Description

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All is not as it seems to be Wild Bay is a novel of historical fiction based on unique first-hand experience in Port Hope Simpson, Newfoundland & Labrador, Canada that offers great lessons in how you can come to terms with something that really bothers you whilst simultaneously gaining great personal satisfaction and benefits along the way. The best of both worlds Or, looked at in another way, how you can endeavour to resolve a series of coincidences, puzzles, mysteries or most grave, serious issues in such a way that your work will maybe benefit others.... Disclaimer This book is a work of historical fiction and is not to be taken literally. If the reader sees similarities between characters in this work of fiction and people in real life, they should be thought of as merely coincidental.] Icelandic Edition]

About the Author

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Interview with Llewelyn Pritchard Where did you grow up, and how did this influence your writing? I grew up on the Black Mountain north of Swansea, South Wales. I haven't really got a clue how this influenced my writing except I suppose, it instilled in me a great love of nature, adventure and the outdoors. I am the son of an elite collier and I would much rather take this opportunity to dedicate this great and pertinent poem to his memory: "My father was a miner, He worked deep underground; The rush of drams and clanking chains. They were his daily sounds. He worked so far below the ground. Where coal was hewed by pick, The work so hard and wages small He didn't dare go sick. He crawled upon his belly. In drifts so low and narrow, The wind it whistled down the shaft. It chilled him to the marrow. He ate his food from a Tommy box, Shaped like a slice of bread, While squatting down upon the ground, Where spit and crumbs were shed. His water, it was in a Jack, to wet down clouds of dust, That gathered daily in his throat and lungs. Where it formed a deadly crust. We would listen for his footsteps, He then came into sight: This man, our Dad, as black as black, just like the darkest night; Right down his back white rivers ran amongst the dirt and grime, But you cannot wash away blue scars. That you get down the mine. Years now have passed. My father gone, But I am proud to say, My Father was a miner, until his dying day." by William Holden