Umm. Cardiff was a rude shock that I live in the reality of the 21st century. After waltzing down roads flanked by 17th century monuments, parading around palaces and standing still at battlegrounds that still echoed distant cries, Cardiff was like a jarring wake-up call on a Sunday morning.
I took off into the countryside, escaping the Bangalore-like green shadows on wide avenues, the kind I hadn’t see in five weeks. I sat on the lawns outside Tintern Abbey, staring up at the remains of something someone thought was important a few hundred years ago; now a haunting shell of stone. I tried to recreate Wordsworth’s inspiration, but all I could do was stare. I have a thing for ruined abbeys, I’ve come to realize.
They tell me North Wales is where the real action is. Ok, here I come.