Rows and rows of terraced houses, dotted with chapels.
Layers of homes climbing the valley walls.
Not sun-drenched Mediterranean villas—but rain-wet slate roofs.
Equally iconic.

Not grand cathedrals filled with gold and steeple towers—just humble buildings.
Practical.
Many.

Dust from closed mines still settles in the cracks.

Though most chapels now stand quiet, this landscape still feels alive.
The world has moved on from coal and iron,
but the houses remain.

The Streets Themselves

Building on the backdrop of Miner No.1, this next print turns its gaze to the streets themselves. Rows and rows of terraced houses—tight, repeated, unmistakably Welsh. Not the sun-drenched hillsides of the Mediterranean, but iconic in their own right. These homes were built for the workers who powered the industrial age, and they still define the landscape of the valleys.

Dotted between them are chapels. Some barely distinguishable from the houses beside them, others unexpectedly grand. I grew up thinking it was normal to see a chapel on nearly every street corner—until I got older and realised how uniquely Welsh that is. A reflection of a time when nonconformist faith shaped not only culture, but architecture.

The Print

This piece strips away the individual figure to focus purely on the built environment—the geometric patterns of slate roofs, the rhythm of windows and doors, the small streets in between that punctuate the rows. It’s about the texture of these places, the way they climb the valley walls in defiance of geography.

The chapels anchor the composition, standing as monuments to a different kind of community. While the terraces housed bodies, the chapels housed souls—or at least tried to. Some still do their work, others have found new purposes, and many stand empty. But they’re all still there, part of the DNA of these places.

Hwyl fawr/Goodbye,
Dan