A few minutes past night, I was born in this little house on the far right on Bridgend Road in the village of Garth, Wales. My great grandfather had built the houses for his three daughters and at the time of my birth, Auntie Maggie (a feisty old gal you would never wish to cross), lived at the other end. The houses were sandwiched between the library and chapel but both have regretfully been demolished. Sadly, the awful Crittall & Winter replacement windows detract from the simplicity of the granite and slate tiles.
In this little house (with just three bedrooms and outside privy) my grandparents raised their seven children with strict obedience to the sabbath.
My mother, who had come down from London to give birth, witnessed a tragic accident that afternoon when a little boy was fatally run over by bus outside the house and she went into labour from shock. I was born in the same bed as my mother, and in the same bedroom where all my aunts and uncles were also born.