I gazed at the mountains from the window of the bus and felt content and happy, for what better way to make you feel wonder and wonderful than gazing at a mossy green capped summit on a summers’ day. Then a thought tapped me on the shoulder, climbed in to my ear and pecked at my brain, persistently. This thought in a sing-song voice said, ‘They’re good mountains, but they’re not Welsh mountains.’ In that moment, I felt a little tingle.

I have just returned from a jolly to Mallorca. Myriad mates and my parents rave about this island and the children and I packed up and padded off for a week of swimming pool, playing pool, Palma, pina-coladas and paella. It is indeed a beautiful island, but this little jolt reminding me of the splendour of home, was not the first time that this has happened to me. This same thought had a word in my ear as I drove through Sussex last December and gazed at the South Downs. They were sparkly white from the early morning frost and sprinkling of snow, the sun hoping like an ice fairy with twinkly ants in her pants. It was stunning, but it wasn’t South Wales.

Whilst in Mallorca, the children got chatting to other children around the pool, one of whom was from Swansea. I saw a man in the bar one evening with a Welsh dragon on his T shirt and I just smiled to myself.

One of my favourite Welsh words is Hiraeth. It has no direct English translation, but it describes a feeling of longing, a yearning, a want, a desire to be cuddled and cradled or indeed cwtched, by home. I love to travel. I think it is valuable to widen the horizons, see, experience, engage with, taste. I love to try new food, slow roasted artichoke, drenched in fruity olive oil, eaten in Rome will be a taste memory I’m sure I shall attempt to conjure on my deathbed and a burger drenched in oozy blue cheese, eaten, slightly drunk, one Sunday afternoon in Brooklyn, will remain one of my happiest foodie reminiscences; I love to chat to people from different countries; learn about the culture, history and politics of other nations and regions. I have lived in different places and been fortunate to holiday in so many glorious, fascinating corners and countries - Malaysia to Malia; Dubai to Devon; Skiathos to Sorrento; Singapore to Spain; Washington to Whitby, Boston to Barcelona, I could blather on, because I really do love to travel and I’m lucky that I have.

I don’t know if as I age I am simply setting down stronger roots, my children are established in school and have great friends, as do I and maybe this could’ve and would’ve happened wherever I happened to lay my hat, who knows. But, and I declare I say this as someone not actually raised in the Vale, there really is now, no place like home.