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Cardiff, Wales. Home of Roald Dahl, dragon flags, a castle, the British Cheese Festival, shopping arcades, Brains brewery, windy afternoons, and bilingual signs, among other things. And, last weekend, me.
On a whim, three friends and I took the early train on Friday to Cardiff, a two-hour ride to the west coast of the island. When we stepped off, not much had changed, and yet at the same time, a lot had. The town was smaller, homier than London, not as glamorous but a little more comforting in its resemblance to something rather familiar... very familiar indeed. For some reason, I couldn't shake off the feeling that I was in the Midwest of Britain. Perhaps I've just been missing home a bit, but the people wearing shorts in 50 degree weather, the dairy, and the accents of the friendly residents all made me think of Michigan. This is not a place where people wear stilettos to work, it's a place where you can wear a pink raincoat (which I did) and not feel out of place. There were also a lot more children than any place I've been so far, and I eavesdropped on a grandmother telling her adorable granddaughter the story of Billy Goat Gruff. If you've never heard a Welsh woman telling a Mother Goose story, get on it, stat. I wanted to record her so I could listen to her marvelous voice in my spare time.
We also happened to stumble across the British Cheese Festival at Cardiff Castle (in the words of the advertisements on the street, "Cheese and a castle... what's not to love?"). I kept thinking of my brother as a five year-old, getting smoked cheddar cheese from the Dairy Store when every normal kid got ice cream. Mini-Pat would have loved Cardiff. So much delicious cheese and bread and wine and a bad live band and sunshine and a castle that reminded you of Monty Python.
One tourist shop had a big banner out front that proudly described Wales as "The Happy Country." I think that does sum up the whole place pretty well. When you have cows and dragons and pubs called "The Goat Major," it's hard not to smile a bit as you walk down the street, even if you don't have those sleek black boots they wear in London.
Cardiff, Wales. Home of Roald Dahl, dragon flags, a castle, the British Cheese Festival, shopping arcades, Brains brewery, windy afternoons, and bilingual signs, among other things. And, last weekend, me.
On a whim, three friends and I took the early train on Friday to Cardiff, a two-hour ride to the west coast of the island. When we stepped off, not much had changed, and yet at the same time, a lot had. The town was smaller, homier than London, not as glamorous but a little more comforting in its resemblance to something rather familiar... very familiar indeed. For some reason, I couldn't shake off the feeling that I was in the Midwest of Britain. Perhaps I've just been missing home a bit, but the people wearing shorts in 50 degree weather, the dairy, and the accents of the friendly residents all made me think of Michigan. This is not a place where people wear stilettos to work, it's a place where you can wear a pink raincoat (which I did) and not feel out of place. There were also a lot more children than any place I've been so far, and I eavesdropped on a grandmother telling her adorable granddaughter the story of Billy Goat Gruff. If you've never heard a Welsh woman telling a Mother Goose story, get on it, stat. I wanted to record her so I could listen to her marvelous voice in my spare time.
We also happened to stumble across the British Cheese Festival at Cardiff Castle (in the words of the advertisements on the street, "Cheese and a castle... what's not to love?"). I kept thinking of my brother as a five year-old, getting smoked cheddar cheese from the Dairy Store when every normal kid got ice cream. Mini-Pat would have loved Cardiff. So much delicious cheese and bread and wine and a bad live band and sunshine and a castle that reminded you of Monty Python.
One tourist shop had a big banner out front that proudly described Wales as "The Happy Country." I think that does sum up the whole place pretty well. When you have cows and dragons and pubs called "The Goat Major," it's hard not to smile a bit as you walk down the street, even if you don't have those sleek black boots they wear in London.
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