My family went to Wales for a summer holiday many years ago and a photo from the time shows them clad in waterproofs, enveloped by mist, looking frozen and damp. So is it any wonder it took me years to visit the principality?
We made it in 2018, spending a bank holiday weekend in Cardiff. It rained on the Sunday, heavily and depressingly, but I don’t think endless sunshine would’ve done much to change my opinion, for the Welsh capital is just a bit ‘meh’. As far as cities go, there’s nothing that shouts ‘wow, you just have to come here and see me’. But at least the sun shone on the Saturday and we could explore without umbrellas, visit the majestic Caerphilly Castle and the muddle that is Cardiff Bay.
We arrived in the city late on a Friday evening, parked ourselves at the wonderful city centre Hotel Indigo, and went out in search of a beer or two. And Cardiff does have its fair share of pubs, many of which are clustered around the high street and geared towards the young. It turned out to be Pride weekend so we opted for the gay bars, starting at the Eagle where folk of all ages, some with dodgy mullets and a penchant for uniform, hung about looking available while dry ice filled the air. There was only so much of that I could take without choking on my Brewdog Punk IPA so we moved on to The Kings, which was noisy and rammed downstairs. The first floor was more sedate but had all the interior design flair of an 80s retirement home and a hopeless range of average to poor beers. Fortunately I’d had some decent ale on the train and felt numbed enough when we retired for the night.
In the morning we found the colourful Pride parade lining up near the law courts, roads were closed and crowds of people waited by the road to watch, some gay, some straight, some unsure of themselves. Rainbow flags fluttered as a group of faceless do-gooders led the way, followed by some chirpy police officers and NHS workers, but Pride in so many cities is so commercial these days that it soon degenerated into a parade of the town’s leading employers so we left (narrowly avoiding the bags of sweets being thrown aggressively at the crowds by Tesco employees).
Caerphilly beckoned, nestled in green, hilly countryside. A short train journey away from Cardiff on a ropey old diesel contraption, the town is famous for its castle – the second largest in Britain – and for its cheese. We never saw the latter promoted anywhere, which was a little odd and a missed opportunity, and the high street proved to be uninteresting. The castle, surprisingly, sits in a bowl rather than atop one of the neighbouring hills, forbidding and brooding in dark grey stone. Surrounded by a moat and sturdy walls, it would’ve been a monster to defeat.
It was built by the elegantly named Gilbert de Clare in the 13th century and was long fought over in wars between the Welsh and the English/Norman monarchs intent on conquering the principality. Rebuilt on several occasions, it was a romantic ruin by the time the hugely wealthy Marquesses of Bute decided to restore it centuries later. We traipsed around the remains and watched an animated film about its history, which was notable more for the animation than the history, and dodged some touristy additions (maze, dragons breathing smoke, musty period costumes to dress in etc). We marvelled at the remains of a tower that leans more precariously than its cousin in Pisa, climbed a rather more vertical tower to enjoy the view, admired giant fireplaces and a restored great hall but felt disappointed by the lack of story. It’s a mistake many attractions make.
Our visit was over a lot quicker than I thought so we got the train back to Cardiff and continued on down to the much redeveloped bay, which was once dominated by the docks that transported vast quantities of Welsh coal to the world. But the docks closed during the post-war years, the bay was enclosed with a barrage and rebuilding began. Today the area houses some remarkable buildings, including the Wales Millennium Centre with its striking frontage of metal, wood and slate, and the open and airy Welsh Assembly centre. The 19th century terracotta Pierhead building is a commanding presence close to the water’s edge and was once the HQ of the docks company. Inside, there’s a small exhibition on its history, in rooms that include some magnificent and colourful tiling, grand fireplaces and staircases. We walked round to the simple, wooden Norwegian church, relocated from its original spot and that’s now an average café. The streets were lined with market stalls, offering food and the sort of crafts that rarely interest us, and marquees erected for teams and supporters involved in a yachting competition in the bay.
But while the bay has some good architecture, old and new, and bustles with life, I absolutely loathed the commercial redevelopment of shops, flats, bars and eateries. Blandly 90s in style and utterly forgettable, this part of the bay looked like similar developments in Portsmouth and countless other town centres up and down the country. Most of the bars and restaurants were chains, draining the area further of any individuality. We stopped at a bar for lunch, where every beer I wanted wasn’t available, and I felt quite depressed by it all. I couldn’t wait to leave so we got a boat taxi up the River Taff, landing at Bute Park not far from our hotel.
In the evening we deposited ourselves at a friendly and excellent Italian called Casanova, which had a modest menu and very tasty fare, while the streets outside rang to the sounds of Pride revellers having a good time. And fortunately we found a bar that actually served decent beer afterwards too, beer crafted by small, independent brewers. It was called Beelzebubs and proved that at least Cardiff in the evening is worth a visit. Tidy…