashing lights in my rear-view mirror. I pull over to let the police get on with catching crooks.

He doesn’t go past.

He pulls in behind me.

My thoughts immediately go to the letter sitting on top of my microwave.

I’ve got a speeding fine to pay.

Please God, not another one, I thought.

The police officer comes over and tells me I’ve got a sidelight out. I smack it a few times, but it doesn’t come back on.

It was worth a try.

“What exactly are you up to... at 4am?”

“I’m taking a flame from Wrexham to Cardiff for a charity.”

I didn’t mention Aberfan and Senghenydd.

I didn’t need anyone else questioning my sanity.

He accepted my explanation and my promise to get the light fixed in the morning, and I was back on my way.

I drove past Big Pit and thought about all the places around here I really need to visit. Everyone seems to neglect Mid Wales.

Shortly afterwards, I was pleased to finally see an Aberfan sign.

The memorial wasn’t open during the night, so I only needed to find a town sign. I pulled over, made a video and took a few pictures.

It didn’t feel right just driving past, but I promise to return.

I put Senghenydd into the satnav.

It was my next stop on this remembrance journey.

The satnav stated it was only 20 minutes away.

Superb.

I thought it might be miles out of my way.

I drove away from Aberfan and into the next village. I was driving up the High Street when my satnav suddenly went mental. I thought it was broken.

I turned around and realised it wasn’t the satnav at all.

I’d missed a turning.

How?

Because the road didn’t exactly look inviting. It wasn’t very wide and seemed to disappear steeply up the side of the mountain.

There was no turning back now.

It went up.

And up.

And up.

The shops disappeared.

Then the houses.

Then the farms.

Until there was nothing.

Just a road.

In the pitch black.

With patches of fog.

A road barely wide enough for one car.

Passing places every now and then.

Steep drops down one side.

And locals using it as a shortcut.

Headlights appeared in the distance, blinding me as they came towards me, making it impossible to judge where the next passing place was.

Even worse, cars started appearing behind me.

By now my eyes were getting heavy.

I needed a break.

I regretted not taking one before tackling this road.

The satnav said twenty minutes.

It took me considerably longer.

But I got through it safely.

Now can I take you back to the meeting I mentioned in Part One?

It was my idea to take a flame to Cardiff.

I take full responsibility for that.

It was Wendy, a fellow trustee, who suggested Aberfan.

I don’t blame her.

I still think it was a beautiful idea.

Then George — Mr Wrexham Miners Project himself — suggested Senghenydd.

Another brilliant idea.

Again, I don’t blame anyone for the trip.

However...

I do blame George for my predicament of driving over that mountain between the two disaster sites.

When I got back, I mentioned the drive.

George casually replied...

“Oh yes, I’ve driven that road. It’s really dangerous, isn’t it?”

He’d driven it………. in daylight...

...and never thought to warn me.

“Oh yeah... I probably should have said something, shouldn’t I?”

Thanks, George.

Ah well.

I survived.

And I missed yet another opportunity to make the front page of the Leader.

The pictures were taken.

The videos were recorded.

The flame was still burning.

Now it was time for Cardiff.

Part 3 sees me arrive in Cardiff, marvel over a brick building, get the back of my head on TV, and a rush to get home.

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One Lamp. Three Disasters. One Long Night.

It’s pitch black.

It’s foggy.

It’s 5am and I’m up a mountain.

The road is barely wide enough for one car. Passing places suddenly become your best friend. To make matters worse, the locals seem to use it as a shortcut. In the distance all you can see are headlights coming towards you. You try to judge the best place to pull in and avoid blocking the road.

And all I’m thinking is...

How the hell have I got here?

It had seemed like such a good idea at the Trustees’ meeting.

I’m in South Wales, and I’ve still got lots to do.

So how did I get here?

I remember the meeting well. The Wrecsam2029 team invited the Wrexham Miners Project to an event in Cardiff to promote the City of Culture and, as I was on annual leave, I volunteered myself.

Then I realised it clashed with the vigil we organise for the Gresford Colliery Disaster.

We light candles at 6pm and, after an evening of poems and remembrance, we extinguish them at 2.08am, the time widely accepted as the moment of the explosion.

I didn’t want to miss it.

I’d booked my annual leave because of it.

“I’ll drive overnight,” I announced.

Everyone looked at me as if I’d lost the plot.

The annoying thing was...

They were probably right.

When plans were discussed for the Cardiff event, we realised it fell on the anniversary of the Gresford Colliery Disaster, so it seemed only right that we should honour the 266 men who lost their lives.

“Why don’t we take a candle with us?”

A brilliant idea.

It was then suggested that, rather than a candle, we should take one of our miners’ lamps with a symbolic flame.

It would become the link between the two events.

Let’s do this.

Then came another conversation that probably should have triggered another sanity check.

“You’ll be passing near Aberfan.”

The Aberfan disaster happened on 21 October 1966, when a huge coal waste tip collapsed and thundered down into the village, engulfing Pantglas Junior School and nearby homes. One hundred and forty-four people lost their lives, including 116 children. It is almost impossible to imagine the heartbreak that followed. More than half a century later, Aberfan is still remembered with enormous sadness — a tragedy that devastated a community and should never have been allowed to happen.

“Why don’t you take our flame there too?”

It was such a lovely idea I couldn’t possibly say no.

It completely overruled my sanity check.

I convinced myself it wasn’t much of a detour to honour another Welsh tragedy.

It would be a privilege.

Then someone uttered another sentence.

“Hey... you’re not far from Senghenydd.”

The Senghenydd Colliery Disaster happened on 14 October 1913, when an explosion ripped through the Universal Colliery near Caerphilly. Four hundred and thirty-nine miners and one rescuer lost their lives, and it remains the worst mining disaster in British history.

I have to admit there is a sense of shame on my part that I didn’t know enough about Senghenydd and the sheer scale of what happened there.

It is difficult to comprehend just how many families and how much of a community were changed forever in a single day.

Learning more about Senghenydd has only strengthened my determination to keep telling these stories and, in particular, to continue working to honour the 266 men who lost their lives at Gresford.

These men, their families and the communities they left behind deserve to be remembered.

Their stories should never be allowed to fade.

It was a no-brainer.

Decision made.

I’d leave Wrexham at 2.30am.

Drive to Aberfan.

Across to Senghenydd.

Then finally on to Cardiff Bay.

Simple.

Or so I thought.

The vigil was, as usual, an event that fills my heart.

There’s remembrance.

There’s fun.

There’s food.

There’s togetherness.

There’s solitude.

For such a reflective night, it’s also incredibly uplifting because we’re surrounded by friends.

It was even live on the ITV news

Knowing I was driving through the night, I popped home for a couple of hours beforehand.

It was going to be a very long day.

I managed a little snooze before returning to the Wrexham Miners Project at 11pm.

Then, at 2.15am, I was sitting in my car.

Lamp strapped safely into the passenger seat.

Ready for the journey to Cardiff.

It was going to be simple...

Wasn’t it?

Follow me for Part Two, which includes a petrol station dilemma, an unexpected police stop, a mountain panic, a few hours’ sleep in a car park and an argument over a naked flame.

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The Ticket Man

The job was complete.

Sorted.

You knew it was a success when an Argentine with limited English started stuttering, trying to find the words to say thank you, every attempt accompanied by an ever-growing smile. In the end, he gave up and threw his arms around me.

“Thank you, my friend.”

The smile grew even bigger.

“Thank you so much.”

I had made this man so happy, and that made me happy too.

Two happy men.

It took a bit of work, but two happy, contented men.

I’d found him the rocking horse shit people hunt for without success. I’d shown him the end of the rainbow. It was sitting in his email account.

A Wrexham AFC ticket.

He had finally made it to a game.

It all started two years ago.

I was helping Wendy Hett organise and photograph the Terry Fox weekend. It was organised during an international break, meaning the Wrexham game had been postponed, but the football club allowed our Canadian friends a tour of the ground and there was poutine available at The Turf.

At the pub we noticed a mop of grey hair with a massive smile underneath.

We found out his name was Jaco. He spoke in pidgin English and explained he was touring Europe with his son, trying to watch as many football matches as possible. He was gutted the Wrexham game was off.

He was a ball of energy, moving from person to person, constantly searching for his son to help translate. Then, when he saw Scoot, after following his story on Welcome to Wrexham, he went up another gear. He kept singing Scoot’s famous line from his song.

Like thousands of people across the world, Jaco had discovered Wrexham through Welcome to Wrexham. This wasn’t just another football match for him.

It was a pilgrimage.

He wanted to stand where he’d watched so many others stand. To experience the place he’d seen on his television back home in Argentina.

I spoke to Jaco about my love of fellow Argentine Marcelo Bielsa and that was it.

We’ve kept in touch ever since.

Mainly through Instagram. Just the odd message every few weeks.

Exactly how I like my friendships. 🤣

All was fine until a few months ago.

I received a message from our mutual friend David.

“Can you help get my friend a ticket for the Wrexham v Birmingham game?”

It was Jaco, who was coming over again, this time with his daughter.

I made the statement...

“At the end of the day, if he can’t find a ticket, he can use mine.”

I was offering him a guarantee.

Little did I know this would cause me so much anguish.

“Thank you for your ticket, my friend,” came the reply from Jaco.

“No problem, but try and get another one. This is a last resort.”

“No, no. I’m happy with your ticket. Thank you.”

“No, you don’t understand. I really want to go too, but if you can’t get a ticket, you can have mine.”

“Thank you. I’m happy to have your ticket.”

It was getting lost in translation.

I resigned myself to the fact that my good deed had resulted in me missing the Birmingham game.

Ah well.

I’ll take some pictures around the ground, I thought.

Think of the content, I thought.

Write a blog, I thought.

And then...

Joe, a friend of my son who sits next to us, announced he was working on the night of the Birmingham game.

Magic.

A solution had presented itself.

I explained the situation to Jaco. He sent me his membership number. I explained that he’d have to pay for the upgrade because Joe was in a different age category.

A week before the game, I thought we’d finally got it sorted.

Or so I thought.

Joe had problems upgrading the ticket, so he couldn’t send it over.

So close.

Yet so far.

On the morning of the game, we were still having problems.

It was just our luck that Wrexham had chosen the same week to introduce a new ticketing system.

I’d arranged to meet Joe at the ground to sort it out, but just as he checked his account, an upgrade button suddenly appeared.

He rang me.

The fact I was already standing outside the ticket office was now irrelevant.

Problem solved.

Or so we thought.

I immediately messaged Jaco.

“Check your account for your ticket.”

We were so close.

He’d just arrived in Wrexham, so I arranged to meet him at The Turf. He was also meeting Paul Jones, who I’d come to know through the Patagonia Reds page.

Now, Jaco is unforgettable with his floppy grey hair and bubbly demeanour.

I was just another face in thousands.

Because Jaco followed my gig photography Instagram page — a page that rarely features me — he had absolutely no idea what I looked like.

I stood right in front of him while he chatted to Paul and his daughter.

Every so often he looked up, smiled politely, then carried on talking.

Paul realised what was happening and burst out laughing.

Jaco looked completely confused.

“Do you know who this is?” Paul asked.

“No.”

“This is the bloke sorting your ticket.”

“Colin?????”

You could almost see the cogs turning.

“You’re the ticket man!”

Everyone laughed.

Everyone hugged.

We’d finally met.

Then I delivered the killer line.

“Go to your Wrexham account. Your ticket should be there.”

It was.

Almost.

He just needed to pay the £6 upgrade.

He found his bank card and tried to pay.

Another problem.

It wouldn’t work.

I tried to help.

The fact the Wrexham website was displaying everything in Spanish didn’t exactly make life easier, but between us we still couldn’t get the payment through.

I offered to use my card.

That didn’t work either.

Again...

So near.

Yet so far.

The ticket office was only a short walk away, so off we went.

On the way we talked about music, Argentine football, his trip and everything we’d chatted about over Instagram.

It was like our Instagram conversation had suddenly come to life.

As luck would have it, the girl behind the counter had only started that week.

To be fair to her, she did brilliantly.

Eventually a supervisor came over.

The problem turned out to be the website refusing an Argentinian bank card.

So I paid the £6 on mine.

Problem solved.

I thanked the staff and walked away.

Then I realised Jaco hadn’t understood.

“Check your emails,” I told him.

The look on his face when he saw the ticket...

I’ll never forget it.

He hugged me.

He got his phone out and excitedly started telling everyone.

I just stood there with a warm glow of achievement.

I’d helped create that happiness.

And somehow, his happiness had made me even happier.

We wandered back to The Turf.

Jaco was still telling people.

He was made up.

I was made up.

I left him to explore the town before heading off to photograph the players arriving.

And who was standing by the barriers with an Argentinian flag?

Jaco.

Still smiling.

Still beaming.

I took his picture.

His daughter stayed in The Turf during the match.

She wasn’t that bothered about the football.

He certainly was.

Unfortunately, the game itself never quite lived up to the story.

Wrexham weren’t at their best.

And if I’m honest, I don’t think the Wrexham Lager Stand is quite as excitable as the Argentinian crowds Jaco is used to.

But none of that mattered.

He’d got into the ground.

He’d seen Wrexham play.

And he even heard Wrexham fans singing “Argentina, Argentina” at the Birmingham supporters.

That confused him more than anything.

I walked out of the ground with Jaco.

We reached Crispin Lane, where we had to go our separate ways.

“I thank you,” he said, before giving me one last hug.

“Keep in touch,” I replied.

“I will, my friend.”

As he disappeared into the evening, I realised something.

Sometimes football isn’t about ninety minutes.

Sometimes it’s about the people it brings together.

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We are truly in the eye of the storm, but I’m filled with excitement with a tinge of regret at my decision to face the second onslaught. It’s 9.30pm in Wrexham town centre on a Monday night, and I’m sitting in a fairly quiet bar area of the Rockin’ Chair. 9pm is usually the time I’d be contemplating going to bed. The tinge of regret comes from the 5.30am alarm tomorrow morning. The excitement comes from the fact that I’m about to witness a repeat performance by provocative Belfast rap band Kneecap, and if it’s anything like the first show... well, it will justify my lethargic being tomorrow.

So who are Kneecap?

Let’s #AskAI.

“Kneecap are a Belfast rap trio mixing Irish and English lyrics, political provocation, dark humour and explosive live energy. Rooted in working-class Belfast and Irish-language culture, their music blends hip-hop, punk attitude and satire. They’re confrontational, funny, controversial and unapologetically outspoken, turning identity, politics and rebellion into entertainment.

Album launch shows are becoming more common now. A shorter set which adds value to your vinyl or CD purchase. Record store Jacaranda have farmed out some of these shows outside their usual Liverpool catchment area. One of those venues is the Rockin’ Chair in Wrexham, which is brilliant because artists who wouldn’t normally appear in such a small venue get to grace the stage.

I bought a ticket for this gig because different artists have their own media teams. I did sneak my Lumix in, just in case there was a picture opportunity.

With 30 minutes until stage time I got that magic message from the Chair’s owner, Kev.

“Have you got your camera? Their manager has said yes.”

Quick phone call to my partner and my camera was on its way.

What joy.

I did regret my idea of going back to my original spot in the crowd. I thought I’d get some better shots, but Kneecap’s lighting rig (it was all behind them) and the lack of face lights meant the number of great shots was minimal. I got some, but wanted more.

What surprised me most, though, was just how good they were live. Behind all the headlines and controversy is a band that know exactly how to work a crowd. Every pause, every drop and every chant felt perfectly timed. They weren’t just performing songs; they were orchestrating an atmosphere, and the audience responded to every second of it.

The band’s performance swept you along from the opening bars of Fontaines D.C.’s walk-on music right through to the final song. Every track was performed with gusto. The crowd lapped it up, and the atmosphere moved up a notch with each song.

We got the photographer’s favourite... crowd surfers. Nothing says a lively gig like a leg flailing through the air.

And of course we had the shouts of...

“Open up the pit!”

...which, to me, means...

Get your video camera out.

Seeing the balaclava-clad DJ Próvaí appear in the middle of the crowd raised the audience to fever pitch. It exploded on the bass.

Pandemonium.

Thirteen songs, mostly from the new album. The place was a hot, sweaty ball of electricity.

It’s 8.30pm.

The night has peaked.

The band leave the stage.

What a gig.

I see Kev, and it’s only polite that I thank him for getting my camera in.

He then drops the killer line.

“If you struggled to get many decent pictures, you can always stay for the next gig and go in the pit.”

Forget work.

Forget the 5.30am alarm.

There was only one decision to make.

Stay.

And I’m so glad I did.

I got some great shots of the second show and, somehow, whether it was the extra alcohol or simply knowing what was coming, this performance hit even greater heights. It’s not my genre, but I got completely swept along. I was bouncing through every song.

I got some great shots.

Some great videos.

And had a great time.

My son went to both gigs. His highlight was seeing his Tory Scum hat being worn during one song.

Even better...

He got it back.

As the band shouted after every song, it’s only fitting that I finish with the same words...

“Diolch yn fawr, Kneecap.”

This is right up there with the best gigs I’ve ever been to.

And I’m not even a rap fan.

Go figure.

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A few blogs ago, I had a bit of a rant.

It was about organisations not making the most of independent media.

This one is about the complete opposite.

Over the last couple of weekends, three completely different people have done exactly that.

They’ve opened the door.

And every one of them has benefited from it.

Guitar Olly

The first was Guitar Olly, or rather his parents.

I’m helping out with a charity project involving Olly and his family (more on that soon), and I was invited along to take photographs while we filmed some content.

Walking through town with him was surreal.

For a little while, I felt like I was part of an entourage.

Not because I thought I was important.

But because everyone else knew who Olly was.

As we left the studio, a lady suddenly shouted across the street.

“Olly is the best!”

She wanted everyone around her to know how talented he was. We carried on walking while she was still telling complete strangers how brilliant he was.

A few days later, with Ollys influence, I somehow managed to blag my way into the photographers’ pit at a major festival. It was a first for me. Then, disaster struck.

No spare batteries.

I’d left them at home.

Out came my little Lumix.

Instead of sulking, I stayed to photograph Roscoe. While waiting for them, I stumbled across a young band from Winsford called The Voke.

I’d never heard of them.

Within a few songs I’d made a note.

These lads deserve a Wrexham gig.

I’m already trying to get them on a bill at either The Parish or The Rockin’ Chair.

Sometimes the best discoveries happen by accident. The invite to the festival turned out mighty fine. Loads of content, loads of contacts.

Wrexfest

The second example is Wrexfest.

Brendan and the team at Wrexfest don’t just let me take photographs.

They encourage it.

They’ve given me complete freedom to document the festival however I want. On top of that, they’ve trusted me with my own stage to showcase up-and-coming bands at the Saith Seren.

Think about that for a moment.

They’re not worried about losing control of the story.

They understand that every photograph, every blog, every video and every interview reaches another audience.

That’s how events grow.

Kneecap

The third example came courtesy of Kev at the Rockin Chair.

Kneecap.

Probably one of the most talked-about bands around.

Photography access wasn’t straightforward.

Kev didn’t have to get involved.

But he did.

He pushed for me to get my camera into the venue and, eventually, I was given access to the photographers’ pit.

Again, somebody understood the value of independent media.

Not because I was doing them a favour.

Because we were helping each other.

The point

Three completely different people.

Three completely different events.

Three people who understood something that many organisations still don’t.

Independent media isn’t there to replace your own social media.

It’s there to amplify it.

Every audience is different.

Some people follow football.

Some follow music.

Some follow charities.

Some just follow WXM Weekly because they enjoy discovering what’s happening around the town.

The more people telling your story, the further that story travels.

That’s not competition.

That’s collaboration.

Sometimes all it takes is opening the door.

And if the last couple of weekends have taught me anything...

It’s that the people who do usually get the biggest rewards.

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I stood and clapped.

I was proud.

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