WHEN someone says: “I’m going home,” or “I’m heading over by,” I think there’s a universal understanding of what that means. It means going to a place where open arms and open fires await; with a heat that never fails to send you into a soft slumber. Where you head out on a beach walk and are warned: “The wind’ll blow the head aff ye.” A place where even a stroll across the fields, 40 shades of green, cut or wild, welcome you back with familiarity and knowing.