Tag: colwyn bay

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Walking to town (to go to W.H Smith)

I’ve written quite a bit about moving from a small town to the city, and all the benefits that come along with 24-hour supermarkets, and ordering warm cookie dough at 2am. But while I was on my afternoon stroll today, I couldn’t help but think about the benefits of a small-town childhood. Namely, appreciating the most basic of retail outlets.



I should make it clear, when I say small town, I’m referring to the relatively small town centre. The reality is that Colwyn Bay has a modest population of 34,000. A fact that is all the more jarring when compared to Llandudno – dinging in at only 20,000. Especially when you take into account how vast Llandudno’s seafront is and how great it is for shopping.

What struck me the most when I got to reminiscing, was how, despite the relatively limited retail outlets, what we had was within such short walking distance. Obviously this comes partly down to the fact that my parents bought a house in such a central location. But also to how small towns are organised. Everything, no matter how limited, is usually within a relatively short distance of one another. And what Colwyn Bay had (and mostly still has) is a theatre, a supermarket, a fabulously rundown W.H. Smith’s (that I miss dearly) and a handful of pubs, cafes and market stalls that pepper the high street. It even had the smallest branch of New Look you’ll have ever seen (and how I worked that tiled floor in my faux Docs, and my even faux-er clip in extensions).

Right, where was I? Oh, yes! I would like to mount a passionate defense of W.H. Smith. Sure, some branches might not be able to compete with the range of choices available somewhere like Waterstones, or have the same level of customer care as an independent book shop. But what they did have were the very brand of soapy, commercial novels that instilled my love of reading.

Where else does an 18 year-old small town queer flock to for menthol fags and a Marian Keyes paperback? How about the endless hardback notebooks, waiting to be filled with what I did in work that day and what boy off Grindr cancelled a date to get his hair braided (yes, that happened)? W.H. Smith! And where else would one of my straight male best friends go to purchase the naked issue of Gay Times for my 16th birthday (yes, that also happened!).

So, let’s cut the shop some slack. The little one’s in train stations and airports are even quite nice (sometimes). I can spend anywhere upwards of 25 minutes going round-and-round the tiny aisles, filling my arms with bottles of water, cans of Coke Zero, awful falafel wraps, and a trashy mag for good measure. The one in Cardiff Central even has a fabulous little Costa counter, where for an extortionate amount of money, you can walk away with two packets of Percy Pigs and a very milky Oat Latte. What is not to love?!

In a world of increasing choice, and a decreasing high street, I feel exceptionally well-placed to avoid the burnout that comes with too much choice. And absolutely inoculated against the disappointment of a dwindling number of brick-and-mortar shops. Because as long as there’s a clapped-out old Smiths, everything will be alright.

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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.