Right To The Top: "Wrigglesworth Fitxategia Hondatuta Talde Kontuz Ibili”: Volume 7 (Port Hope Simpson Mysteries) - Tapa blanda

Right To The Top berezia lehen eskuko Port Hope Simpson, Labrador, Ternua , Kanada esperientzia on bi fikzio historiko eleberri bigarrena da. Jarraitu Richard Ap Meurig en abenturen istorioa kontatzen du. Bat egin zion bere escapades in bilatzen zuen eskubide gisa iraganeko martxan jartzea onartu du. [ Ezespena: Liburu honek Historiko fikziozko lan bat da eta ez da hitzez hitz hartu behar. Irakurleari fikzioan eta bizitza errealean pertsonen lan honetan pertsonaien arteko antzekotasunak ikusten bada, haiek behar bezala koinzidentzia besterik pentsatu.]

Llewelyn Kanadako Ohorezko Senatari William (Bill) Rompkey lan egin ondoren, Zerbitzua Borondatezko Overseas (VSO) Labrador historia idazten. Hau da, zer Bill bere gutuna idatzi zuen lehen-elkarrekin Pateley Bridge, North Yorkshire 1-3 2003ko abuztuan, irakasleen VSO "... Labrador behar duzu deitzen eta deitzen ari gara gaur egun. Espero dut zer egin ahal izango dituzu horiek egunetan egin ahal izango duzu zure oroipen eta gogoetak erregistro Labrador bete. Hau Labrador historia ere ekarpen garrantzitsua izango da. Baina, batez ere, zure denbora gozatzeko aukera elkarrekin espero dut. Llewelyn Pritchard egin du lan nabarmenak duzu elkarren artean bildu. Holmes gisa shrewd eta Poirot gisa iraunkorrak ditu. Nahiz eta ezin zuen Kanadako handi bat izan! Zion esan baino zor dugu. Bere gertaera da eta arrakastatsua izango da ezagutzen dut. Nahiak guztiak onak. Bill Rompkey" 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 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