‘I grew up on the hillside overlooking the town proper. On a good day you could look out across the sea and glimpse the English coast, on a better one you only saw Port Talbot. The chemical plant cooling towers stood imperiously before me, turning the sky orange and spitting acid at the washing and the cars. The steelworks on fire and smoking woodbines. And always the sea, washing up its whales and submarines, failed kites and once reaching out with its roiling hand across the beach road and stealing away a child, never to be seen again in spite of all the car headlights. I first saw the Passion Play in Margam Park when I was about 12. I saw it a few times over the years up until it stopped being done. It was a story I knew come to life in front of me. A ritual taking place before me. I saw the people of my town walking out of the forest and out of another time, children dancing and the old walking with their lost, following the man who had come back. The man who had been on a strange journey, who had suffered, had visions, and who returned. Something had been called to that place and was still there as we left. Something about a town telling a story to itself. A town remembering itself through a story. Sacrifice. Betrayal. Denial. Love. Passion.’