My first post is dedicated to South Wales (not to be confused with New South Wales, which is about 10.000 miles down the road) for the very simple reason that I love Wales and the Welsh. I mean, those guys have managed to produce that absolute treasure of a man that is Leigh Halfpenny AND Welsh cakes, and a country that has yielded two things of equal value and appeal in the course of its history surely deserves our love and respect, unlike Switzerland.
I first visited Wales in er… 2011? 2012? I don’t remember. It was the year David Tennant said “I don’t want to go” and everybody cried. It must have been in 2012 then, as I remember I was one season behind, because I had to wait for the boxset to be available to watch the series on account of the BBC not being available in France at the time. In consequence, the Doctor Who Experience at London Olympia had spoiled the end of the season for me, which didn’t prevent me from crying when I finally saw that one episode. You know what I’m talking about. All the same, it was definitely in 2012. I think. (Note: We’re off to a good start as you can see by the absolute precision of the information I am sharing here. You’re welcome.)
My digression about Doctor Who isn’t just because I have a crush on David Tennant. I mean, yes, I do have a crush on David Tennant (who doesn’t, really? You bunch of hypocrites), but the truth is, Doctor Who literally is the reason why I visited Cardiff in the first place.
See, the Doctor Who Experience had moved to Cardiff and Jon and I wanted to see it again. We only booked a few nights at the Radisson Blu on Bute Terrace (everything is named Bute Something in Cardiff: parks, lanes, ways, roads, etc.) in the middle of winter, so the bill was pretty cheap because for some reason, people don’t want to cry frozen tears of pain as the sun goes down at four in the afternoon. We got there by train through London Paddington, and immediately fell in love with the city.
We have visited Cardiff again many times afterwards, generally during the winter, and have never fallen out of love. Here are the three main reasons why South Wales is the best place on earth (besides Leigh Halfpenny, though he definitely is a fine credit to his motherland).
The Welsh
The Welsh genuinely are the loveliest people you’ll ever meet. They are warm, welcoming and funny. If you need an illustration of what the Welsh mentality really entails, let me tell you about a thing that happened just last week.
Jon and I were walking down Queen Street on our way from our favourite pub, the Owain Glyndwr on St Johns Street (opposite St John the Baptist Church, fabulous cocktails and nice craft ales. I mean at the pub, not at the church) when we saw a Spanish tourist bump into a lamppost. The guy looked hurt and he limped to the nearest bench. Immediately, six people flocked to him to ask him if he was all right:
“Are you ok, love?”
“Do you need anything?”
“Are you in pain?”
“Are your glasses broken?”
“Do you want us to stop making a fuss?”
The guy ostensibly did not understand much, but he did understand the word “fuss” and nodded, so we all spread Power Rangers-style by groups of two or three. Now you’ll tell me that those things probably happen in other places too, but you’d be referring to small villages where everybody knows their neighbours. Here, I’m talking about a city whose metropolitan area counts more than a million people — the eleventh largest city in the U.K., and the capital of Wales. Surely if something like that happened in London, the poor Spaniard would have ended up learning the phrase “Oi! Watch out, you wanker.” (Note: I love London. I do. Really.)
The Welsh are a chatty people if I know one. If you enjoy spending your holidays as a completely anonymous passerby who doesn’t interact with other human beings, then Wales definitely isn’t for you. People will just talk to you. About the weather (“Nice weather we’re having, we are, aren’t we?”), Brexit (“The bloody Tories, really!”), rugby (“Ain’t what it used to be anymore”), football, the tides (high or low), the rain (“Nice weather we’re having, we are, aren’t we?”), the mountain trails, whether you have been in Brecon Beacons yet, Joe’s Ice Cream parlour, your dress, their girlfriend with whom they have been for sixteen years and who doesn’t work in charity anymore, their dogs (“They’re not very fit, but they’re trying, you see”), the restauration works on the castle tower (“The bloody Tories, really!”), the heatwave (“Nice weather we’re having, we are, aren’t we?”) — you get it. They like to talk. A lot. And I love it.
The Welsh will also ask you questions. Not because they’re preying, mind you, but because they genuinely like to know about other people’s lives, especially if they’re from abroad. Be prepared to answer questions about your entire C.V. since kindergarten, general trivia about your home country (No. I really don’t know who our Secretary of State of Veteran Affairs is or if we even have one) and how much you like it here in Wales. They’re generally prepared for disappointment, so they’ll be flabbergasted when you tell them that you love their country and that you’d give two of your best limbs to actually move there. They’ll probably insist on buying you a pint at the pub, and since there are at least three pubs in a half a mile radius, be prepared to drink A LOT.
Moreover, if, like me, you come from a country whose 19th and 20th century wealth came from coal and steel, you’ll feel right at home. Port Talbot, between Cardiff and Swansea, still lives on the steel industry and the town really looks like the place where I grew up, with its gigantic chimneys, its tiny row houses and its loud-mouthed people whose hands are at least as large as their hearts. I did find a common heritage there with the people from the Valleys who lost their livelihood and had their dignity stolen during the Thatcher years and who are worrying again as a new recession is at the door. Maybe the country I really belong to is the proletariat, and there certainly is a sense of kinship among the people who share those roots — regardless of geography.
The landscapes
South Wales is breathtakingly beautiful. You’ll never convince me that J.R.R. Tolkien didn’t have that place in mind when he wrote about Rivendell. It is that beautiful. I cannot overstate how impressive it is, all the more that there’s something for everyone. Do you like your beaches natural and undamaged? Go to Rhossili. Do you prefer tranquil bays with their lovely old-fashioned seaside towns? Go to the Mumbles. Or maybe you’d rather see mountains? Just look up. Want to explore forest trails along rivers and waterfalls? Brecon Beacons it is. Feel like seeing a great city skyline? Sit on Cardiff Bay and behold. Or you’re more of a Town and Country kind of person and you want to walk around authentic villages? Then visit St. Hilary. You like history and architecture? Llandaff.
Here are a few pictures if you still need convincing:
The History of Wales
Speaking of old stones and architecture, if, like me, you’re a bit of a history geek, you’ll be very happy in Wales. To start with, if you dropped a fistful of pennies, chances are that at least three of them would land on castle grounds. About 600 castles were built in Wales, among which more than 100 are still standing.
I particularly like Caerphilly Castle, which is remarkably preserved and maintained, as well as the very quirky Cardiff Castle with its Norman shell keep and its Arab room ceiling. Oystermouth Castle, in The Mumbles, is a little less touristic and is also entirely worth the trip. Then you have to add the cathedrals (Llandaff making a very decent case of being both dignified and impressive), the Victorian warehouses that have been converted into fashionable venues (see the Pump House in Swansea), and the beautiful architecture that pops up and down along the roads.
All in all, I would like to tell you that Wales sucks so you wouldn’t go there and I would keep it to myself without having to complain about the herds of tourists like I do when I visit any other place. I would like to deter you from going, but sooner or later, you will learn about it and you’ll book a train or a plane ticket. So in lieu of discouragement, I’ll give you a friendly warning. Go to Wales, by all means. But be respectful. Be discreet. Be wise. Sit down and open your eyes. Listen to the Welsh. Take the time to talk to them. Behave like a guest in a stately manor, because a tourist should never be more than a mere observer who leaves no trace or lasting impression. Because if Wales looks like Elf-country, no one wants to awaken the ancient dragons that rest in silence.
