My grandparents lived in a lovely little village in Wales, called Crickhowell. Every year while I was growing up, my mum packed us three kids up to stay with them there for the summer. She downright refused, much to our derision, to ever bring us over for Christmas, vowing never to endure again the harsh Northern winters of her childhood. Having lived in hot climates all our lives, always yearning to play in snow, I suppose us kids took for granted those warm Welsh summers much more than she did, seeing as Mum was always bounding across green fields and down lanes with so much zeal every morning. But eventually Crickhowell’s magic crept up on us, seeping through like the persistent summer dusk that that could not be shut out of our bedrooms, even after ten o’clock at night.