DAY 8 AND 9: BRISTOL/CARDIFF

Our eighth day on the road is a day imperatively wasted for us as, for the first time in what feels like a very long time, we have domestic luxuries at our disposal. So smalls are washed, emails are caught up on, gallons of tea – opium of the Brit – are drunk, and I later take a walk around the Bristol area of Bedminster we’re staying in.

A curious neighbourhood that, from its craft beer pubs and the sculpted beards I see around, seems to have become a sort of hipster-ish haven despite the rows of dull, slightly unloved, suburban family terraces and semis.

Giristroula and I later take a walk further into Bristol, past the candy coloured houses perched high above us on sheer faced hills. We go via a route taking in the Clifton Suspension Bridge (another shaky history lesson of mine, this time of Brunel’s towering Victorian engineering achievements).

We then pass the prepossessing Georgian buildings and dainty cafes in the student area of Clifton: an area that looks so nice and well-mannered it starts to make my teeth ache.

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My travelling companion had wanted to see the edgy side of the city. Imagined and mapped out in her mind when listening to Massive Attack records two thousand miles away, while a student at university, in the bars of the Zefxidos area in Thessaloniki.

My Bristol-living friend has instead arranged for us to meet in a chain Caribbean restaurant in the new Bristol Harbourside development.

We take the bus into Bristol centre. All the local residents seeming remarkably chipper, all thanking the bus driver with a “Cheers Drive!” as they get off at their stops.

The Harbourside development – probably approved by some score of spectacled grins in Bristol’s council offices – has galleries, new flats, large glass frontages, gyms, angular bridges and lots of banners up saying what a truly vibrant area it is. But feels utterly new, soulless and depressing to me. But then, as with all feelings on our trail around Britain, it could be just me, on this night, at this time.

On the new wide waterway walkway, I step over someone’s spit on the pavement. It’s so thick and viscous it looks like someone has dropped a Cadbury’s creme egg.

We are eventually taken, later in the evening, after badgering from Giristroula, to the cooler urban area of Stokes Croft. Genuine West Indian food here. Graffiti artists. Political slogans. Hip art cafes. Loft conversions.

We try to enter a bar.

“You can’t come in wearing a hat.”

The man in the bomber jacket on the door is barrel built. A curly wire coming out of his ear, for some reason. I try to explain to him that the hat is to cover up my fast receded hairline. I’m not hiding anything more than that.

“I fucking told you once. I’m not telling you again.”

He says this though with the the high, yokel Bristol West Country accent. I can’t take it seriously and start to smile.  Instantly he shortens his neck. Steps forward. We decide to leave.

Banksy street art is up on the walls. ‘The Mild Mild West.’ Banksy, whose eminence and fame also flows all the way down to Greece, while poor old Brunel lies in unjust obscurity. Giristroula seems to like it. I stare blankly at the walls, underwhelmed.

On an island of grass two street drinkers sit, passing a bottle of Strongbow. Dirty anorak. Trainers with the sole hanging off.

“Well, you know where you went wrong, don’t you?” says one.

We trek back to Bedminster.

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Next day, having given the car back to the rental branch in Bristol, we leave the city from the great Victorian Temple Meads station – Brunel again – with its look of a more sober, English, repressed Mumbai terminus. Beautiful.

The platforms, however, are settled with waiting, red, sun-burnt faced, thick-necked fathers in vests. Celtic cross tattoos – or the Chinese symbol for a Celtic cross – and their pudgy 12 year-old sons: England football shorts, addicted to frankfurters, prodding at mobile phones, wobbling menacingly. Depressing.

It’s great though to be on trains again. If we had all the time and money in the world I would have suggested doing the whole tour of Britain by train – taking in all the branch lines that dodged the Beeching axe in the 60s and chunter along on the Scarborough Flyer, the Torbay Express or the Brighton Belle.

As it is we’re only on the train for little over an hour, but we cross into a new country – crossing the River Severn with a good view from the window of the Severn Bridge, long and shining bright white in front of a fishscale-grey sky – and on into Wales. And then to Cardiff.

Cardiff station, though re-built in the 30s with an art deco look still has that classical feel of the golden age of railway travel, with an imposing ‘Great Western Railway’ carved in the stonework. And we’re disgorged uncommonly close, for a City Central station, to the centre of the city.

Strangely in the centre too is the monumental Millennium Stadium.

I have previously explained cricket to the Greek, telling her how it’s a working class sport in the north, more of a fop’s sport in the south. Now I try and explain the working class passion for rugby in Wales as opposed to the crowds of Barbour jackets she’d seen in Twickenham.

She has little time for my treaties on sport or social commentary, however, and instead we take a walk in the sun around the sprawling Bute Park. Watched over by the handsome university buildings and the castle.

Walking by the River Taff, Giristroula appears completely taken by Cardiff.

As we saunter by the curiously eccentric sculptured ‘animal wall’ ringing the park: with Victorian apes, ant-eaters, seals, lynx and others all on top, all seeming to be in the process of trying to climb out of the grounds, she swings round and excitedly tells me “I could live here!”

I look at her a little surprised. I mean, I like the place – it’s better, more attractive, than I thought – but she’s seems to have really fallen for it.

We turn to leave the park and I watch Giristroula walking happily on ahead out into the Cardiff bustle.

There’s a discarded bra in a bush in one of the slightly overgrown flower beds.

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Strangely we are due to meet friends of Giristroula this time. Friends from her old country who are studying here and living right in Cardiff centre.

They live in one of the giant towers placed in 2005 on top of the old 1830s Cardiff Gas Light and Coke building: looking as if some elaborate UFO has landed on the back of this rusticated old building, now only surviving as a tiny scrap of history at the bottom of the 23-storey behemoth.

230 feet up we go, and we’re as high as you can be in Wales without aid of one of its mountains.

Staring out across Cardiff – sealed in, the trains soundlessly arriving and departing the city far below us, the bay in the distance and the endless, huge churches of retail planted all around us – the friends bewilder me with their eulogizing of this very un-Greek city of Male Voice Choirs and Doctor Who.

I wonder just what is it that appeals so much to the Hellenic senses here.

“But the best place, the best place..” they tell me in an awed whisper, as I crane forward to hear where this Greek Elysium could possibly be “…is Tenby!”

They tell me they go all the time and invite other Greeks to come over to look and wonder at the small Presbyterian town of healthy seaside air, tiny fisherman’s cottages and weathered old ladies selling tin tea trays and Welsh cakes. Or at least that’s how I imagine it to be.

I tell them we’ll try and put it on our itinerary. We head off into town for a curry.

Like some seasoned know-all I tell the Greeks that it’s a fact that curries in the provinces are weaker than in London and busy about ordering the hottest I can find on the menu.

Half an hour later, tears sprinkling my eyes, a heavy sweat streaking down my face, my eyebrows like two wet rugs, I whimperingly allow I may have got that one wrong.

The Greeks of course have not felt the British need to prove themselves with heat and spices and seem to be having a far better time of things.

And so Giristroula and I celebrate our brief stay in Wales’ capital in the best way one could think: in the dark, serenaded with a CD of sitars, surrounded by thick mottled wallpaper. Curry fallen from the metal tureens leaking circular ripples of grease on on the heavy white tablecloths, sharp fragments of poppadoms littering the table. Large mirrors with engraved mystic, sacred, elephant-headed Gods, sponsored by adverts for Cobra beer.

Served with incommodious politeness, grazing on Britain’s national dish.

We clink glasses and ask the Bangladeshi waiter how to say cheers in Welsh.

“Lechid da,” he tells us.

“Lechid da!” we all say.