Billy & Me Quest for Eats

So we’ve been asked to comment upon Rummers (apparently not a reference to spirit soaked drunks), a fairly unassuming pub in Cardiff by.. well I suppose I should refer to him as a friend (this chapee here:)…. But we’re not entirely sure why…

We had stopped over in Cardiff to see Joe, our former flatmate, on our way to the camping holiday in the Brecons. We hadn’t seen Joe for a while and had a genuinely lovely morning walking into Cardiff centre via a riverside walk and, after a good hour or so in the National Museum looking at stuffed seagulls, hearing the booming voice of a whale condemn us and our earth-raping kind, and lingering over the stunning sketches of DaVinci, we were kinda peckish.

There was some genuine nostalgia for Deptford days as I dragged us from place to place; refusing to enter a franchise I recognised and eschewing all things chrome… searching for Authenticity. Even the faux authentic would do. I’m not hard to please; write up your menu with chalk, put a stuffed animal over the bar and call your sliced pan ‘rustic’ and you’ve pretty much got me fooled.

Rummers delivered.

Now the food wasn’t that great. A bowl holding a chicken breast wrapped up like some Egyptian prince in bacon slices and draped generously in a tomato sauce… a thick slice from a steak and ale pie; black pie-juice oozing out to be eagerly mopped up with fries and peas… It was all perfectly fine.

But… nice relaxed staff, crazily uneven wooden furniture, names scraped like schoolyard compass graffiti into the table tops, old skool prices… It had me at hello.

Eoin: 6
Billy: 7
Googlemap: I actually can’t find the address of the place online… Errr… it’s near the castle… beside the Millets with the cool action-pants on sale.

I’m unsure if it indicates the enticing nature of this surprisingly large Indian in this small Welsh town or the lack of any alternatives but the scent of their kitchen drew us in from three streets away. Having had a similar time again; being turned away from three restaurants who (of course!!!) do not serve any food after 8 in the evening and having turned ourselves away from two particularly dodgy pubs where the locals stopped the dusty tape deck to stare as we ventured over the mantle of the door;

The service, as is common in East Aisan restaurants, was polite and curt. On a tangent. this prompted a conversation concerning the relative manners of different eateries from different cultures; the typical overbearing servitude of Americans, the well-mannered and clipped nicities of East Asian curry houses, and the wide spectrum of manners in European establishments; ranging from the perfect blend of distance and informal humour to the downright rude. As we swapped stories of reasons for skipping out without paying we were presented with a good sized menu of interesting dishes.

I opted for the lamb gohst and our companion for the biryani with chicken and, oddly, potatoes. There was, of course, …. selection of beers; a pint of Cobra or a half pint of Cobra. After some deliberation we selected the former.

The meals were well presented; kept warm on small grills. the gohst was a standard fare and perfectly fine. I had tentatively asked for it to be served hot; something that, from the Brick Lane curry houses, usually has me weeping with every toilet visit for days afterward. Here, while it was perfectly tasty, it was milder than Clark Kent visiting his in-laws. The biryani was quite unusual in that the sauce was served seperately so the diner could add it as required to what was essentially fried rice. I wonder if this reflects on the local folks’ taste or the perception of us as muddy booted sun kissed stoopido tourists… which wouldn’t be too far off the mark.

Billy: 7
Eoin: 6

Google map location is here

Having narrowly avoided releasing flocks of sheep hell-bent on automotive suicide and skirting through small lakes of crimson muddied waters we arrived at the Black Mountain Campsite. The name is something of a misnomer as its actual location is perhaps a hours drive from the mountains. But close enough to begin our weekend of walks and outdoor fun in Wales.

The campsite appeared well poistioned for walks and with excellent facilities…. at least according to their website… But also, to be fair to our naivety, according to reviews on VirtualTourist and TripAdvisor.

Drawing information from the stoic man in reception was akin to my drawing a warm welcome in Cork. As he kicked his dogs to aside, the dialogue unfolded like this…

Man: “… ”
Us: “… Hi, we’d like somewhere to pitch our tent tonight”.
Man: “… ”
Us: “…Ermmm…. would it be okay to pitch it here… in this… campsite ”
Man: “Yes ”
Us: “…”
Man: “… ” (he moves to close the door)
Us: “Oh! Excuse me! Where would we set up the tent?”
Man: “Over there (note that he does not signal any location) or in the high field”
Us: “Errrrrrr”
Man: (Again the man moves to close the door)
Us: “Sorry! Where?”
Man: ” Over there” (this time he nods to his left)
Us: “…. And where is the High Field”
Man: “Drive back the way you came and take the left instead of the left you took”
Us: “…”
Man: (He finally succeeds in closing the door)

We are about to knock on the door again to ask about the facilites but decided against it thinking we should be able to locate them ourselves. Shortly afterward as we set up our tent on the raggedy unkempt lawn we noticed that the equally raggedy denizens of the campsite who emerged from their trailers to gather in small groups to peer, alluding somewhat to the mise en scene of David Lynch’s earlier works.

So onto our reason for this adventure; walks and picnics. These were, to give the locale its due, lovely. The lakes around the Brecon’s are well worth your time. The way-marked trials are easy to follow, none too crowded, and very scenic. What the surrounds lack in drama they make up for in tiny treasures. Bursts of bluebells beneath sagging old oaks; lines of silverbirch sketched sharply in the dark under the pine trees; fascinating little treasures of owls and foxes sculpted into tree trunks dotted along the path; all rather lovely.

After our jaunt, we drove on back to our campsite; relishing what the Curry Night sign by the pub door promised. Relishing in vain!! We rocked up to the bar, eyes wandering over the menu, to be told that we had missed the closing of the kitchen by 10 minutes. Asking for just a basket of chips or even some toast was met only with apologetic smiles. So… we accepted it as being our own fault and settled down with pints hoping to mask our hunger before returning to our cold tent.

… What led us to into a simmering hunger-fuelled rage was our spending the next 40 minutes seeing every table around us being served heaped portions of lasagne, fish pie, steak and the like. Their mild irritation at being served some three quarters of an hour after ordering didn’t quite meet ours as, again, we were told that the kitchen had closed an hour ago and we would have to try again tomorrow night.

These kind words of advice unsurprisingly failed to cheer our spirits as we tucked into our peanut dinners…

The following morning we decided against spending even a few coins on the battery operated showers; the dank unlit rooms with no shelves and crooked doors failed to entice. We simply packed our tent and headed on our way.

Billy: 0
Eoin: 0

Google map location here
Black Mountain Campsite: http://www.blackmountainholidays.co.uk/