“Winterhill,” George shouted as the coach juddered to a halt.
When George opened the door and pulled out the step, we left the coach, gasping as a blast of cold air hit us. As always, I felt a sense of shame when I saw the conditions in which the colliers lived. It made me appreciate the luxuries of Winter Lodge.
As the name suggests, the village sat on the side of Roman Camp Hill, with the extensive views all around the only positive thing that could be said about it. With no sanitation, the houses were ramshackle, little more than shacks that hugged the ground. Damp was widespread throughout the miserable dwellings, while the interiors were most often shells with only a few sticks of furniture. Or sometimes less if the tenant had a fondness for the bottle. Only that year, an Act of Par
