Old Johnny Ifor had never gone anywhere.
Not physically, anyway. But in his mind, in the journals he’s inherited, in the stories he starts to weave around young Jonathon, he travels across oceans and generations. Jonathon’s best years had been lost sleeping rough on tropical beaches and cleaning toilets on the backpack trail. As he sits in a darkening cottage watching what’s left of his youth and sanity dribbling through the hourglass, Old Johnny’s stories bind him tighter to a north Wales island winter.
Then she began to pack things that didn’t belong to him… She took Medicine’s journal and his tomahawk, she took some of my taid’s maps, she took my great-grandfather’s compass… Everything he might have touched or admired or held in his hands as a child when he started to imagine the world, she sealed away the boxes where she wouldn’t have to look at them.
Praise for Send My Cold Bones Home
‘A remarkable achievement’
‘The reach… is ambitious; his examination of the dispossessed intersects with a critique of the late capitalist desire for dominion over the material world’
New Welsh Review