doorway. I wave to him. He too raises his hand with an even broader smile. I feel as if I am a leaf being borne along by the stream's current: I shall surely never see Bruce again.
Down in Reception there are about fifteen of us eating porridge. We change into our own clothes and put our belongings into our pockets. I get Olwen's Bible back at last. We stand in a row in alphabetical order, and for the last time I find myself last in the line, walking in the darkness towards the Main Gate under the warders' supervision. The small door in the middle of the big gate opens, and each one of us steps through it, one after the other, into the darkness of the great outside.
Maes Miliangel ( Gwasg Gee, 1974)
R. Tudur Jones
It was one evening. An evening in early September. What year? I don't know what year. Not last year nor the year before that. A quarter of a century ago, perhaps. But it might easily have been yesterday evening, except that it's now March. For time has nothing to do with it. It's an important part of the story that it can't be connected with any one specific day on the calendar.
But it was an evening in the month of September, for all that. A still evening without a leaf stirring. The kind of evening the sun hangs red and hesitant above the horizon and, in delaying its going down, persuades us that it's a sad thing to see the end of that particular day. And the smell of late hay lingering in the air and the bramble-bushes black with fruit. A cow's lowing mingled with the buzzing of small flies.
It was an evening that invited a spin. And so off I went across the Menai into Anglesey. The great bustle of summer and its visitors was over and the Anglesey roads empty. Turn right. Turn left. And within the blinking of an eye I was lost. But there's one splendid thing about the Isle of Anglesey. If the unfamiliar wayfarer gets lost, he knows that it's on Anglesey he's lost, and not that he's lost Anglesey. In