Audrey Nicholson was born in Yorkshire, although for many years she allowed me to believe she was from the Isle of Skye. She must have had some bardic concerns there. It was a fiction which gave us both pleasure, and besides, what are certain falsehoods but the germs of greater truths. According to Trevor Jones, who painted on the theme, she may have had some connection with the Pendle witches. She dwelt in the poetic realm: she shall be, in death, the honorary citizen of any place she likes.

She was, without the contaminate of personal ambition, a friend to poetry and its makars, and as such commands a position in our literature. The words which first come to mind -patron and hostess - somewhat pale on the page. She did not have the means to be either of those things on a grand scale, but on a smaller scale she was so much more. With what meagre resources she had she supported the works of poets and artists, bought slim volumes and subscribed to small magazines. Anyone acquainted with the literary struggle will appredate how rare such a creature is. She would buy as gifts for friends twenty, thirty, evenforty copies of a pamphlet by some young poet whose work she believed should find a wider audience. I was such a one, and for this she has my eternal gratitude. She loved giving books to people. A few days before her death she presented me with ...