'Oh, . . . but I see you've got a stripe . . .'
'I'm an acting Lance-Corporal.'
'Certificate A, parts one and four?'
'Have you tried part two yet?'
'I failed it.'
'Going to try again?'
'Any shooting badges?'
'Been to Corps Camp?'
'Ah well, do try your Certificate A, part two. You'll find it most useful when you come to do your National Service.'
I wasn't enough of an anti-hero to say, 'I won't be doing that either, if I can help it.'
Since military conscription had come to an end by the time I left University, I didn't have to choose between the English Army and clink.
I shall end this memoir by expressing my admiration for the handful of Nationalists 1, among them Hywel ap Dafydd, Chris Rees, and Emrys Roberts, who went to prison rather than wear the uniform of the English Army, and by paying tribute, too, to every worker and patriot who challenged that army in places a good deal more dangerous than the playing-field of a public school one morning in May.
BBC Cymru (23 Gorffennaf, 1982)
R. S. Thomas
Whenever I hear the word ' Anglesey,' or 'the Isle of Anglesey,' the first name that comes to mind is Goronwy Owen 1, because for me he is the prime example of what it means to be an exile: