Why, when I hear ‘Calon Lân’, do the hairs on my neck and my arms stand on end the same way they do should a woman or the weather touch me? The song knows that path through my ears into the memories of my childhood that few things know, the same way cold air of October and the smell of fireworks might. Memories of bus trips and animals carved of stone, of family gatherings, of kind friends and kind places, of knowing a place is special. Of Cherry Bakewells. Of walking home each day through a cemetery that changed from strange to peaceful as I changed from child to boy. A place that I am from. And while the words mean nothing, to me at least, the value of them means everything. Without memory, we are adrift.