The first time I heard Working Man by Celtic Thunder, originally written by Rita MacNeil, I felt as though someone had captured the echoes of my childhood and poured them into song. The words carried me back to the mining village where I grew up, to the men who worked underground and the families who carried that weight above it.
This post is also written for a dear friend. They reminded me of this song only this morning, sharing how deeply personal it is for them during an incredibly difficult time. It struck me that music often does that—it surfaces memories, it connects us across experiences, and it gives us words when our own are hard to find. So, while this reflection comes from my childhood, it is shared in honour of them too.
The Harsh Reality Beneath the Lyrics
The line “It’s a working man I am, and I’ve been down underground” is more than a lyric—it’s the reality I witnessed in my community. Boys barely out of school put on helmets and boots at sixteen, and before long the coal dust etched itself into their lungs and faces. Life aged people quickly, but it also built a fierce camaraderie. The village beat to the rhythm of the pit whistle, the shifts, and the unspoken knowledge that danger was always present.
When the song speaks of the elder who, at sixty-four, greets you at the door and tells of hardships, I see the faces of men who survived, carrying stories of both pride and pain. Many others never reached that age.
The Miners’ Strike – My Memory at Fifteen
When the miners’ strike came, I was fifteen years old. Too young to understand the politics, but old enough to feel the atmosphere shift. The village that once echoed with laughter and solidarity grew tense. Fear and determination lived side by side.
Families lined up at food banks, mothers stretched every penny, and men stood shoulder-to-shoulder on picket lines, not knowing if their sacrifice would be honoured or forgotten. I remember the silences at the dinner table, the weight in the air, the whispered worries about what the future would hold. It was harsh, divisive, and for many, it marked the beginning of the end—not just of jobs, but of a way of life.
The strike wasn’t only about pay or conditions; it was about dignity, community, and survival. And when it ended, villages like mine were left scarred. Some never recovered. The pits closed, and with them, the identity of whole communities was dismantled.
I will never forget the day I marched with the miners as they walked back to work, defeated – alongside the colliery band, that had been a huge part of my life as a young person. They played as we returned in solemn procession. The music that had once carried pride now carried grief, and in that moment, I felt the full weight of a community broken.
I also remember how the whole village marched together that day, walking with the miners back to the pit. On the way, we stopped at the local bakery to applaud Mr Hardy, a man who had almost bankrupted himself feeding families throughout the strike. It was a moment of deep respect and gratitude—a recognition that his sacrifice had carried the community when times were at their hardest. That gesture has stayed with me all my life: the strength of a village standing together, even in defeat.
Community Lost, Memory Kept
Listening to Working Man now, I don’t just hear a song—I hear the echo of footsteps on the dark streets, the heavy silence after the strike, and the resilience of families who endured the unendurable. I hear the voices of those who never saw the sun again, and the quiet strength of those who carried their memory forward.
The song gives words to what many of us grew up living: the pride and cost of being from a mining village, the grief of community loss, and the enduring love for those who gave their lives to the work.
Why It Still Matters
Songs like Working Man keep our stories alive. They remind us that behind every headline, every strike, every pit closure, were human beings—fathers, mothers, children—who bore the weight of decisions made far away from the coalface.
For me, this song is more than music; it’s remembrance. It’s a way to honour where I came from, to acknowledge the sacrifices, and to carry the light of those communities forward, even when the pits themselves are long gone.
And perhaps it’s no coincidence that years later, I went on to create a Community Interest Company—albeit in a new community I now call home. Because community still matters to me. Looking after each other in times of hardship, loss, and uncertainty matters. People matter—even when the world doesn’t always appear to reflect it.
People may call this emotional. But emotions don’t make us weak—they make us human.
👉 Listen to Working Man here and let it remind you of the resilience, pain, and pride of working-class lives that built our communities, and the cost when those communities were broken apart.