Aberystwyth Mon Amour
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Cafe Culture
Aberystwyth doesn't have a Starbucks. It doesn't have Cafe Nero. It doesn't have Coffee Republic. Recently a branch of Costa Coffee opened above the motorbike showroom opposite the public lavatories, but on thw whole cafes here are 'local independents' (as they are called in all the surveys on coffee I do on You Gov).
The choice of cafe here is crucial and says much about the kind of person you are, or wish to be.
Take Blue Creek. This is a cafe with a strong Welsh language/nationalist element to it. I've seen the former Plaid Cymru MP in there on several occasions, and there are usually Welsh speaking staff there, too. However, it's quite hip, so there's also an English trust-funded element in there, too. At lunchtime bigwigs from the Old College (basically the University admin) go there, e.g. Pro-Vice Chancellors, Registrars, etc. The creepy guy who haunts the Arts Centre and book groups sometimes turns up there in the late afternoon. Very mixed.
Mecca, on the other hand is solidly bourgeois, not very Welsh, and at 11.00 am is usually full of people who read The Times in public and the Daily Mail in private, probably while wearing rubber. Both places have excellent coffee.
The Cabin is an institution. For one thing, it is full of smokers. It is near the Welsh Language Society's offices. The ambience is awful, the coffee barely tolerable, and food British Rail Revival cuisine, and the place is always packed.
People who've bought their council houses or are staying in caravan sites prefer The Penguin Cafe. There's also a place on Terrace Road favoured by the methadone crowd as it's handy for the pharmacy where they pick up their supplies. There's a woman in there who is probably 30, looks 60, is thin as a twig and wears a fleece printed with pictures of cats. Mad clothes are compulsory in Aber.
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World Cup Musings
Wales has not been in the World Cup since 1958, I read in the newspaper. It surprises me that they were ever in the World Cup. But then I faintly remember being told that Pele scored his first World Cup goal against Wales. Could that have been in 1958? How old is Pele? But I digress....
Wales, we are told, has adopted Trinidad and Tobago this year. You could have fooled me. World Cup fever is not much in evidence around here in any form. There are quite a lot of St. George Cross flags fluttering from cheap motors. Whether these are two fingered salutes from the proles of Penparcau to the Welsh speaking haute bourgeoisie, or just the symbols of holidaymakers who've crossed Offa's Dyke to enjoy fine Welsh cuisine in the National Milk Bar on Terrace Road, I can't be sure. No one seems very bothered by them.
There was one incident of World Cup Rage. The B' Wise store (Aberystwyth specialises in shops whose only other branches are in Bulgaria) was vandalised by Welsh language graffiti, apparently because of its provocative display of £1 Engerland mugs, although I'm guessing here. Not reading Welsh, I can't be sure. The graffiti may have been an attack on Blair, a declaration of love, or a haiku.
Personally, I'm keen on Iran doing well. You see, if they had a good run, I reckon it would bring their government down. Seriously.
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Rethink Time
Yesterday I dissed Peacocks in my general distain for the retail magic of Aberystwyth. Naturally when I opened my copy of The Guardian over breakfast this morning I found headline 'Peacocks: Is it the new Primark?'. What is more, the article proclaimed, Peacocks had poached a senior buyer from Primark to head their team, and had supplemented it with people from such pillars of the High Street as Top Shop. In the face of such evidence I thought it only fair to go to Peacocks to look again at their apparently wonderful clothing.
The kaftans and shirt dresses praised by the Guardian reporter underwhelmed me. They were OK, but nothing more. The prices were not Primark, either, more sort of George at Asda. But then we don't have an Asda, nor any other supermarket clothing, so it is perhaps ungenerous to quibble. An unlined linen jacket was pretty good, but there was nothing left under size 14., which suggested that the students had done a raid on the store. (No townsperson under 70 will fit into sizes below 18. All townspersons over 70 appear to have shrunk in the wash.)
The most glowing priase in the Guardian, however, was reserved for 'the best demi-wedges on the High Street'. These were pictured, photographed from above, so I was left none the wiser as to what 'demi-wedges'actually are. At least, that was the situation until I encountered the shoes in the store.
The shoes were £15 copies of Yves St Laurent's finest! At last, something to get excited about. The only ones left in my size were gold, but that's OK at the moment. I put them on and looked happily in the mirror at my own magnificent fashionability.
Alas, these shoes are made for posing. A step or two was arthritically achieveable, but more than that was probably impossible. And in this tiny town, walking is the only acceptable mode of transport (except for townspeople, of course, as they need to maintain their high blubber ratios).
So there it is. Primark remains unchallenged as the cut-priced haven of the High Street. But Peacocks do great demi-wedges.
The menswear, by the way, was distressingly dire.
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At Least it's not Clonetown
One thing about living in a town perched on the edge of nowhere is that even the clones of the UK High Street haven't bothered to colonise the place. Sometimes I wonder whether we are the only place on earth without a Tesco of any description.
A new 'shopping centre' opened recently. It is a row of ugly sheds on Boulevard St. Breiuc and houses Pets at Home, a shoe shop called Brantano (strapline: leaders in out of town shoe stores), a small Somerfield supermarket, and, for a little up-market colour, a new Peacocks. This is typical. We are so rubbish that 'out-of-town' shops can be set up in the middle of the town. Oh, we are also promised a new Matalan soon. I can't wait.
On the plus side we have some great grocers and delis selling local produce, a good farmers' market, and plenty of excellent cafes. Yesterday morning I called in Mecca on Chalybeate Street for a perfect coffee and a really good almond danish - total £2. OK, so on Saturday morning I had a good espresso and a croissant in a cafe on Gloucester Road (as in Kensington) for £1.20. I think I'll give up trying to be positive.
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Hello Trees, Hello Clouds
Is this an experiment? Probably. For a variety of less than interesting reasons I find myself living in Aberystwyth. The odd thing is, I'm almost alone in not being here either by birth or preference.
This is a land of white flight. English folk, like me (but not) come here to escape the reality of multicultural English cities. What they don't seem to factor in to their calculation is that Wales is full of people far more alien than their brown skinned unwelcome English neighbours.
This town is divided up on grounds of language (Welsh or English), religion (primarily Christian, but Welsh or English, Evangelical or quasi evangelical happy-clappy, insular rightist or outward looking leftist), and booziness.
I'm not sure how much I can stand of this. I am, after all, an atheist. And lots more besides.
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