Caerdydd, Part II
April 08, 2003 ~ 10:44 p.m.
For some reason, I was not expecting the grand tour, but I�m damn glad I got it and I thank Bryn highly for the trip. I suspect it was part altruism but also pride in his country that had him driving us up past the Castle Coch, through the city of Caerphilly and its castle, through Pontypridd, then finally to Bryn�s home in the town of Bridgend. His driveway was very narrow and the main entrance was through a side door, not the front. He lived at the top of a cul-de-sac, which meant, as Bryn put it, �I don�t get much traffic through here.� A figure of a black sheep on the mantelpiece above his fireplace announced �Keep Wales Clean: Throw Your Litter Into England.� I think my wife got the biggest laugh of all out of it.
While I exchanged sneakers for slippers in the master bedroom that Bryn had generously given to the wife and I, he was busy laying out bowls of Pringle�s chips and peanuts and generous amounts of alcoholic beverages � homemade beer, homemade and store-bought wine, and spirits. Joining the other three in his living room, we watched �Who Wants to be a Millionaire?�, some Welsh-language television, and the news.
It is true that Bryn and I argued long into the night. He went from slamming �the frogs� and �the krauts,� agreeing with me that France and Germany should have no say in the running of post-war Iraq, to admonishing the Americans � which soon turned to �the yanks� the drunker he got � and Bush�s �group of cowboys.� I struggled hard to contain my temper when he asserted that America had September 11 coming. But I realized that he didn�t mean we deserved it, he only said what a million other na�ve pundits have � that our foreign policy led to the attack. I wondered if Bryn, in a state of inebriation, was goading me to see what I was made of, something he would never do while sober because he�s too polite. Whether or not he was genuine in his views, believe me, he found out the stuff of which I�m made that night.
I didn�t fall into bed until 4 a.m., and having ignored my wife�s five warnings to �get the hell up,� she sent Bryn up to take care of business. The former Sergeant came into the room, said �you know, it�s nearly one in the afternoon,� and brought me up a cup of black coffee. Once roused, we went for another drive. To the shore, where Bryn explained to me the action of the Bristol Channel surf on the higher ground, and you could clearly see the rough line of turf where the high tides had eaten into the landscape. I was left wondering if in ten years� time there�ll be any ground left up to the sea wall. Then it was into the green hillsides of the Mid Glamorgan. It was a wonderous sight, all crests and valleys of pure green, dotted with sheep. This is the romantic�s vision of Wales and I can tell you, it really exists. To my shame, and Bryn�s chagrin, I fell asleep in the car for half the ride through the Rhondda valley, but I saw enough.
We left around 5:30 p.m. to catch the train back into London from Bridgend station. Mishaps included getting caught without extension tickets between Bridgend and Cardiff, for which we had to pay an extra �2.50 each, and noisy Bristol fans getting on at Cardiff just after a soccer match. Luckily, they got off at Bristol and we still had the rest of the ride to ourselves in relative peace. We had snuck into First Class and didn�t get bothered there. It was a great trip. But jeez, I would�ve loved Monday off.
� M.E.M.
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Copyright � 2001-2007 by M.E. Manning. All material is written by me, unless explicitly stated otherwise by use of footnotes or bylines. Do not copy or redistribute without my permission.
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