Ret til toppen er den anden af to romaner af historisk fiktion baseret pa unik forste hand erfaring i Port Hope Simpson, Labrador, Newfoundland, Canada. Det fortaeller den fortsatte historie om Richard Ap Meurig eventyr. Deltag ham i hans eskapader, som han sooger at rettigheder den uret fra fortiden. [Disclaimer: Denne bog er et vaerk af historisk fiktion og skal ikke tages bogstaveligt. Hvis laeseren ser ligheder mellem karakterer i dette arbejde af fiktion og mennesker i det virkelige liv, bor de opfattes som blot tilfaeldig.] [Dansk Edition]
About the Author: Llewelyn har arbejdet med det aerede Canadiske Senator William (Bill) Rompkey, pa at skrive historie Volontortjeneste Overseas (VSO) i Labrador. Dette er, hvad Bill skrev i sit brev til den forste komsammen af VSO laerere pa Pateley Bridge, North Yorkshire 1-3 August 2003..". Labrador kaldet til dig, og vi ringer til dig u. Jeg haber du vil gore hvad du kan i lobet af disse par dage til at udfylde Labrador rekord med dine erindringer og refleksioner. Dette vil ogsa vaere et vigtigt bidrag til Labrador historie. Men forst og fremmest haber jeg du nyder din tid sammen. Llewelyn Pritchard har gjort et bemaerkelsesvaerdigt stykke arbejde i at bringe dig sammen. Han er sa snu som Holmes og sa vedholdende som Poirot. Han kunne endda vaere en stor Canadisk ! Vi skylder ham mere end vi kan sige. Det er hans begivenhed, og jeg ved, det vil blive en succes. Alle gode onsker. 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