I began to learn how to write in 'cynghanedd' (strict metre verse) when I was about 20, but it took me a good six years to be able to write naturally in this style. By now, it isn't the cynghanedd that's difficult, but thinking of what I want to say. Every word is vital, as each one impacts on the rest of the line.

They publish the topic for the chair about 13 months before the eisteddfod, but I didn't get started on it until the September. I took a break over Christmas and then weeded out over three quarters of my work which put me almost right back at the beginning again, but this was really important.

It's tradition for bards to submit their work under a false name. Mine was Port yr Aur (the Golden Gate). This is a part of the walls of Caernarfon, a place where you see magnificent sunsets in the summer. It's also a meeting of two worlds - the younger people on their way to the Anglesey Arms and the older people on their way home.

I was told I'd won the chair about a month beforehand, but I was asked to sign an agreement not to tell anyone, except close family. This was really difficult, especially during the week of the eisteddfod itself, and especially when having a pint! Everyone would come up and ask if I'd won, and I'd have to lie.

In 1993, the competition for the chair was very close and as they read out the critiques I began to doubt that I'd actually won!

The ceremony itself was amazing, especially for me, as a member of the world of poetry. But I think it's fascinating for everyone as the chairing ceremony is unique in its pomp and colour. Prizes these days are given out by men in suits in big halls, not in pavilions by the 'Gorsedd' (association of bards).

And for those of you who aren't sure what's going on - don't worry, neither did I! No one would let me know in advance and I didn't have former ceremonies on video. Not even the Archdruid wouldn't tell me what to expect as he said the ceremony was the same each year for him - only the bard's reaction ever differed.

After my name was announced and I was escorted to the stage, girls from local primary schools performed the flower dance for me and a maiden presented me with a garland of flowers, depicting nature and the earth (I think). I assumed I could keep these flowers and held on to them as she tried to get them back off me!

But I did get to keep the chair. It's beautiful - the back is made out of a solid piece of Japanese oak and it's over six feet in height as the name and date of the eisteddfod must be visible over the bard's head. It's really heavy and hard to move around, so it's now in my bedroom.

As a winner of the chair, I'm allowed to wear the white robes of a member of the Gorsedd. Although it's hard not to feel a bit silly in these robes, I'm aware of what an honour it is to be a part of such an ancient society. Anyone who is honoured in this way and doesn't choose to wear the robes doesn't deserve their prize in my opinion.

The Gorsedd and the chairing are unique and symbolise the closing of the eisteddfod. They are a part of the ancient poetic tradition in Wales - after all, in Hen wlad fy nhadau (Land of my fathers) we sing about how dear the land of poets and musicians are to us.