Tag: cardiff

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What I read in Feb!

Photo by Ena Marinkovic on Pexels.com

I did a fair bit of traveling here and there in February, and what’s better than a long train ride for doing some reading? Well, maybe not my journey back from Liverpool to Cardiff. I’ve never been in a carriage packed so tightly in my life. But I won’t dwell on that for too long, because other than those hellish 4 hours, it’s been a great month!

Let’s start with Claire Keegan’s Foster. I was bitten by the bug when I read Small Things Like These in January. Foster’s writing is so beautiful that she manages to make novels as short as these two feel every bit as hard hitting as an epic. In fact, perhaps the shorter length is what lends itself so well to such beautiful storytelling. It’s not just the level of emotional detail that makes her such a phenomenal writer, the real skill is how nothing feels spare. Every sentence is so rich, you won’t be worried about Keegan running out of words.

Next was Pamela Anderson’s fabulous memoir Love, Pamela. And let me tell you before we get into it; if you haven’t signed up for Pam’s newsletter, you’re missing out. I look forward to her weekly journals more than I do to my Saturday Starbucks.

For a relatively short memoir, I was impressed by how much of Anderson’s life is covered. My favourite chapters were the one’s where the author dove head first into some of the wildest stories of her political activism. Such as taking vegan meals to Edward Snowdon, or challenging Russian politicians on their animal rights policies. Not only is Pamela fearless, her perspective is crystal clear.

I love romance. I have to say it. The cheesier the better. But occasionally you stumble across something special. May Archer’s The Easy Way was something special. Besides hitting on some of the most tried and true romance tropes, Archer manages to work in exciting plot, giving her characters not just carefully detailed emotional stakes, but some dramatic ones too.

Finally this Feb, I went back for another Anglesey Crime Thriller from Simon McCleave. In Too Deep follows DI Laura Hart as she officially gets back to work. Now, I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: McCleave’s care in building DI Hart’s backstory is really where these novels shine. Nothing is throwaway. Chuck in some double agents for the Real IRA and murder on the Isle of Angelsey, and you’re in for another ride!

McCleave did not disappoint, but now I’ve got three more months until the next installment!

Overall, another fabulous month. I can wholeheartedly recommend everything I read in Feb. Genre-wise, there’s something for everyone at the very least!

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Downsizing

It’s been as good as a Sunday can get. We went to the shops, stocked up on spices (the only cupboard at my parents that can lack a bit of oumph). Rob let me pick everything I wanted for my birthday from Holland & Barrett. Yes, I know it’s strange to want all my gifts from there, but I just love the place. And I’ve just had the best roast dinner of my life. Home-cooked by my lovely Mum.

Carrots, brussel sprouts and vegan pigs in blankets, seasoned and on a roasting tray.

It’s the roast, by the way, that’s got me thinking. Thinking about roasts. And I’ve had a huge epiphany. Again, about roasts.

When you’re a vegan or a vegetarian, there’s a tendency, in my experience, to make up for an often underwhelming centre piece with as many side dishes as possible. For me, that’s filling the oven to the brim with as many different types of vegetable as possible, and roasting them until they’re golden and caramelised and perfect in every way. Except the thing about my roasts is, there’s always something that isn’t quite right. And now I know why.

Like many people, I have a tendency to put too much on my plate. Metaphorically and literally. So, when it comes to making a roast dinner, I’m always out of my element. I worry about timing everything perfectly. Don’t you know, everything needs to be ready at the same time? Even if I haven’t got the counter space to take everything out of the oven together.

Tenderstem brocoli in a frying pan with olive oil, garlic, chilli flakes and salt.

Stuffing is also a bit of a difficult topic for the non-meaties. We aren’t exactly stuffing anything, anywhere. So, what exactly are we trying to accomplish? Don’t even get me started on the redundancy of cooking stuffing to compliment a nut roast.

So, it’s time to simplify. Cut back on all of the unnecessary rubbish. If you’ve got one small oven and a kitchen so tiny it rivals that of a camper-van, perhaps it might be best to save yourself the hassle and downsize Sunday dinner.

Cut the carbs. One type of potato is enough. Roast it. Mash is for sausages and onion gravy. Pick two veg that take the same time to roast, and only peel what can fit alongside a frozen nut roast. They’re just not worth making yourself. Even if it’s delicious, Sunday is stressful enough without washing lentils and finely chopping carrots and onions.

Heat the bloody oil first. Everybody tells you it’s essential for crispy roasties. And I’ve never believed them. But here I am, listening, receiving, changing. Wack the pan on the hob for a few minutes, or if you’re too nervous, like me, do it in a frying pan and transfer to a roasting dish once you’ve given them a zhuzh.

Don’t underestimate sausage and mash. It’s a respectable dish.

Finally, if you’re going to go through the effort of making a vegan cauliflower cheese, cashew sauce and all, leave the broccoli for a weekday stir-fry. It’s just not worth the complication of different cooking times. Minimise the opportunity for something to go wrong. Focus on maximising pleasure. More of a good thing is more of a good thing. Cauliflower cheese is a sensual dish, don’t feel shamed into offsetting the pleasure with virtue by boiling peas or carrots.

I used to have a real problem with Sundays until I started working from home. The pressure to cram everything in, while somehow relaxing before the working week started all over again was too much. Now, I’m starting to appreciate the slower pace. Moving to a city, where everything doesn’t close at 4 also helps. Hell, a few months ago I make the mistake of walking down Bangor high street on a Sunday. Not a single shop open (besides my beloved Cafe Nero).

Christmas dinner is the exception. All bets are off.

Next year, I promise to make a real effort to learn to love a quiet Sunday. Maybe, I’ll even have a few without leaving the flat. Just pop an M&S nut roast in, put the telly on, and melt into the sofa. Recharging for another week of business as usual.

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Where you are

Cardiff, overlooked from Penarth. Kodak Color Plus 200 // 35mm.

Is there really anything romantic about the city anymore? Or has own online world made the metropolis moot?

I, myself, love the idea that I can go for a coffee at 9 o’clock at night. But that certainly doesn’t mean I ever go for one. For me, it almost boils down to a reassuring pleasure in knowing that I can quite literally hear life bustling on outside my open window, well into the early hours. Perhaps this background stimulation ties into a lifetime of friends convinced that my own constant need for movement is actually the presence of undiagnosed ADHD. The older I get, the more inclined I am to agree with them.

But actually knowing whether the city adds anything at all to my quality of life – or whether it in fact drains plenty away – is something I can no longer turn my head away from. Recently, at a wedding, our bustling table of vegans (don’t worry, we were happily grouped together) took a break from chatting about the uncomfortable strange yellow hue of soya milk, to discuss where we all came from. A topic I find as interesting as it is obligatory for any group of strangers forced to make small talk.

‘London,’ came the first response. In an accent as northern as, well, the woman herself. ‘From Leeds originally, obviously, but been in London for, God, nearly 7 years. I consider myself from London at this point.’

7 years is my own number too. I’ve lived in Cardiff since moving here for university in 2015. And I sort of understand her response, because my love was instant too. Even if, at times, tumultuous. Yet, all this time later, my go-to response remains ‘little town in North Wales,’ followed by the just as dependable ‘probably haven’t heard of it; Colwyn Bay?’

Mural by Colwyn Bay Pier. Kodak Color Plus 200 // 35mm.

I’ve always been conflicted about moving across the country. The main reason being how far away it is from my family. But, really, what it boils down to for me, is because of how obviously a product of my home I am. And when I say home, I of course mean ‘home’ home. I am consistently amazed by how late the buses run (and how cheap the price of all-day travel), by the amount of train stations in our part of South Wales, how late restaurants stay open, and the mere concept of Deliveroo. All things, those that grew up here, probably haven’t ever thought twice about.

There’s also a strange sort of longing I associate with coming from a small town. A nostalgia for dreaming about exactly what I have now. Without knowing a single detail of what it would actually be like. Because, when you’re not from a city, a city could be anything. A sort of frustration that something beautiful and exciting is going on elsewhere, while I stroll up an empty high street and eat chips on the beach.

Footpath alongside Llandaff Cathedral, Cardiff. Kodak Color Plus 200 // 35mm.

So, perhaps that’s why our responses are so different. Leeds, at least to me, is just as much a city as anywhere with rising rents, accessible public transport and nightclubs. But for someone who grew up there? Well, it’s a lifetime of memories, happiness, trauma and frustrations, sure. But it certainly isn’t blind to the reality of everything that the urban demands. And while we can all long for something bigger and more exciting, it can’t be avoided that growing up in a city prepares you well for living there.

Growing up in a small town? It’s incubation. More thinking time than you can imagine. Time spent walking everywhere, time spent at bus stops, always waiting to see if something will change, and always knowing that it likely won’t. It’s being an adult and wondering how long you’ll last before heading home. And whether there’ll be anything left for you when you finally get there.