Once upon a time, in a pub in Berkshire, I nearly made a man cry by saying “Redcar”.

I was in Newbury, talking to a table of strangers. “Oh,” said one, “you’re from the north-east? Our mate’s from the north-east. He grew up in Redcar.”

The mate looked sheepish, but he carried on. “It’s a seaside town, it’s in Yorkshire.”

I know. I grew up not far away. When I was twelve or so, my best friend and I used to catch the train, bold with the excitement of travelling by ourselves. We would go to either Redcar or Saltburn for the day - both were on the same line. Redcar had three railway stations (Redcar East, Redcar Central, and Redcar British Steel); Saltburn was the terminus. Shortly before I triumphantly dropped geography as a school subject I spent a dull day surveying shoppers and passers-by as part of a field trip and “enquiry” into the central business district of Redcar. I know that it hasn’t actually, technically, been in Yorkshire since before I was born.

I didn’t say all of that out loud. Instead, I just said that I knew it. “We used to go to the beach at Redcar.”

The man who grew up there suddenly joined in. “See? See? She says Redcar properly. None of you say it right”.

It’s a tiny difference. It’s whether you say it as written - Red Car - or lean all your weight on the first syllable and practically chuck the second one away. Even in a country as small as England, it’s very easy to travel far enough away from your home town that no one will pronounce it correctly. And when you meet someone who does, it is a tiny bond, a tiny shared moment that both creates and cures disproportionate homesickness.

Homesickness seems too strong a term. Perhaps is it more akin to nostalgia, a rose-tinted fondness for places distant.

In recent months another town near where I grew up has been in the news: Barnard Castle. It is, incidentally, a lovely place that deserves better than to be the butt of jokes about a politician making ill-advised choices. You should go there some time. Visit the Bowes Museum. However, every time Barnard Castle has been mentioned by friends, by colleagues, by news readers I have noticed that (like the man said) none of them say it right. And I am reminded that I am not at home.

I’ve never lived in a different country. I imagine that anyone living thousands of miles from their home, possibly somewhere they rarely speak their native language, must feel a little leap of joy when they encounter a familiar accent. The stranger feels like a friend and ally. Surely even someone who cheerfully left their home behind might feel that tug of shared experience.

But someone who was already lonely, or missing their home? I think they’d be much more likely to trust this unknown person, to turn towards them for company and kinship. Or, at the very least, buy them a drink and sit in the pub and chat for an hour.

Next time you need a character to make an unwise choice, remember the power of letting them meet someone who says it right.