“Behind Matthew’s House, beyond the quiet garden path, lies a small, concreted area. Most people pass it without a second glance. But under that ground is a mass grave. A cholera pit. The final resting place of over 170 people — lost in one of the darkest chapters of Greenhill’s history.”

In 1849, Swansea was hit by a devastating cholera epidemic. Greenhill with its cramped homes, open sewers, and unsafe water was the worst-affected area.

The disease swept through like wild fire. Children playing in dirty drains. Families drinking from shared wells. Streets overflowing with waste. Within weeks, the death toll climbed into the hundreds. Fear spread just as fast.

Many of those who died were Irish immigrants, recently arrived as they had escaped the Potato Famine. They were already facing poverty and prejudice. Some accused them of bringing the disease. But in truth, it was the squalor they’d been forced to live in not their origins that made them vulnerable.

Into that chaos stepped a quiet hero: Father Charles Kavanagh, a Catholic priest newly arrived from Newport. Day after day, he walked through the sickest streets. He sat with the dying. Prayed with families. Washed bodies. Laid people out for burial. It’s said he personally buried over 170 people many in that pit behind you.

His obituary tells of a man who worked night and day, combing hair, changing bedsheets, and never turning anyone away. He showed up with compassion when others were too afraid.

A few years later, in 1866, cholera returned. Though doctors understood more by then, Greenhill was still without proper drainage or clean water. Again, lives were lost. Again, the poor suffered most.

But this second outbreak brought change. It forced the city to act. New public health laws were introduced. Slums began to be cleared. Infrastructure improved slowly, unevenly, but surely.

For the families of Greenhill, the pain left deep scars. Some lost multiple loved ones in a week. Others were too poor to bury their dead. But something else also grew resilience. Neighbours nursed each other. Shared food. Carried coffins when families couldn’t bear to do it.

And perhaps that’s what Greenhill has always done best finding ways to keep going, even when things seem broken beyond repair.

Today, Matthew’s House continues in that same spirit. Providing meals, showers, dignity packs, and a place of welcome in the same place where Father Kavanagh once stood.

And that unmarked cholera pit? It’s no longer forgotten. It’s remembered here. Honoured in this trail. Because those lives mattered. They still do.