Monday, June 24: Castles & Castles & Indian Food
Leisurely Morning
Lightning doesn’t strike twice, so Monday morning I slept in with the best of them and shuffled downstairs around 9 (I’m still a parent to young children; 9 is sleeping in and I don’t want to hear any arguments to the contrary) to make our beautiful Tesco-bought coffee with the french press in the kitchen. This has gotta be it, right? It’s in our own hands now… finally a good cup of joe. Nope. Turns out the store bought coffee we selected was similar to Folgers or Maxwell House, which -- don’t get me wrong -- is far preferable to instant coffee or reused espresso, but ah we are unabashed coffee snobs and the journey sadly continued for us. We sat down to munch on some standard continental breakfast provisions: bread, jam, butter, and a few pastries. Anne took a sip of coffee and then a bite of bread, surveyed the room, and then leaned into me to whisper “How long do you think it would take to sneak away to the Continent to get some real coffee and better bread and return before Joey and Mom noticed?” To dream, Anne.*
*I should note that Anne and I both had a wonderful time in Wales despite these running complaints that may imply the contrary. But both of us spent a considerable time in high school studying in Brittany, France, and though our main cultural influence is of course American/Canadian, we both have a bit of a French undercurrent despite British DNA. It just seemed so weird to be in a place somewhat similar and so close to Brittany and to have such bad bread and coffee.
With no hard timetable, we lingered at breakfast and read over some tourism brochures in the Airbnb that detailed many of the hundreds of castles you could tour through Wales. Fun fact: Wales has more castles per square mile than any other country in Europe. Why? Because the Welsh are really feisty and the Normans had no choice but to keep building stone fortifications (i.e. castles) here to keep them in check. I earmarked all the ones involved in Tudor history (Henry VII was born in Pembroke, you guys!) while Anne and my mom nodded enthusiastically (ok, Anne less enthusiastically) in the same way you’d placate a small child making a routine discovery. Our morning reading had primed us well for a day at Cardiff Castle and at 10:30 we headed out.
The Castle itself is located at the foot of Bute Park, so the drive was mere minutes away. However, navigating to the parking garage (excuse me, I mean car park) proved a bit tricky. I missed the turn for the entrance (it was one of those weird ones where the turn was 10 feet in front of the sign), but no big deal! We’ll just go around the block. Oh except for this pedestrian zone. Ok, so two blocks. Oh there’s the river. Oh now we’re on the other side of the river. Whoops, this is a one way street. Is that the rugby stadium? Can’t go through the rugby stadium. <10 minutes later> Great! Quick trip around the block and made it back to the entrance! Hello, parking nemesis. We meet again. This parking garage was smack dab in the middle of Central Cardiff and small. The turns to go up and down the levels were incredibly tight, we had a long car, and soon a line formed behind me because for some reason it took me a little bit to make a tight right turn, back up, straighten, turn a bit more, back up and go forward, all while the car passive aggressively beep-yelled at me. It was like parking in Oxford all over again, except I had an audience and no escape route except to tell Anne frantically every other turn: “You have to do this, you have to do this, I can’t do this.” We went up, up, up to the 6th floor to park (because I wanted to park WITH NO ONE AROUND ME) and ditched that Beast again.
Getting in the Way and Touring Houses
We strolled through the major street that led uphill toward the entrance of the castle, making note of souvenir shops we wanted to peruse on the way back. Cardiff was bustling this Monday morning, and it was another lovely day where the sun was peeking through clouds, so we all had high hopes as we approached the southern gate of the castle and made our way through its medieval towers around 11:15. After buying tickets, I immediately turned down the offer for additional tours out of instinct (say no to the upsell! Even if it’s only 3£ for a nice-sounding add-on and the guy offering it seems pretty ambivalent about life), before Mom corrected me -- she’d like to hear about the tours, thank you. Oh right, there are other people here. Anne and I shook our heads vigorously to the Doctor Who and Sherlock Tour (sorry Mom), so we settled on the House Tour at noon, even though we didn’t really know what that meant. This guy knows he works in a castle not a house, right?
The Roman Wall
Testing out souvenirs
With about forty minutes to spare before the tour started, we picked up our audio guides (including a special kids one for Joey) and made a pit stop before milling about the gift shop. In the back wall of the gift shop and cafe sits the only remains of the Roman fortification that was built on the site in the 4th century AD. Only uncovered in 1922, this ancient stone wall still stays in the backdrop of the larger Castle setting, and looks so nondescript that you could easily miss it. It provides an interesting primer for the magnitude of history throughout the castle grounds that a millennia-old structure is on the back-burner. We wandered outside after some of us tried on a few, ahem, souvenirs, and strolled about the courtyard listening to our audio guides to get the lay of the land. There had been a Welsh culture festival the weekend before, so we also spent some time dodging scaffolding and more or less getting in people’s way, something I like to specialize in. From our audio guides we understood what the “House Tour” actually meant. Lord Bute was a 19th century coal mogul who spent an ungodly amount of money remodeling the manor house to be a mecca of neo-gothic and medieval architecture. The house tour consisted of his family’s house that he remodeled for the, oh, 6 weeks out of the year he and his family stayed in Cardiff.
Audio Guides FTW
Around 11:45 we started heading up the stairs near the south wall of the castle to meet our tour group. Our tour guide explained that the 3rd Marquess of Bute, John Crichton-Stuart, was the richest man in Britain during his lifetime, and went on to make millions more through his coal mining empire. Though there were several Lord Butes before him who (of course) also inherited the grounds of Cardiff Castle, this Lord Bute set about seriously renovating it in the 19th century. And by renovating, I mean he was obsessed with medieval architecture so he paid a ton of money to make it look like it used to. We toured his smoking room, the children’s nursery (complete with decorations of medieval fairytales, including a prominent painting of tethered heads being carried on stakes; thinking of adding that imagery to my Pinterest board for “Festive Decorations” for my own kids’ playroom), Lady Bute’s sitting room, the dining room, and a fancy rooftop rose garden styled like a Roman courtyard. There was gold, wood paneling, and nightmare-inducing paintings everywhere. What a time to be an aristocratic coal tycoon! Our tour ended with our guide informing us that after coal was nationalized, the Bute family lost much of the fortune they thrived on in the 19th century and are now worth a mere 400 million, but they held onto Cardiff Castle until just after WWII when they donated it to Cardiff City to become the heritage site and museum it is today.
The tour ran about 45 minutes and included going up steep steps and then down steep steps and then up steep spiral steps and then down steep spiral steps, and you’d think with all his money Lord Bute would have put in a lift, no? Needless to say, we all were happy for a break to regroup, eat some food, and plan our next adventure. We headed back to the cafe/gift shop and did a little souvenir shopping, and then Anne and I got a bounty from the cafe: paninis, welshcakes, caramel bun, coffee (of course) and a round of water bottles. Mom decided to do what any good grandparent does and purchased a set of swords and shields so that her grandchildren could turn into knights and battle each other to the death. After scarfing down the unsurprisingly mediocre cafe food, Mom and Joey decided to perfect those knight skills, while Anne and I took off to explore the Cardiff Keep.
Cardiff Keep, Wartime Shelters, and Knight Battles
Cardiff Castle Keep
We climbed the old, crumbly steps with our audio guides in hand, and well - yup. Here it is. The Keep was designed as a shell by the Normans to protect inner dwellings, and despite its imposing look in the castle grounds, there’s not much else to it. Almost entirely destroyed during the English Civil War (back in the 17th century), what remains of the Keep is an outer shell and tower protecting… a large grassy area. We wandered a bit, struggling to imagine the hustle and bustle of the place as our audio guide was describing in its medieval hayday. We knew there was a section to access the upper portion of the Keep tower/ramparts, but couldn’t find the entrance (though we didn’t try too hard), so we descended back down and made a quick stop to check in on our knights-in-training en route to the WWII shelters. During the war, the then-Lord Bute allowed the city of Cardiff to dig out extensive air raid shelters in the ramparts of the Castle. The shelters were capable of sheltering up to 1800 people during the air raids. We had seen a wall from antiquity, the opulence of the 19th century, and the ruins of medieval warfare so far today, but this piece of recent history was the most fascinating to me. When Anne and I walked through the shelters, we were the only ones there and a steady stream of noises that those sheltering in WWII would have heard rang out from a PA system. Sirens, commotion, and instructions for sheltering, made it very real and very chilling. We traced dark hallways that housed dormitories and small canteens before emerging again into the soft sunlight of a quiet Welsh afternoon. It was a disquieting, but fascinating, walk through living history.
Knight Fight Between Mrs. Good Unicorn and Mr. Bad
Luckily, by the time we made it back to Joey and Mom we were able to shake off a bit of the solemness and anxiety, because we had stumbled upon a thrilling knight fight between Mr. Bad and Mrs. Good Unicorn. Who would win in this clearly-not-staged-or-rehearsed showdown? Mrs. Good Unicorn pulled the surprise attack when Mr. Bad didn’t want to get up from his/her seat, and all was well with the world again.
Fabulous Tishen Flats
We discussed the next order of plans; it was 2pm and Joey’s playdate friends were due to come by after they returned from school around 6pm, and we had discussed visiting St. Fagans - a Welsh living history museum on the outskirts of town - that afternoon, but Mom nixed that plan in favor of relaxing at the Airbnb. We decided to drop Mom and Joey off at home, while Anne and I headed out to St. Fagans. On our walk back to the car, we stopped at Fabulous Welshcakes to pick up a few, well, welshcakes and other souvenirs. Mom’s family had always referred to welshcakes as tishen flats, and she was determined to find someone in Wales who knew them by that name. No such luck from the ladies who worked at Fabulous Welshcakes --- it wasn’t called Fabulous Tishen Flats after all. And when Mom posed another test question to them: “Are these made with lard or butter?” She was so dissatisfied with their answer of butter that she wrinkled her nose in obvious disgust and nearly scoffed, which made me -- ever sensitive to conflict -- immediately chime in with “I’LL TAKE A DOZEN THEY LOOK SO DELICIOUS HERE HAHA ARE THEY REALLY SO FABULOUS? OH MY GOSH THEY LOOK IT! YUM! SO FAB.” It should be noted that I dislike welshcakes. Why the currants? Can’t we just have scones? The flavor is richer and the texture more appealing. But no matter, you better believe I quickly ate a couple of those made-with-butter-what-are-they-thinking welshcakes.
We strolled back to the car through one of the indoor shopping arcades that Cardiff was dotted with, and Anne, likely fearing another mental breakdown from me, drove down the tight turns in the car of death before we switched drivers again outside of the garage (I was very used to the lane changes now, and we agreed she’d take on driving some tomorrow, when she didn’t have to learn in the city). Mom and Joey’s plan upon reaching the Airbnb was straightforward: relax/watch TV, bike ride in the park, playdate with the girls down the street. I finished up a (super quick I promise) report I pull every Monday for work, while Anne got Joey settled with Netflix. As I walked into to report I was ready to leave for St Fagans, I saw Joey light up when she saw Paw Patrol** available on Netflix (it’s not on Netflix in the US). But oh what brief bliss that was. Anne started the show and The Paw Patrol characters were transformed -- they all began talking in British accents. Yes - the Brits dubbed a cartoon show that’s already produced in English to speak with a proper British accent. Joey blinked once at the TV and then exclaimed “I DON’T WANT THEM TO SPEAK BRITISH!” “It’s the same show --- you won’t even notice it! -- why did they do that? -- You’ll go on a bike ride soon!” came a flurry of excuses from Anne, Mom and me. Cultural shock hits you in the most unexpected ways, and poor Joey didn’t expect it from one of her most trusted TV shows. She harumphed and settled into reluctantly watch Pah Pahtroul.
**Paw Patrol is an insanely popular children’s television show about this kid named Ryder who has a bunch of puppies that serve as this town’s emergency system. So, for example, you live in this town and you call the police with an emergency and this 10 year old gets the call and sends out a bulldog and a dalmatian to help you out. Maybe if you get lucky he sends the German Shepherd.
Touring St. Fagans National History Museum
Anne and I slipped out and headed over to St. Fagans National History Museum, which was only about a 20 minute drive from the house. We arrived around 3:45 knowing it closed at 5pm, so we decided to take our time and see what we could see without hurrying much at all. St. Fagans is a sprawling open-air living history museum that explores the culture and heritage of the Welsh people from the 15th century to the recent present (mid-20th century or so). Privately funded, St. Fagans is free (it’s like being home at the Smithsonian! -- DC spoils us so), so that took a lot of pressure off as well. There are farmhouses, millhouses, a chapel, gardens, artisan buildings that have been removed, relocated, and restored from various locations throughout Wales to sit on about 100 acres near the village of St. Fagans (and thus the namesake of the museum). It was a beautiful day to stroll, so we ducked in and out of old buildings and went about exploring at a relaxed pace. To be honest, the heritage and history of Wales felt like a familiar story of agriculture and industry that could have been retold throughout most parts of Europe (or, you know, the world)- the underclass did the heavy lifting and lived simple lives in the countryside. We explored about half the buildings and then made our way over to the St. Fagans Castle and gardens.
Built in the 16th century and owned by the Earls of Plymouth (one of which donated both the house and the surrounding grounds in 1948 to form the St. Fagans Heritage Museum), St. Fagans Castle was actually a beautiful Elizabethean Manor home (but sure, call it a castle if it makes you feel better). Like other houses built in the late 16th century when England and Wales was Elizabeth I-crazy, the house is laid out as one long hall with three wings, so that it resembles an E from above. The inside of the home details the lives of the servants and family that lived there during the Victorian and Edwardian era though, and walking through it was very close to how I imagined Downton Abbey’s set would appear. Unsurprising tidbit: I LOVE Downton Abbey, top 5 favorite shows, so I regretted that we only arrived here with about 20 minutes to closing. My disappointment was misplaced, however, as we discovered that most of the house is closed for renovations anyway, so we were quickly out again -- taking a bit of a detour through the exquisite, sprawling gardens and by the canal to trace our steps back to the parking lot. Anne and I both agreed that St. Fagans was a wonderful choice for a bit of respite in the late afternoon. It was a peaceful, leisurely walk through the grounds, and we regretted that we had only a bit over an hour to enjoy it.
Indian Food and Lessons on Mubarak’s British Ties
We headed back towards Cardiff a little before 5pm, and made a quick plan: technically Joey’s bike was due back at Pedal Power by 6, but we also had a few errands to run (Mom’s explicit request as we left the house: find Pinot Grigio) and also had dinner to consider. We decided to extend the rental to the following morning (we called Andrew at Pedal Power to confirm this was ok and he said something so graciously polite it almost seemed like he suggested we just keep the bike for good), stop through Tesco for the VIPG (very important pinot grigio), and maybe swing by a local carryout place for dinner. Wrinkle in the plan: Tesco was located at the end of what Anne and I had termed the “traffic circle of death,” which we had met previously on our first drive into Cardiff two days before. What made this particular traffic circle, of all the traffic circles in the UK, one of likely death? Lack of signage and shifting lanes. So we buckled in and waved frantically to apologize to the cars around us as I inevitably swerved in between non-existent lanes before finally making it to the giant grocery store parking lot. A few more provisions for breakfast and snacks during our road trip tomorrow and soon Anne and I were off to the wine aisle. Now, listen. Perhaps I neglected to mention that my mom may have been overly explicit in her wine request because Anne and I do not drink very much, so she figured we’d screw it up. On those forms at the doctor’s you have to fill out that ask how many servings of alcohol per week you consume? We’re both frequently conflicted there, because while we are not teetotalers, selecting 1-2/week is - pretty high - for both of us (vacation obviously being a bit of an exception). So we get to this gigantic wine aisle and are immediately overwhelmed. We begin scanning for any label containing Pinot Grigio and then AHA find it! Damn, it’s cheap. We’re talking really cheap: 3-4 euros a bottle. We know wine is cheap in France, but that makes sense - it’s everywhere; they drink it like water. Why is it so cheap here? We’re worried about buying something that would mean certain headache, so we actually search for the most expensive Pinot Grigio we can find (8 euros. It was 8 euros, folks.) and head out. Well, turns out what we actually selected was Pinot Grigio Blush or something? There were bubbles. It was unexpected. We’re sorry. Listen, the point here is don’t send Anne and me out on alcohol errands. I only drink two types of alcohol: Bordeaux wine and dark beer. I am hopeless with anything else.
As we navigate back through the circle of death, we were beginning to feel a bit tired, so we were both caught off guard in encountering circle #2 of death, which threw us off the main drag and we didn’t really feel like correcting it. We ended up on a much more interesting neighborhood street that paralleled the main road, anyway, so we decided to stay here and keep an eye out for good dinner spots. I had mentioned a few times wanting to get Indian food for dinner while in the UK, because I figured it was the next best choice to getting proper Indian food without actually going to India. We passed a few contenders, and then parked easily on a side street to size up our options more closely. We decided on Mowgli’s, but they didn’t open until 6pm (about 10 minutes to go), so we walked a bit around the neighborhood before circling back. We were in the Whitchurch neighborhood of Cardiff, and the street was lined with a lot of ethnic food options (including a few American burger joints... No Burger Town, but there was a place called Burger USA). We still stuck to our original Indian food place, and entered at 6pm on the dot to place our order with a very chatty waiter. Before we said anything, he (somewhat excitedly) noted that we both wore “blue shirts - like twins!” We’re sisters, I clarified, and he nodded knowingly, as if sisters always dress alike… even if they’re in their 30s. We ordered a vegetarian platter for two (popadaom and chutneys, veggie rolls and samosas, veggie koffa jalfrezi, dhingri palak, courghette bhuna, bhajee, rice and naan), the lamb tikka, and extra naan bread because zomg naan is too good.
Cardiff University
He advised us it would be about 30-40 minutes (a good sign, we thought, indicating freshness), so Anne texted Mom quickly to let her know our plans and make sure Joey was happily on her 2nd playdate with friends, and we decided to walk over to Cardiff University to see the college grounds, as I was hoping to pick up a t-shirt as a souvenir. Google Maps says it’s only a 20 minute walk! Perfect. Well, the walk through these neighborhoods was pretty uninspiring. They were perfectly fine, but quiet and non-descript and there was nothing particularly interesting on our walk. We made it to the university area, which was also pretty empty and we had no luck finding an open shirt store despite a quick walk through the student center. So we walked, we saw, and then promptly turned around and sped-walk back. On our walk back we took a bit of a different route and again found piles and piles of rubbish lining the streets (frequently it was not even in contained bags, often it was just in an untethered heap that would then blow down the street). We arrived back at Mowgli’s at exactly 6:45 and our food was ready just in time. After Chatty Man asked us why we were visiting Cardiff and what we were doing during the rest of our time here, we mentioned visiting Pontypridd the next day and he said “Oh Pontypridd! You know Mubarak, the ex-president of Egypt?” Not really sure where this train of thought is going, but sure - I “know” Mubarak. Well, apparently his mother-in-law is from Pontypridd; his wife is half British. The things you learn from a guy working in an everyday Indian restaurant in Northeastern Cardiff.
Sad Goodbyes and Last Bike Rides
Dinner in hand, we sped home and set up our feast. Joey was still playing with her friends and, knowing we had to leave tomorrow, we were all a bit hesitant to force their goodbye too soon. The girls began to fill us in on their adventures (“Joey taught us Spanish words and we taught her Welsh words!” Tegan excitedly told me. “Great!” I said while my mind actually said, “Sure those two languages seem equally useful.”), and one of their most memorable exchanges occurred when one of the girls asked Joey “where the bin was” to throw a piece of trash. “WHAT BIN?” Joey responded in an incredulous tone. “She means the trash can, Joey.” Anne offered. Giggles erupt from all three. Eventually, they had to say their goodbyes and shared one or two or five more group hugs. As the girls scurried home, Joey promised to write them and thus penpals were born.
Indian Food Feast
We devoured our food -- I think I had about 4 pieces of naan and I regret nothing about it -- and then, full of bread, I acquiesced when Joey asked for one last twilight bike ride before we had to return her wheels tomorrow. The fields in the park were full of cricket matches, so I parked myself on a bench while Joey zoomed around me, intent on learning this foreign game. After 15 minutes, I think I actually understood it less. Was it baseball? Was it kickball? Was it really just a white clothes convention? Unclear. As we returned home, I did a bit of straightening up and a minimal amount of packing before turning in for the night around 10pm. An adventure to Mom’s family’s hometown in the Coal Valleys of South Wales awaited us tomorrow, and by the next night we would be sleeping on the Pembrokeshire Coast in West Wales.
Cricket Match at Dusk
