Red and black.
The black loveseat in front of me sits underneath a large,
water-stained window. The quiet morning light creates a sheen across the faux leather
surface and accents the red of the thin throw clumsily folded atop the right
cushion.
What is it about red and black together that feels so
foreboding? According to colorwheel pro (look at me citing my sources like a
good plagiarist), deep red invokes feelings of “vigor, willpower,
rage, anger, leadership, courage, longing, malice, and wrath.” Black is associated with power, elegance,
formality, death, evil, and mystery.
Black adds mystery to red’s malice.
Black adds elegance to red’s rage.
Black adds formality to red’s
leadership.
Black adds evil to red’s wrath.
Black adds power to red’s courage
Black adds death to red’s longing.
Red and black.
I’m starting this post from Jeremy’s living room in Cardiff,
Wales. It feels good to start a post this way. I enjoy looking around and
describing the space as I see it. The room is rather sparse, but not cold. It
has sharp corners and colors, but it is not unfriendly. A crisp loveseat stares
me down across the blue/purple carpet and a clean-cut couch glances at me out
of the corner of its fluffy red cushion eye from my right. There are grasses,
shells and a wooden shepherd guarding an abnormally small lamb on the
windowsill. I believe the shepherd is supposed to be smoking a pipe, but from
my perspective, it appears to be chewing on a rolling pin. A large picture of
tulips adorns the wall above the TV and a colorful painting of vases commands
the white wall behind the couch. I sink back into a pastel orange rocking chair
that doesn’t rock (although I still expect it to – and experience
disappointment every time I plop myself down and it doesn’t move). I sip on a
cup of Kenyan coffee mixed with three of the cardamom pods Hanne sent with me
from Doolin. Bliss.
Divine. How can such a
simple thing taste so good? I must learn how to roast my own coffee.
Yesterday was long. Lovely, but long. I had such a good time
walking in Newport, that I decided a six mile stroll to Saint Fagans would be
just the way to spend my Thursday. So I did some Google mapping and carefully
wrote out the 18 turns I’d need to make before I arrived at the open-air museum
and most visited heritage attraction in all of Wales. My hosts both went to the
library to work on their final projects for their post-graduate degrees, and I
showered, suited up, and headed out.
I find it incredibly difficult to follow maps through most
European countries. The street names (if they exist) are on the sides of
buildings as opposed to on posts near the side of the road or on traffic lights
overhead. While this may very well be more aesthetically pleasing (and environmentally
sound), it’s confoundedly tedious to follow. I managed the first few turns with
relative ease and gave myself a metaphorical pat on the back for finding the
right streets and navigating through a new city.
1.
South on Alfred St – CHECK (I even used the
compass app on my phone to make sure I was going south)
2.
Right on Moy Rd – CHECK
3.
Right on Crwys Rd/A469 – CHECK (I had to ask to
make sure. As there was no street sign whatsoever. People in Wales just seem to
assume that if you’re walking on a street, you ought to know what the street
is. It’s always rather embarrassing to stop a stranger (most of whom are
listening to music) to ask, “Excuse me, could you please tell me what street
I’m on?”)
4.
Continue to follow A469 – CHECK (I hate these
directions. “continue” just makes me feel confused and nervous. Like I should
be actively doing something to stay on the correct route instead of just
ambling along. Which is my preference)
5.
Left on Gelligaer St – CHECK (This one was
straightforward and wonderful. I turned left and thought, hell yeah! I’ll totally be able to find my way to Fagans with nary a
hitch. I’ve got this Google maps business DOWN.)
6.
Right at Cosmeston St – CHE – Wait! There is no right. If I turn right
here, I end up in a park. Teeter totters! I love teeter totters. Perhaps I was
just meant to play with teeter totters instead of – NO. No, I am going to make
it to Fagans. Should I take the left instead of the right? Perhaps google got
it wrong... perhaps I wrote it down incorrectly... maybe... Crap. I’ll just ask
these people over here.
“Excuse me,” I smiled apologetically as I
approached two elderly ladies and one old gentleman busily chatting in front of
an open car.
“What is it, love?” the lady next to the
door returned my smile.
“I’m walking to Saint Fagans, and –“
“Walking to Saint Fagans!” the white-haired
chap interrupted. “That there’s a long walk, that is.”
“I love walking,” I replied, shrugging my
shoulders and grinning sheepishly. “I’m terrible with directions though, so I
wrote this down from Google maps,” I displayed my paper for the hunched woman
with the cane to analyze. “Google maps said I ought to turn right on Cosmeston
St, but there is no right.”
“No, no, you can only turn left on
Cosmeston St,” the old man interjected.
“Could I turn right if I kept walking? Just
past the park?”
“Up the street? No, that turns into a main
road, it does,” the lady looking at my paper replied.
“Turns into a main road, yes,” the man
agreed.
“Now, if you’re tryin’ to get to Saint
Fagans, what ya want to do is turn right after you get to the end of this road
here, then keep walkin’ until you reach Parkfield Place and take your left,”
the woman who’d been standing quietly behind the talkative fellow and helpful
lady put in her two cents.
I felt a bubble of panic rise in the back
of my throat. “But I’m supposed to turn on New Zealand Rd – do I just skip that
part?”
“New Zealand Rd? I don’t even know where
that is! Course you skip it!” and the bent woman holding my paper put an ugly X
next to my “L on New Zealand Rd”.
“You could probably skip all of these steps
and just go on to Western –“
And my brain started to fog over. For those of you who don’t know, I’m horrendous with directions. An absolute misfit, by even the most generous of standards. I don’t know my north from west from east from south and I certainly don’t know how to follow a map. I take pictures of street names and funny looking houses to remember where I’ve turned and reference them when I need to get back. I am also quite adept at looking lost and helpless and have no shame asking people for directions. But in this case, I’d already been walking for over half an hour and had taken no pictures because I knew that I wasn’t going back home by the same route. I took a few deep breaths.
I can
do this. I’ll just ask for directions the whole damn way.
“Turn left on Parkfield?”
“That’s right,” the grey haired lady
confirmed.
“But she could just skip all that. If she’s goin’ to Saint Fagans, she might as well –“
the gentleman recommenced his spiel.
“She has a map, she does,” one of the
ladies tried to calm down the overly helpful man, “stop confusin’ the poor
girl.”
“Thanks so much,” I stuffed my map back
into my bag and turned around before they could put Xs next to any more of my
directions. “I really appreciate it.”
“No problem, love,” the woman with the cane
twinkled her eyes.
“Don’t get lost!” the man glared at me from
underneath his white brows.
Yeah...
okay. So. No right on Cosmeston St. No such thing as New Zealand Rd. Let’s see
if I can find North Rd/A470. Shoot. I turned after the park as I’d been
instructed and found myself on Mandy Rd. Well...
I might as well keep walking. Perhaps it’ll turn into North Rd/A470 like Grand
Avenue turns into Broadway at home. I nervously scanned the buildings for
any indication that the road I was traversing might indeed be the elusive
“North Road.” After a few minutes of stumbling along, I saw a commercial
building with the word “North” in its name. I took this as a positive sign and
continued walking. However, I wasn’t quite sure whether or not I was walking
the right direction on North Rd, as my directions immediately before were
invalidated by the enthusiastic old man with fluffy white eyebrows. I looked
around what I assumed to be North Road for people to harass directions off of.
They’re
all wearing ear buds, I noticed in dismay. This is a city full of inaccessible people. Might as well be driving
for all the human connection. Hey! He’s only got one ear bud in, I spotted
a tattooed and pasty individual leaning up against a bus stop, I shall accost him.
“Hi,” I began tentatively, “Could you tell
me whether or not I’m walking the right direction to intersect with Parkfield
Place?”
“Parkfield Place?”
“Parkfield Place.”
“You see where that car’s turnin’ out just
there? Past the red lights? Well, the bus is in the way now, but you see what
I’m talkin’ about?”
“Past those light?”
“It’s either that road there or the next.”
“YES!” I threw up my arms in jubilation.
“I’m on the right track, then. Thanks!”
“No problem,” he cast me a quizzical look
and put both his ear buds in.
I continued to walk. I passed the
stoplights and looked for the street sign.
Nothing.
Okay...
perhaps it’s the next street.
I continued to walk. I reached the next
street and looked for the sign.
Nothing.
Drat.
I guess I’ll just ask someone else, I thought as I approached another bus
stop with a group of mostly inaccessible people huddled underneath.
“Excuse me,” I began in my perfunctory
manner with a slight dip of my head, “Do you know where I might find Parkfield
Place?” Most people under the bus stop either didn’t hear my query or pretended
not to hear, but I managed to make eye contact with a friendly and sensible
looking brunette.
“Parkfield Place?”
“Parkfield Place.”
“Where are you tryin’ to end up?”
“I’m walking to Saint Fagans,” I winced as
I said it.
“Walking
to Saint Fagans?” her eyes widened and my wince deepened. “You’ll be
walking for a long time!”
“Five miles. Probably. I like walking, but
I’m having a tough time with all the street names.”
“Well, if you’re going to Saint Fagans,
you’ll want to take Western Avenue. Just keep walking down this road and turn
left at the main roundabout. Then walk down Western Avenue until you find Fairwater.”
I looked down at my directions in
confusion. Fairwater...fairwater...
fairwater... it’s not even on this list.
“So don’t worry about Parkway Place?”
She shook her head, “No, you just turn at
the roundabout.”
“What about Tal-Y-Bont Rd?”
She shook her head again, “No, you just
turn at the roundabout. You can’t miss it. You’ll see a Tesco Express and a
University.”
“Tesco Express and university. Yes.”
“So keep walking and turn left.”
“Great! That sounds simple enough. Thanks
for your help,” I set off to the roundabout, cursing Google Maps under my
breath and keeping my eyes peeled for the red, white, and blue of the Tesco
Express.
ACH.
There’s the roundabout, I slowed to a halt in front of an intimidating
intersection. But I passed no Tesco
Express. And I don’t see a sign for Western Avenue. Cardiff West, yes – but no
Western Avenue. I scratched my head impatiently and burned holes through my
map’s faulty directions with my very unhappy eyes. You know what? I’m just going to turn left and hope that I end up
somewhere nice.
So I turned left. I walked and I walked and
I walked. I saw an accessible woman carrying groceries and entreated her,
putting on my best “I’m lost and nervous but not a complete idiot” face, “Hi!
I’m looking for Western Avenue. Do you know where that is?”
“You’re on it.”
“I am?”
“Yes.”
“YES!” Again, I threw my arms in the air.
Not so much to celebrate finding Western Avenue as to distract the goodly
grocery lady from my obscene ineptitude. I would much rather appear ridiculous
and enthusiastic than thick.
She smiled and walked away, assuredly
thinking I was both enthusiastic and thick.
Walking,
walking, just keep walking... Hey. Bourget. You love walking, remember? Man up,
for the love of all things made out of pig. DAMN. I forgot to ask whether or
not I’m heading in the right direction. Umm... Oh, a trail! Water! A bridge! An
old man with a cute dog fetching sticks out of the water next to the bridge and
bringing them back to the man on the trail! I should go to there.
So I left Western Avenue, walked down a few
flights of concrete stairs, and found myself chatting with the friendliest of
the Welsh. His eyes were a bit lopsided and resembled a 50 pence British coin,
accentuated by the roundness of his mottled face. He spoke very quickly and his
heavy accent made for a lot of lag time reiteration on my part. I would write
out our conversation, but even thinking in his accent is too daunting for me
and if I tried to get back into his character through embodying his comical
tics, I’m afraid I might have an epileptic seizure. The parts of the
conversation that seem safe enough to write are:
Aimee: Lovely dog. She looks so happy to be
outside.
Friendly Welsh: Oh yes, yes she is. She
just loves bein’ in the water, you know. I walk down to the river and throw in
the ball, but she won’t take a step closer, not a step, until I’m down on the
bank, she won’t. Not a step. She’s waitin’ for me, like. She just won’t go. Sit
here, she will. Then I’ll throw the ball in the river and she’ll rush in after
it, all the way in, and bring it back. But only if I’m down by the bank, close
to the water like this. She likes to be with me, she does.
Aimee: Looks like it.
Friendly Welsh: Yes, yes, she likes to be
with me, with me, yes.
Aimee: Can you tell me if I’m heading in
the right direction to end up at Saint Fagans?
Friendly Welsh: Saint Fagans? No, if you
take this trail, you’ll end up at the castle.
Aimee: No, I mean the road up the stairs.
Western Avenue.
Friendly Welsh: Oh yeah, yeah, sure. Saint
Fagans? That’s a long way off.
Aimee: I know. A very long way. Is this the
right direction, though?
Friendly Welsh: It is, it is. Just keep
walking past... wait a moment, wait a moment... let me count the stoplights...
1,2,3... 4. Just keep walking past 5 stoplights and turn right on Fairwater.
Right on Fairwater, yes.
Aimee: That’s it? That’ll take me to Saint
Fagans?
Friendly Welsh: It’ll be a long walk, Saint
Fagans, long, long walk. Just keep walking past... let me count... 3,4... just
keep walking past the stoplights. Turn right at the 4th light.
You’ll see a sign. Saint Fagans. A long walk.
Aimee: Thank-you!
So I walked.
And I walked.
And I walked some more.
I flip-flopped past 1, 2, 3, 4 stoplights.
And then I saw a sign. I crumpled up my
google maps paper and sang hallelujah.
You’re
on the right track, I told my throbbing feet. Just keep walking. Hang in there, guys. I marched along,
picking up speed as my enthusiasm increased – I was going to make it to Saint
Fagans on my own without having to take a bus. This is a breakthrough. I never go out for a six-mile walk with an
actual destination in mind. If I go for a walk in a foreign city (sans guide),
I assume that I’ll get lost. So I don’t make a plan. I just plan to wander and get lost. But
now? I’m on my way to f*cking Fagans. Win.
But my enthusiasm was short-lived. The road
that went by the name of Fairwater AND Waungron Road just kept going... and
going... and going...
At one point, I saw this sign:
Which gave me a good deal of hope. Until I
saw another sign that said something akin to “Andrew’s Street CLOSE”, and it
dawned on me that CLOSE meant dead-end. Not that I was actually nearing my
destination.
 |
| By the time I reached the entrance, I'd been wandering for a full 2 1/2 hours. I was tired, thirsty, frustrated, and somewhat excessively proud of myself. I tried the front gates... locked. Then I saw this sign: |
I must be able to get in somehow. Even if the main galleries are closed, I ought to be able to see SOMETHING. I suppose I could say the walk here wasn't wasted because I got exercise and saw the glorious Western Avenue highway (sarcasm is dripping from the voice inside my head -- Western Avenue was loud and dull and full of massive commercial buildings) -- but I would still like to say I saw a bit of Saint Fagans. Ach. I'll just walk down to the car park and see if I can follow a family inside.
So I continued to walk.
And I finally found my way inside.
Note to my readers. If you ever find yourself in Cardiff, do not walk to Saint Fagans. If you are planning a visit to this most excellent open-air museum, do yourself a massive favor and take the 1.80 pound bus to Saint Fagans. I know that I've only recently extolled the virtues of walking, but you will need all of your energy to fully appreciate the wonders of this historic mecca. In preparation for your tour, I recommend getting at least ten hours of sleep the night before. Wake up early the day of your excursion and pack a picnic. Bring a blanket, a large water bottle, whatever food you fancy, a camera, and the freedom to spend the entire day galumphing about the grounds.
Fagans is massive. As I'd already been walking for two and a half hours, had brought no refreshments with me, and suffered from the time constraints of catching the last bus home (there was no way I was walking all the way back), my experience was not as good as it could have been -- but it was still a pretty phenomenal afternoon.
 |
| The grounds were beautifully manicured. Gardens and lawns and flowers and woods -- everything was kept looking like a perfect fairytale. |
 |
| This is one of the most bizarre looking trees I've ever seen. Makes me think of a reclining woman. With very large hips and an upraised arm holding an umbrella. |
 |
| A traditional bakery. Bread and cakes are still made in an old-fashioned oven and served in an adjacent cafe. |
 |
| An historic shop. |
 |
| The town church |
 |
| The tannery |
 |
| I found this newt at the tannery! This means I've finally succeeded in accomplishing ONE of my animal challenges. This alone was worth the walk. |
 |
| The museum kept pigs in traditional stys throughout the grounds. |
 |
| A few chickens fearlessly meandered about the grounds. |
 |
| Each building had a sign like this in front, detailing the history behind and the purpose of the adjacent structure. Like a good museum goer, I read every single board. Then I hurried in the building, took a couple pictures, and hurried out. Even with this efficient routine, I was unable to reach every site in the three and a half hours I spent at Saint Fagans. |
I caught the half past four bus back to the city center and realized that I had no idea how to get back to Jeremy's apartment. It took another hour and a half of begging directions off of strangers before I finally stumbled through my host's front door and collapsed onto the couch.
It had been a good day. A long day, but a day full of personal achievements and massive satisfaction.
I walked to Fagans.
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