Send My Cold Bones Home

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 Jonathon, he travels across oceans and generations. Jonathon had moved from city to city as a child, dragged in the wake of a father who always thought the next place must be better than all the “shit-holes” the family had just left behind. His best years had been lost sleeping rough on tropical beaches and cleaning toilets on the back-pack 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.