Barbara

The name of Barbara Wood is well-known in Cardigan, both in living memory and memorialised in a candid exhibition at the Castle about her connection with the building. Hers is a perfect example of a story that could be spun in any number of ways - some of them diametrically opposed to one-another

The bare facts are that, as a woman in her early twenties in 1940, she moved, with her mother, to live in the large, prestigious house that was built in the Castle grounds 19th century. Her father, a wealthy businessman from shipping, stayed in London engaged in the war effort but died before the war ended. Barbara remained in the house for most of her long life, alone after her mother died, leaving only when she was unable to survive alone in 1999. She died ten years later, well into her tenth decade

Some of the flesh on these bones is that during her residence both the Castle and historic house fell into ruin; the site became overgrown, there was some vandalism, parts became dangerous. She occupied less and less of the building and, among other questionable acts, used the wood of a parquet floor as firewood. After a period of years living only in the kitchen, she had a long spell in hospital, during which her home was declared unfit for habitation. She was offered a bungalow but declined and, instead, negotiated a caravan in the shadow of the house, in which she lived for 15 years

She was eccentric - not consuming TV or radio. She was combative, having many battles with the council about the state of the buildings. She dressed unusually. She had many cats. She was proud and independent

I could see this as a poignant British comedy drama along the lines of Alan Bennett's Lady in The Van. It could be framed as an indomitable spirit resisting the forces of petty bureaucracy and society's bourgeois expectations. It could the insufferable arrogance of selfish entitlement, asserting individual property rights as superior to the public interest in a national asset that is our common inheritance. It could be a frightened, lonely woman, unable to trust and accept the outreach of people with her best interests at heart. It could be a crabbed, embitterd old spinster deriving perverse enjoyment from frustrating the wishes of her fellow citizens. It could be a deep attachment to the security and peace associated with familiarity with this one place

I don't know if these were Barbara's bicycles. They are mounted high up on the wall of her old home, now restored. The fireplace betrays the prior existence of a second floor. The three things together created an eccentric display - perhaps that is appropriate