Cardiff

Do I need Welsh dollars? My passport? Cardiff is a primal scream. I see a woman walk into the Prince of Wales pub wearing a see through skirt and a thong. I see many, many drug addicts and vagrants making their way up and down High St. In Kong, the mead is eight quid a bottle and we’re in any Europe capital. But the day sees morning drinkers in the Spoons downing pints like only the UK can muster: tepid ale washing down a microwaved full English. This is the Great Western and it has that familiar Witherspoons atmosphere. The ghost of Tim Martin beating an old man around the face with a wet shoe.

Bute Park offers a beauty and respite that’s outstanding and the architecture of the University is gorgeous. I spot this neo-classical beast.

And shortly afterwards I’m here;

But I can’t make my feelings coalesced: the Taff runs as clear as glass at this point but I’m all over the place, sewn to this phone and discombobulated. There’s a thread but it’s torn. I head back to the hotel and pick up a free newspaper.