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.] Nepali Edition]

About the Author

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Llewelyn's collection of books includes the series: 1. Illustrated Diaries about European Budget Short-Break Holidays 2. Photo Albums 3. The Port Hope Simpson Diaries 1969-70 4. Port Hope Simpson Mysteries 5. The Voluntary Service Overseas in Labrador 6. Travel Handbooks Llewelyn has worked with The Honourable Canadian Senator William (Bill) Rompkey, on writing the history of the Voluntary Service Overseas (VSO) in Labrador. This is what Bill wrote in his letter to the first get- together of the VSO teachers at Pateley Bridge, North Yorkshire 1-3 August 2003, ..".Labrador called to you and we are calling you now. I hope you will do what you can during these few days to fill in the Labrador record with your recollections and reflections. This too will be an important contribution to Labrador history. But mainly I hope you enjoy your time together. Llewelyn Pritchard has done a remarkable job in bringing you together. He is as shrewd as Holmes and as persistent as Poirot. He could even be a great Canadian! We owe him more than we can say. It's his event and I know it will be successful. All good wishes. Bill Rompkey" In Memory of my Dad: "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