Having emigrated with my family from Wales to South Africa in 1974, you learn to recognise and understand your true national identity. Being Welsh in Wales I had no real understanding or concept of any form of national identity, sure, we had the odd Englishman in our school but that was about it. My family was Welsh and my friends were Welsh and that was all I knew.

However on arrival in South Africa as a 12 year old, I soon realised that there were very few Welshmen or women around, there were none in my school and the only few I knew were friends of my parents, in these circumstances you very soon learn to appreciate your heritage.

In 1976 I went to the South Africa Grand Prix, it was my first motor race, the race being held at the Kyalami race track, which is just outside Johannesburg. I instantly developed a passion for the sport which I still hold to this day. Not knowing anything at all about Grand Prix racing, I was very pleasantly surprised to see a Welshman driving a black car called a Shadow, this Welshman being Tom Pryce. He had a great race, finishing well after having to stop for a puncture.

When the time came for the 1977 Grand Prix, I had been to every motor race at Kyalami since the '76 GP. I had learnt all the ways possible to slip into the pits or paddock area without being stopped by the marshals (there were no security guards in those days). I had followed the GP via newspapers and my weekly subscription to Autosport, which typically took six weeks to arrive by boat to South Africa.

The teams used to arrive at Kyalami about two weeks before the Grand Prix for an extended test session prior to the start of the European race programme. During this time I took the odd day or so off school to visit the track. On arrival I made a bee line to the Shadow pit to meet Tom, where I was very fortunate to meet with him, talk, take photos and get his autograph, the usual things you do when you meet your favourite sportsman. He seemed very relaxed and was looking forward to a good race as his testing was going well, he tended to spend most of his time when out of the car just sitting on the garage wall very quiet and relaxed.

The night before the race I camped at the track along with my father and a few of his Welsh friends and it was very much a party atmosphere. I don't know how much interest the adults had in the race, but I was prepared and excited. The following morning after the Grand Prix practice, armed with my latest version of Autosport, which covered the Argentinean race, I slipped off into the pits just before the driver parade. I managed to get quite a few autographs: James Hunt, Niki Lauda, Emerson Fittipaldi, Mario Andretti, Jody Scheckter and a few others as well as Carlos Pace who was sadly to be killed a week later in an air crash.

On walking up to Tom, I noticed there wasn't a photo for him to sign, the only space being an unidentified car in the background of a spinning Fittipaldi. Tom and I agreed that this could be him as he couldn't remember Fittipaldi spinning so Tom duly signed this.

He was very quiet but seemed relaxed and only smiled without saying anything when, in my best Welsh, I said, 'Diolch i chi' (one of the few Welsh phrases I knew). He was the last driver I met that morning; that autograph must have been one of the last he ever signed. As he was preparing to get into his car for the drivers' parade I ran back to our seats which were at Jukskei corner, a few hundred metres from the pits. We all yelled and waved when Tom came past, one in our group had a Welsh flag, Tom waved back. I had been following Tom through the race and although he seemed to have had a bad start he was slowly moving up the field.

I immediately realised that Tom was out of the race when he did not come around as expected. From the top of the small stand that I was in you could look up to Crowthorn corner. Crowthorn was the first corner after the long straight and you could clearly see all the marshall activity, yellow flags etc. I was automatically disappointed that Tom had crashed but only when the ambulance came slowly around the track did anyone get the feeling that this could be serious.

Slowly the news that Tom had died filtered around the track. To say I was upset was an understatement. Only later that night on the news and in the newspapers the next day did I learn about the full horror of the way in which Tom died along with the young fire marshall. Although drivers died quite often in the '70s it was the first time that anybody I met or knew had been killed in an accident; Tom was and still remains the only Welsh GP driver I ever knew.