There is a Welsh word — hiraeth — that does not translate cleanly into English. It means homesickness for a home you cannot return to, or perhaps for a home that existed partly in imagination: a longing so deep and place-specific it becomes a permanent condition of the soul. Richard Llewellyn's How Green Was My Valley is an entire novel written from inside this grief. Huw Morgan narrates from old age and exile, and what he mourns is a way of being in the world that has been irreversibly closed.