My father brought me here when I was a wee nipper. He picked me up and plonked me down on a cushion of moss that had grown on one of the thick stone walls. We looked out over the village of Mumbles, which tumbled its way down towards the cold, fishing boat bobbing sea like a broken box of biscuits.
I can still remember the taste of salt in the wind as it nipped at my face and turned my hair to straw.
“This is where I lived when I was a little boy,” he told me to my utter bewilderment.
He pointed out where his family had eaten dinner, where his bedroom was and where he’d learned to ride a bike. I lapped it all up and didn’t doubt him for a minute.
A year or so later I found myself back in the village of Mumbles on a school trip, harnessed to the rest of my classmates as we shuffled behind our teacher like little penguins up towards the castle.
Upon reaching the castle and entering through the gates, I puffed my chest out and put my hand up.
“Yes, Ben?” said Mrs Leg.
“This is my dad’s old house, Miss. That was his bedroom!”
