The thing about living in London is, despite the pervasive British accent, the abundance of pubs and the driving on the left, it's sometimes a bit difficult to remember you're in the U.K. It's cosmpolitan in every sense of the word; in fact, more of my friends are from other European countries than from the U.K. itself. My day-trip to Brighton was a short foray into the 'real' Britain, but last weekend I figured it was time to start venturing out of the big city and into the rest of the country. Well, that and my friends C. and G. got me a weekend trip to
Cardiff for the three of us back in December for my birthday.
We hopped on a
National Express bus late Saturday morning, loaded up with caffeine and travel-friendly lunch supplies, and arrived in Cardiff three and a half hours later after an uneventful tour of some highways (no exciting back roads for us), and a quick peek -- through the bus windows -- at another Welsh town,
Chepstow, which is probably a stop mainly for its proximity to the famous
Tintern Abbey. After quickly dropping our stuff at our hotel, the very nice and inexpensive
Travelodge, we wandered up St. Mary's Street towards
Cardiff Castle. During our walk we encountered many banners, some composed of tree lights, some not, informing us that the "youngest capital in Europe" was celebrating its 50th year holding this position. Now this is slightly ridiculous as people have been living in Cardiff at least for the past 2000 years, when the Romans built the first version of the Castle -- but hey, whatever gimmick gets the tourists running.
We'd missed the last tour of the castle for the day, so consoled ourselves by walking along Queen Street, a pedestrian shopping area. C. and I were quickly hypnotized by the sale signs, and close to ecstatic when we realized that the store's prices were just as cheap as in London, but with 1/5 of the crowd size. After a little more wandering through the Arcades -- little pedestrian side-streets -- and the requisite mocking-of-cheap-crap at a tourist shop, we three had worked up quite an appetite. Our friend T., a Cardiff native, had recommended a little place called La Brasserie, a restaurant with no set menu but a wide array of fresh meat and fish, which you select yourself and have made-to-order. When we first entered it looked to be a cosy bistro-type joint: dark wood, low ceiling with, inexplicably, as many pitchers hanging from it as could fit, but in fact it turned out to be a huge monster restaurant full of people happily stuffing their faces. We were more than happy to join the crowd, ordering swordfish and sole, helping ourselves to heaping salads from the salad bar, and even enjoying a nice port and cheese plate after the meal. The fish was fresh and delicious, and as our waitress was new (and Spanish -- G. developed a crush and nicknamed her "Bunny," for a reason I can't recall), we got to watch the manager teach her how to take the sole off the bone. (I watched carefully, but still wouldn't trust myself to try it unsupervised.) We stayed for probably about three hours, and while gluttony was the main reason, voyeurism came in a close second. Turns out the packed Brasserie is the place to be on a Saturday night -- dozens of local women treat the place like a catwalk, and come out in their best nightclub attire, which, to our well-trained London eyes, looked delightfully provincial. We hadn't dressed up at all for dinner, and in fact we looked decidedly scruffy in sweaters and jeans, so felt free to watch the show by those trying their best to be Cardiff's local glitterati.
Turns out that was only the beginning. Got back out onto St. Mary's Street, overstuffed and ready to waddle across the street to our conveniently located digs, to find the street closed off to cars and filled with what seemed like all of the 30-years-and-under population of Wales, swarmed around two or three nightclubs, all shouting at the tops of their lungs. No reason, mind you, this is apparently what a Saturday night in Cardiff always looks like! There were no less than four hen parties (as bachelorette parties are called here), and the name seemed particularly well-suited on this evening as the women, wearing matching T-shirts and stumbling, squawked at each other and anyone who came within a 20-foot radius. Not that the men were any better, but at least they weren't wearing matching clothes. We stood outside for about five minutes, watching as the bouncers flirted with poor confused girls wearing bandeau tops as mini-skirts, a man or two ran by wearing stolen hen-party wedding veils, and other madness ensued... but at the sound of broken glass we scooted into the bunker, er, hotel. The next morning we found a couple of quite large windows up and down the street sporting a new spiderweb pattern. The shopowners in this town must spend a fortune replacing windowpanes.
Sunday was fairly unventful, as we overslept and then spent an hour walking around, trying to find a place still serving English breakfast at one p.m. (we failed)... then over to the
National Museum and Gallery, close to
Cardiff University. There were some permanent exhibititions about the evolution and natural history of Wales that are so
en vogue at the moment, but luckily we all agreed that it couldn't be that different from similar ones in London, so went straight up to the first floor to check out the art galleries. After experiencing defeat at the hands of the enormous National Gallery on Trafalgar Square, this museum was a relief -- a satisfying two hours exploring European art from the last 500, but mainly the last 150, years. Of course there's a focus on Welsh artists, patrons, and craftsmen (particularly ceramics), but I also found particularly interesting the
Pre-Raphaelite room, not so much for aesthetic reasons as for the mission of the group itself, and how it led into the Victorian period. However, my interest still remains focused in contemporary art, so I was pleased to see work by
Max Ernst,
David Hockney, and an elegant piece,
'Oval Sculpture (Delos)' by Barbara Hepworth.
The museum closed at five, but after such a late brunch we weren't ready yet for dinner -- so decided to spoil it by munching on treats at the movies (we saw
Closer, which I recommend for all disenchanted singles to watch on Valentine's Day, and for all faltering couples to avoid altogether). After, had a light dinner anyway at La Tasca, a tapas restaurant which I suspect is a chain, but had yummy, cheap food and a nice vegetarian selection.
Monday we were up early to get our hands on an English breakfast, which we ended up eating in the dining room at Howell's department store. A strange location, but in fact I'd recommend it, if only because they have scones and clotted cream! Then we took a bus down to Cardiff Bay, desperate to see a large body of water, and took a three-pound boat tour. Frankly the tour should have been called "Cardiff Bay: Come Back in Ten Years" (as you can see for yourself from this
webcam view). There's a development explosion going on all around the waterfront, but it's still in very early stages, so all that's there now are a few restaurants and the Wales Millenium Centre, which is huge but in about five years is going to look absolutely hideous (to some of us, it might look hideous
now). Although there's a great fountain-wall beside it of which we snapped many touristy photos.
Luckily, the Cardiff Castle has been around (literally) for ages, so we were quite happy to finally take our tour and see things built long, long ago. The castle itself is a mish-mash of different centuries, various towers built by the Romans, the Normans, through the 20th century (skipping a hundred years here and there). The last inhabitants, the Butes of Scotland, used it as a summer home six weeks out of the year in the late 19th century, and transformed it into an extravagant kitsch-fest that is absolutely unmissable. Every room has a theme -- astronomy, the elements, mythology and/or fairy tales, Welsh history, etc. -- and let me tell you, no expense was spared. Gold inlay and Italian marble all over the place; in the most preposterous places, in fact, though I will say the gilded ceilings grew on me.
It turned out not one person in our tour group was British; when he realized this, our guide automatically assumed us all to be stupid and so made fascinating remarks such as "And here we see Cupid, a Greek mythological creature." He also spoke reverently and at length about the Butes in all of their generosity and wisdom. At one point C. asked him a question about the growing independence of Wales and Scotland, as we'd just had a look at the new National Assembly of Wales down at the bay. He sighed heavily, squinted at us through his little wire-rimmed glasses, and said, "Yes, it looks as though the United Kingdom will one day come to an end; as for myself, I am British through and through." I wish I knew his name so I could recommend him to you all. This was the quintessential tour guide in action!
After the tour, we recovered in a cosy little tea-shop called Truffles, which was piping out Muzak at its finest. The three of us munched on tea-time treats and fish and chips, guessing the songs. At one point the waitress came over and said, "Yeah, the music's crap, isn't it?" When we protested that it was highly entertaining, she said, "Try working here. It really salts on the hearing." Ah, that dry British humo(u)r.
And so back on the bus and back to the big city -- but I have a feeling I'll need a fresh dose of British local color soon enough! Perhaps Liverpool? After all, I did listen to nothing but the Beatles for two years in my early teens-- a pilgrimage is probably in order.
