My emotions become tied up in all of the books I have loved over the years, and it matters very little what genre they are or what the writing style is or when they were written and by whom. My mother had died by then, and my grandmother died before I was born so I never met my grandmother; I think the book made me feel closer to that part of the family. The story is set around the Morgan family in a Welsh mining town and told by the narrator protagonist, the older Huw Morgan, as he took a long walk down the memory lane before he starts to leave his hometown for a new life abroad. I read this aloud with my husband (then-boyfriend) and I really can't overstate how beautiful it is read aloud.

It seemed odd that the book began with the main character leaving the valley, yet as the story of his childhood and coming of age unfolds, you never get to the point where he came to the decision to leave the valley. I simply looked around online and it was quite by chance that I came across Richard Llewellyn’s How Green Was My Valley. Truly the most lyrical and beautiful book I have ever read, I'll be all set to pick it up again in another ten years or so. Robinson Crusoe ile birlikte tahıl yetiştirmiş, Bereketli Topraklar'da bir barakanın yükselişine heyecanlanmıştım.Page 88, "O, blackberry tart, with berries as big as your thumb, purple and black, and thick with juice, and a crust to endear them that will go to cream in your mouth, and both passing down with such a taste that will make you close your eyes and wish you might live for ever in the wideness of that rich moment.

A world of simple people, simpler lives, great food, family, values and a connection to nature that has since then been completely lost. There are also some absolutely brutal scenes, especially when the community seeks justice for the assault and death of a child, and the passages where a long strike brings starvation to the people.

In the evening after we had finished tea we all sat on the grass on horse cloths and sang hymns and songs, and we had prizes for the best.

The mountain was green, and proud with a good covering of oak and ash, and washing his feet in a streaming river clear as the eyes of God. Like me he was obviously proud of his Welsh heritage, so I’m not sure why he had to dress it up in any other way.Somehow I missed the 1941 movie* of the same name—and it had Maureen O'Hara no less, one of my all-time favorite actresses. The writing itself was fine, but nothing terribly exciting happened, and if it did, it took our characters so many pages to get there, leaving everything long-winded and tedious.