The Cardiff Bus No.9 goes from Heath Hospital all the way down to Sports Village via the city centre. I had a cunning plan. I was going to catch it outside Cathays Library. Every Tuesday morning a group of us go for a walk around Cathays Cemetery and take it in turns to talk about either some of the nature or some of the โresidentsโ. I find it fascinating to learn about the lives of the people buried there. Today we had a Victorian coal exporter and a newly installed war graves headstone to discuss.
After that I popped into the library to do some research of my own into the portrait artist Margaret Lindsay Williams.ย She really was very skilful and painted many Royal family portraits as well as an American President.ย A lot of online material states she was born in Barry.ย She certainly did live there from a young age but I wanted to check and ordered her birth certificate.ย It turns out she was a local girl born in Gordon Road, near the Mansion House. One of her paintings thatโs getting press attention at present is of a ward at Cardiff Royal Infirmary.
So after Cathays Cemetery and a half hour research in Cathays Library it was time to embark on my next Bus-Book-Beverage adventure. The No.9 route operates five buses each hour so thereโs never long to wait for the next bus. I must say thereโs something rather unnerving about a bus that starts at the hospital and then heads to the cemetery. Sometimes they run double-deckers on this route and itโs fun to sit upstairs and look at streets like Crwys Road and City Road from angles you donโt normally see them. Not today though. Our single decker took me into town then a 5-10 minute wait in Westgate Street while it adjusted to its timetable times and then we set off again through Grangetown. The wide avenue of Clive Street looked great today with its Victorian housing. It was then into the much more modern mix of retail and low-rise flats before we arrive at Sports Village and the swimming pool.
I had my mind and stomach set on one thing today, an almond chocolate croissant from Tลท Melin Bakery. They are enormous and probably not intended to be eaten by a single person, at least not in a single-sitting. I walk down to the Marina and immediately spot the flaw in my plan. Itโs raining heavily and they have no indoor seating and their outdoor tables have no cover. But when a man has his heart set on something itโs hard to change his mind and I resist the temptation to go to the cafรฉ/bar next door which does have indoor seating.
Armed with my almond chocolate croissant and cappuccino I exit the bakery in search of some shelter. No sooner do I get out than I find a dropped purse. What is it about this challenge that leads me to keep finding things? So far I have found a mobile phone in a Cardiff Bay pub, a passport in the Bus Station and now a purse. I could have a whole new identity by now. I feel an idea for a novel coming on. I hand the purse into the bakery and then find the only sheltered place in sight, a miserable entrance to an underground car park. I say miserable but for some reason it has a Bayscape sculpted stone etched with a flying bird. What miserable weather but the croissant and coffee tasted delicious! They were gone before I remembered to take a photo.
Determined to get at least a bit of exercise on this adventure I put up the umbrella and headed over the pedestrian bridge. Thereโs some interesting artwork over here. In the middle of the roundabout near Tesco is a representation of the transmitter Marconi used for his first radio transmission from nearby Lavernock Point to Flat Holm island in 1897. Nearby is the sculpture Slate Sails by Howard Bowcott and one I rather like though it looked bleak today.
In the end I admit the weather defeated me and I head back to the bus stop. Itโs over an hour journey back so I settle down with my book, another good find in a book exchange. Itโs Ticket to Ride by Tom Chesshyre, a man who goes on a series of train journeys around the world. First he tries to get an insight into peopleโs fascination with trains by standing on the platform in Crew and talking to the train enthusiasts. Itโs very amusing and I can see the irony in that, being sat on a bus for no particular reason. In the second chapter he goes to Kosovo with Ffestiniog Travel Co. Another coincidence occurs. He tells the reader how Ffestiniog Travel Co originates in Porthmadoc, home of the Ffestiniog Railway and then goes on to explain a bit about the history of that railway, how it started as a slate transport railway from the quarries at Blaenau Festiniog to the port of Porthmadoc. The coincidence is that Iโm in the middle of preparing a talk about how that railway put my g-g-g-grandfather out of business as he used to transport the slate down the river by boat before the railway was constructed.
The bus stops near Ikea and two ladies struggle on, one armed with a large peddle bin and one with an artificial Christmas tree. Two stops later we hit trouble. The doors wonโt close. The driver tries everything ranging from turning everything off and on again to a well timed shoulder barge. They reluctantly shut. He tests them again but no luck. Iโm not worried though. We have everything we need on board; a peddle bin for, how can I put this delicatelyโฆ waste, and if we are here for an extended period, a Christmas tree. The driver calls HQ. Already there are shouts from the back of the bus โDo we need to get off Drive?โ
The abandon bus command is given just as the next No.9 pulls in and the next stage of the adventure begins. I jump off the bus in town to take a picture of our new bus but it is such a grey and dismal afternoon it hardly seems worth it. Itโs only 2pm but cars already have their headlights on. I regularly wipe the window free of condensation with my forearm in order to get a view. We get to the hospital and my plan is to stay onboard back down to Crwys Road to complete the route.
As a consequence of our broken down bus and wet weather means this bus quickly gets full. The nurses heading home at the end of their shift occupy the back of the bus whilst the out-patients with their crutches, bandages and onward referrals are at the front of the bus. I move forward for fear of getting trapped at the back. Top marks to the driver for his communication skills. โPlease move to the back of the bus unless you are getting off at the next couple of stopsโ, he shouts. Vehicles are breaking down all over the place. We squeeze past a car on the railway bridge on Crwys Road refusing to start. Itโs time to get out and head home and dry out.
Cardiff Capers 