She was born at Batley..In the old house known back then as “Outlaw Cottage” 1721 carved deep over the door sill. Down by the winding duck weed rill. When you drive through tiny Batley over Flumerfelt Bridge, look left for the same two sheep , always together on the same second hill.
She was born at Batley…just a step off the High Street, hidden well is poverty, but not of spirit. Elderly lady’s gather and gossip. Above the traffic clatter at the bus stop you will hear it.
She was born at Batley…Fellow farmers know her, touch their caps as they pass. She writes often, sends me photographs. Her tumble home, puce house under shady summer sky. Goat in doorway open to the air, herbs and garlic hung to dry. Black and white ponies dream nose to nose in autumn oak wood. Winter gloaming, dinner cooking on the campfire of P.T.The Good.
She was born at Batley, on a snowy night 1953. Never has journeyed more than one hundred miles away. . She has old world knowledge, can plait straw to make a hat if need be. Knows the name of every plant, and grass and tree on her land. She makes exquisite cheese, taught me how to milk a cow and nanny-goat by hand.
She was born at Batley…her world is stone walls and styles, riding horse back miles to town along Cardigan Bay. Mince Tarts, hot baked scones, Cats’mint tea. At the old desk by the fire, settle in with plate and mug to write. Above the hearth still hangs the photo of a photo of a painting done of Godfrey, still a mystery.
A fine dear friend is Beatrice…and she was born at Batley.