Saying our goodbyes, we walk through my neighbour’s gloomy hallway, past photos of men in lace petticoats, and step out into the night. Carrying the mandatory puskak (gifted food parcel) of sheep’s cheese, slivers of pig’s liver and a string of spicy Basque sausages known as txistorrak, I shoulder my five-year-old’s Paddington Bear bag and lead her back up the mountain towards home.
Suddenly she stops, pointing at the sky. “Look, mummy,” she instructs, typically bossy.
“Yes, Marion, what is it?” I reply, gazing upwards at the star-studded void.
“The stars look like zorriak,” she says, then steers me off along the pig path, unaware of the devastation her words have left in their wake. I come from a world where stars are like diamonds, and my daughter is telling…
