Till he was disabled by the gout, his principal occupation was his violin, and it was her delight to listen to him.  She more than once observed to the vicar, “Such music is quite heavenly.”  “I am in despair,” cried out the village fiddler, “I may now stick my fiddle in my thatched roof, for a greater performer is come to reside in the parish.”  The existing superstition of the country is that his spirit, playing on his favourite instrument, still haunts one wing of Brynbella.  If he designed the building, his architectural taste does not merit the praises she lavishes on it.  The exterior is not prepossessing; but there is a look of comfort about the house; the interior is well arranged:  the situation, which commands a fine and extensive view of the upper part of the valley of the Clywd, is admirably chosen; the garden and grounds are well laid out; and the walks through the woods on either side, especially one called the Lovers’ Walk, are remarkably picturesque.  Altogether, Brynbella may be fairly held to merit the appellation of a “pretty villa.”  The name implies a compliment to Piozzi’s country as well as to his taste; for she meant it to typify the union between Wales and Italy in his and her own proper persons.  She says in the Conway Notes: 

“Mr. Piozzi built the house for me, he said; my own old chateau, Bachygraig by name, tho’ very curious, was wholly uninhabitable; and we called the Italian villa he set up as mine in the Vale of Cluid, Brynbella, or the beautiful brow, making the name half Welsh and half Italian, as we were.”

Dr. Burney, in a letter to his daughter, thus described the position and feelings of the couple towards each other in 1808: 

“During my invalidity at Bath I had an unexpected visit from your Streatham friend, of whom I had lost sight for more than ten years.  She still looks very well, but is graver, and candour itself; though she still says good things, and writes admirable notes and letters, I am told, to my granddaughters C. and M., of whom she is very fond.  We shook hands very cordially, and avoided any allusion to our long separation and its cause.  The caro sposo still lives, but is such an object from the gout, that the account of his sufferings made me pity him sincerely; he wished, she told me, ’to see his old and worthy friend,’ and un beau matin I could not refuse compliance with his wish.  She nurses him with great affection and tenderness, never goes out or has company when he is in pain.”

In the Conway Notes she says: 

“Piozzi’s fine hand upon the organ and pianoforte deserted him.  Gout, such as I never knew, fastened on his fingers, distorting them into every dreadful shape....  A little girl, shown to him as a musical wonder of five years old, said, ’Pray, Sir, why are your fingers wrapped up in black silk so?’ ‘My dear,’ replied he, ’they are in mourning for my voice.’  ‘Oh, me!’ cries the child, ‘is she dead?’ He sung an easy song, and the baby exclaimed, ’Ah, Sir! you are very naughty—­you tell fibs!’ Poor dears! and both gone now!”