Without fail, every single time that I drive over the Severn Bridge into Wales, it starts to rain. Not a cheeky drizzle, I mean a confident sheet of angry rain, the kind that almost goads you to turn around. It suggests that you’re not hardcore enough to enter and endure it.
When I moved back to Wales from the US, after years of sun and smoothie bowls and shavasanas, I felt damp. Drained by my decision to do so. It took me years to root back into the moist moss and find myself in the morning mist. Wales, with its unrelenting weather and offbeat charm, facilitates a state of undoing. Because unlike the shiny, sunny cities I’d spent my twenties in, Wales simply doesn’t give a fuck what you think about it. And that punk attitude, that resilient spirit, that true embodiment of the “cool” we’re all chasing, it is alluring. Addicting actually. Wales burps in your face, kicks you in the arse, laughs as you trip. “It’s just banter,” Wales would say. Lighten up. Get over yourself.
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And so I did. After shaving off my ego, birthing my business and my baby in Wales, I found my creativity again, and my happiness. New York preaches that “if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere” – but I dare any New Yorker to forage for whelks in the rain with a smile. Or to launch a global brand from the bushes of the Black Mountains using WiFi from a sim card. Wales has always been the underdog, the forgotten third nipple of the UK, the accent people adopt to appear gullible on The Traitors. But being underestimated has formed a distinct character and culture. Wales demands that you find your guts. Chew down on your bitter. And since when did anything pretty, placid and prim ever rouse any deep desire anyway? We crave the real and the rough.
I want my Welsh cake in a paper bag that is not sufficiently structurally sound to hold the hot contents. I want to stink of fish after visiting the market. I want to wade through mud to get to a supper club. I want to be soaked to the bone. Soggy and alive. Wales isn’t polished or performative, and that is why it’s perfect. Whether you visit or not, whether you return home or not, it’ll welcome you, but it won’t wait for you.
Casino dim sum (Good World)
It’s dirty, it’s loud, it’s inside a casino; what more could you want from a dim sum pilgrimage? The dumplings are fresh and hot, the service is chaotic. Random dishes that you did not order will arrive at your table with no explanation offered, but hey, that’s the fun of it. You roll the dice.
Artshop and Chapel
I wrote most of my book here, on stolen afternoons sipping a homemade black pepper and turmeric golden milk. They sell art books and opinionated ceramics. The girls working there (who always squeeze me in, no matter how busy it is) wear beautiful intricate and elaborate eyeliner that makes me feel like I’m in Hackney.
Gallery at Home
A contemporary art gallery located inside a beautiful home, nestled in the hills and impeccably curated. From photography to paintings, there’s always an eclectic mix of artworks from global artists. The taste level is unmatched, it’s like you’ve walked into a gallery in Copenhagen, but it’s actually my mum’s house.
Three Pools
Down a muddy lane, in the middle of nowhere, is this beautiful farm run by a community of friends and creatives. They host chic supper clubs with visiting guest chefs from across the world, using their homegrown vegetables, home reared meat and foraged goodies. They also have festive markets where you can buy Welsh wool blankets that are not ugly.
Swansea Indoor Market
I’m not entirely sure that I like cockles, but I seem to drive to this market to eat them often. I love everything about this place, the smelly wet floor, the eclectic mix of stalls, speaking to the seafood ladies with their purple lipstick. Martin Parr heaven. I always buy a little polystyrene cup of cockles, with a splash of cheap vinegar.
Oxwich Beach + Beach House
This is my favourite beach, it’s beautiful and calm in the summer, but even better in the winter – it has a gothic energy. My dad once cooked us all paella right on the sand for my birthday. And there is also the restaurant the Beach House, which is a pocket of modern, minimalist luxury, right on the sand serving Michelin-starred food.
Barry Island
Chips and sugary tea on the pier is a must. Always get your own portion of mushy peas. The rides are shit but the old school arcade with those loud coin machines is amazing, I could sit all day watching that machine slide back and forth while it steals my two pence pieces.
The Black Mountains
There is a particular forest (somewhere in the Black Mountains) which shall go unnamed due to foraging etiquette, and in this forest I like to forage for mushrooms in the rain. I crawl across the spruce needles, and eat my soggy sandwich under a tree.
Ogof
Cardiff’s new bistro, darling. Midcentury furniture, seasonal nibbles, rarebit (Welsh national dish) croquettes. There’s plenty of chic eats around this area (like Gorse) and cool places (like Hardlines) but I like Ogof right now because they’re new and trying and in Wales, we love a trier.
Paternoster farm
When I moved back to Wales and initially hated it, my husband Roo tried to convince me it was cool by taking me to this speakeasy restaurant. I was grumpy all the way there. We waded through a farmyard containing machinery in the dark, and as I got ready to be disappointed and smug, we approached a magical, glowing wooden door. I saw flickers of candlelight. Inside this incongruous building we found a warm, chic interior with perfectly poached seafood and very cool music. He’s often right and it’s very annoying.
Eat Bitter: A Story About Guts and Food by Lydia Pang is published on 14 May by Chatto & Windus, Vintage