I’m wandering around Yorkshire Sculpture Park looking for the poet laureate. Simon Armitage decided we should meet at this beautiful outdoor gallery. The park is just off the M1, seven miles from Wakefield. Dotted with Henry Moores and Barbara Hepworths and Damien Hirsts, this could be the world’s most opulent golf course. It’s about as far from rough-hewn Yorkshire – the inspiration for much of Armitage’s poetry – as you can get. In the cafe, where we are due to meet, flat whites sell at £3.90 a pop.
But there is no sign of the poet. I wander downstairs. Nothing. There are two huge entrances at either end of the visitors’ centre. As I head for one, I’m sure he’s going to walk through the other. It feels like a Morecambe and Wise sketch. I head back to the cafe. This time Armitage is sat at a table, perfectly settled, flicking through his phone, a pot of tea to the side. He glances up at me, like a lugubrious owl. Armitage tells me he got back from Australia a week ago, has spent the past six days touring libraries country-wide and is knackered. His voice is familiar – clear, dourly rhythmic, vowels hard and flat as paving stone.
