Bessie's

I wish this could have been a better photograph. Bessie deserves it - but then she's used to the attention and takes no notice anyway. That's her on the settle seat, to the right of the serving hatch, chatting to her customers. She's 81 and has been the licensee of this little pub for over 40 years. But long before that she helped her parents to run the place so her whole life has been spent here. Like a spider she gathers in the local gossip and unravels the tangled web of relationships within the close valley community. If you are a stranger it isn't long before she finds out who you are, where you're from and what you're doing here. Many come especially to step into the time capsule that is Bessie's (the pub's real name is rarely used) on account of it's being extolled in so many travel columns and TV tours. Luckier are those who come upon it by accident, hot and thirsty after a long hike, and find themselves in an all but vanished era. It hasn't changed a bit in the 30 years I've known it and by all accounts from decades before that.

The pub (you'd have to call it basic) fronts a narrow road that winds up the wooded valley of the river Gwaun. Over the hedge cows graze knee deep beside the stream. Dense woodland cloaks the steep scarp beyond. A mixture of muddy 4x4s and smarter visitors' vehicles are parked haphazardly alongside Bessie's tavern, which is also her home. Outside, her dog (she always has one) is tethered to a bench and her washing flaps on the line. Cottage garden flowers shed their petals. A handscrawled sign proclaims 'open all day' with an arrow pointing to the door. Step inside and you find a small room with a grubby tiled floor and a jumble of shabby chairs and tables. On the walls hang a portrait of a very youthful Queen, another of the Prince of Wales (not Charles but a much earlier one), a local calendar and posters advertising agricultural shows and community events, and a collection of foreign bank notes is pasted on above the picture rail. There's a fireplace, only used in winter, and a row of plants on the window sill below a sagging net curtain. Beer and little else is served from a jug, via the hatch. There is no food available but there can be a rich broth of chance encounters: if it's local farming people they may be speaking Welsh but you're equally likely to meet other tongues and other trades. There could be a quiz, a meeting or a wake. New Year is still celebrated here according to the old calendar, twelve days late. Once we stopped outside and were deafened by the well-oiled notes of a male voice choir surging up through the roof.

Sadly, we heard today that Bessie lost her son very recently - he was only 61. That may be why she had a helper today. She still found time to inquire about her visitors and to take an interest in their comings and goings.

The crack is good, the beer is excellent and Bessie is the centre of her universe.