Every year, without fail, my mum and I pack our bags for our annual “mother & daughter trip”—a tradition that started as a simple weekend away and has since become one of the highlights of my calendar. These little escapes are our chance to reconnect properly, to talk without the usual distractions, and to indulge in the kind of meandering conversations that only happen when you’re sharing both a train carriage and a genetic code.
We always joke that by the end of our trips, I’m usually itching for a bit of space again. There’s something about spending forty‑eight hours with the person who is essentially your personality in its original packaging—complete with all the best bits and all the bits you pretend you don’t have—that can feel a little like being smothered by an over‑perfumed bar of soap. I don’t actually feel that way, of course, but teasing her about it has become part of the ritual.
This year, we chose Cardiff: compact, friendly, and familiar. Mum visits a friend nearby from time to time, and I spent a lot of weekends here nearly twenty years ago when my husband was working in the city. My memories of the bay are fond but foggy, like a postcard left too long in the sun. It felt like time to return and see what had changed—and what hadn’t.
Getting There (and Eventually Back Again)
Rail was our transport of choice. I set off from Manchester, Mum boarded at Shrewsbury, and we planned to rendezvous somewhere between the chaos of the morning commute and the Welsh border.
Transport for Wales runs the route—a service I know well enough to approach with a blend of optimism and resignation. It’s a no‑frills operation: no first class, no reservations, and occasionally (alarmingly) no toilets. I’ve had enough “adventures” on this line to know that something will usually go wrong. This day did not disappoint.
At Manchester Piccadilly, I discovered that our train—scheduled to be four carriages—had been reduced to two. Midweek, post‑rush hour, I thought we might get away with it. I managed to secure a pair of seats and immediately assumed the role of Seat Bodyguard, guarding the second one until Mum boarded at Shrewsbury. Abandoning it for a quick dash to the loo was out of the question.
Once Mum climbed aboard, I could finally relax. The train remained packed to the rafters all the way to Cardiff, and when I eventually braved the toilet, I felt like I had an audience. It was one of those curved‑door contraptions with buttons for closing and locking—never a reassuring combination. I double‑checked the lock, then peed at record‑breaking speed, convinced someone would press OPEN and reveal me to the entire carriage like a budget magic trick.
We arrived in Cardiff just over fifteen minutes late—enough for a small delay‑repay refund, which softened the blow.
The return journey was smoother… until Crewe. Mum had already hopped off at Shrewsbury, leaving me alone to face the chaos. After a fifteen‑minute wait, an announcement informed us that the crew were needed elsewhere. We were, quite literally, “creweless.” The train was cancelled, and we were left to fend for ourselves. This was the second time I’d been abandoned at Crewe, and I’m now convinced the station has it in for me.
On the bright side, the cancellation meant another refund—this time the full return fare. I genuinely don’t know how Transport for Wales stays afloat.
Where We Stayed
For our two‑night stay, we booked a two‑bedroom, two‑bathroom apartment in central Cardiff through Airbnb. Just over £250 for the whole stay felt like a steal, though it did require accepting a slightly risky partial‑refund policy. We decided to live dangerously. It paid off.
Check‑in wasn’t until 3 p.m., and the process was entirely automated, so there was no chance of sneaking in early. We arrived just after 1 p.m. and wandered off for a late lunch to kill time. When the clock struck three, we collected our keys from the local Spar—very Cardiff—and made our way to the apartment on Caroline Street, affectionately known as “Chip Alley” thanks to its abundance of takeaway shops.
The apartment itself was perfectly adequate for our needs. In fact, it had more than we required—a full kitchen, for example, despite our firm intention to eat out both nights. The décor was modern and mostly neutral, with a splash of mustard that I tolerated rather than embraced. Crucially, the bedsheets and towels were white, which is one of my non‑negotiables. Anything else feels like an invitation to hide sins.
There were two bathrooms: an en‑suite and a main bathroom with a bath and one of those multifunctional taps that doubles as a showerhead. Unfortunately, there was no shower curtain, so unless we wanted to recreate a wet‑room experience, the en‑suite was our only viable shower option.
A closer look revealed that the place had seen better days—slightly shabby bathrooms, worn carpets, scuffed skirting boards. Nothing disastrous, just the kind of wear that comes from being well‑loved and centrally located.
Speaking of location, noise was inevitable. Mum, in the master bedroom directly above Chip Alley, bore the brunt of it. My room overlooked a graveyard, which was at least quiet, if a little atmospheric.
Still, for the price, we couldn’t complain too much. Cardiff isn’t known for being extortionate, but even so, the value helped smooth over the imperfections.
What We Had to Eat and Drink…
1. Coffee Barker
We ended up at Coffee Barker not once but twice during our Cardiff escape, which is always a good sign. Our first visit was on arrival, when we had nearly two hours to kill and the weather had decided to audition for a bleak BBC drama. It was the kind of rain that turns your umbrella inside out the moment you open it. Mum found this hysterical, naturally. She, of course, had the foresight to wear a hooded jacket. I, of course, did not.
Coffee Barker sits inside the Castle Arcade—one of Cardiff’s Grade II listed Victorian and Edwardian arcades, all of them dripping with original architectural charm. Even on a miserable day, the arcades feel like stepping into a different era, sheltered and atmospheric.
Inside, Coffee Barker was all low armchairs, soft lighting, and mismatched tables—the sort of place that encourages you to sink in and stay a while. Sadly, they’d already sold out of jacket potatoes, which would have been our first choice. Instead, we both ordered the Tuna Melt Paninis.
They arrived with generous side salads and were surprisingly substantial. The panini rolls were soft, the tuna mix creamy with mayonnaise, tomato, pepper, and—slightly too much for me—red onion. After a little onion excavation, it was delicious and satisfyingly cheesy. Mum had a cappuccino, I had a hot chocolate, and both were exactly what we needed to warm up after our umbrella‑related trauma.
We returned the next morning for brunch, intending to try somewhere new, but the café we approached was bleaching the pavement outside. Nothing kills an appetite quite like the smell of industrial disinfectant, so back to Coffee Barker we went.
This time we ordered Scrambled Eggs with Chunky Toast, plus sides of tomatoes and mushrooms to share. The eggs were plentiful, though a touch on the dry side, so I was grateful for the tomato’s contribution to moisture levels. It wasn’t the most memorable breakfast of my life, but it was pleasant, filling, and served with a smile.
2. Cocktails at Lab 22
Both evenings in Cardiff began with a stop at Lab 22, conveniently located two doors down from our Airbnb on Caroline Street. I’d been intrigued by their cocktail menu during my pre‑trip research—full of unusual ingredients and bold claims about “pushing the boundaries of mixology.” How could we resist?
To reach the bar, you climb a set of stairs, at the top of which we were greeted by gangster rap blasting from the speakers. An interesting choice, and one that suggested Mum and I were not exactly their target demographic. Still, the bar itself was quiet on both nights, giving us our pick of the window seats.
The staff were friendly and happy to talk us through the menu, which read like a cross between a chemistry set and a dessert trolley. Over two nights, we sampled four cocktails—three of which I can remember with certainty:
Make Me Famous
Tanqueray Gin, Passionfruit Wine, Vanilla, and something called Disco Dust. The dust was essentially fizzy sherbet coating the rim of the glass, giving the drink a deep, sweet zing. It felt like drinking a glamorous childhood memory.
Concrete Daisy
Espolon Tequila, Orange Lillet, Urban Honey, Spruce Tips. It arrived with a honeycomb wafer perched on the glass, which Mum immediately claimed.
Transparency
Kingston White Rum, Pineapple, Coconut, Colada Crisp. Imagine a Pina Colada that’s been to finishing school. It came topped with a delicate wafer‑thin biscuit.
The fourth cocktail was possibly Convergence—Bombay Bramble, vanilla, sour cherry tea—served with a little meringue on top. I can’t swear to it, but the meringue definitely happened.
3. The Potted Pig
Having left it too late to book Pasture, we opted for The Potted Pig as our dinner spot. It’s tucked away in the basement of old bank vaults on High Street, not far from Coffee Barker. When we arrived, the place was buzzing—not with diners, but with a film crew. We later learned they were filming with Adam Richman, formerly of Man v. Food. I had no recollection of ever watching him, but Mum seemed vaguely impressed.
We skipped starters, though the Crackling with Dijon and Cornichons nearly swayed us. When we heard the crunching from nearby tables, we realised we might have made a tactical error.
The filming chaos seemed to slow down the kitchen, and after a long wait, the waiter brought us a bowl of olives as an apology. Mum loathes olives, so this did nothing to pacify her. If only they’d brought crackling instead.
For mains:
Me: Roast Pork Belly, Glazed Pig Cheek, Butternut Squash Purée, Celeriac, and—finally—Crackling.
Mum: Rib‑eye Steak with Oxtail Sauce, Pommes Anna, and Chimichurri.
My pork was the star of the evening. Three generous squares of tender belly sat atop sweet butternut squash rounds, crowned with a rich, flavour‑packed pig cheek that acted almost like a luxurious stuffing. The celeriac added earthiness, and the crackling was everything crackling should be: crisp, salty, and deeply satisfying.
Mum’s rib‑eye arrived sliced, cooked medium‑rare as recommended, and so tender that the steak knife was entirely unnecessary. The Pommes Anna was a hefty slab of buttery potato perfection, and the chimichurri added a bright, herby kick. The oxtail sauce came in its own little pot—always a good sign.
We realised too late that we didn’t need the mixed greens we’d ordered. They remained mostly untouched.
We shared a bottle of Chateau La Petite Roque, though neither of us could later remember why we chose it. Price seems the most likely explanation. Normally we gravitate toward Shiraz, Malbec, or Primitivo.
Dessert was a deconstructed cheesecake of some kind. I prefer my cheesecake constructed, personally, but we still polished it off.
4. Palette
After a long day of street art hunting and shopping, we needed an afternoon pick‑me‑up. Despite the late‑September chill, we were both in the mood for ice cream, so we ducked into Palette—a tiny spot on the corner of High Street overlooking Cardiff Castle.
Inside were just a couple of tables and a counter displaying cakes and a small selection of ice creams, all made by Joe’s, a Welsh brand dating back to 1922. Their original vanilla is apparently iconic.
The selection was modest, but they had Welsh Cake flavour, which felt like a sign from the universe. We both ordered it.
We sat inside with our ice creams, plus a cappuccino and a hot chocolate. Hot drinks and ice cream together might be odd, but it worked for us.
The Welsh Cake ice cream was creamy with little nuggets of raisin and cake folded through. If I hadn’t been travelling home by train, I would have been tempted to buy a tub to take with me. I’ve since learned there’s a full Joe’s Ice Cream Parlour in Cardiff, so that’s firmly on the list for next time.
5. Giardini di Sorrento
For our second night in Cardiff, we’d booked a table at Giardini di Sorrento—a cosy, down‑to‑earth Italian restaurant about a 5–10 minute drive from the city centre. Naturally, the Welsh weather decided to unleash its full fury just as we left Lab 22, so we ordered an Uber and dashed through the rain like two contestants in a very low‑budget obstacle course.
I’d found Giardini di Sorrento on the Visit Cardiff website, and it had sounded promising: homely, authentic, and unpretentious. When we arrived, we were led upstairs to a small dining area. My heart sank slightly when I noticed a long table nearby set for a large group who had yet to arrive. Nothing derails a peaceful dinner quite like being seated next to a crowd of people all competing to be the funniest, loudest, or most interesting.
Thankfully, my fears were unfounded. The group turned out to be a gathering of what looked like university professors—animated but polite, and far more interested in their food than in performing for the room.
Now for the food…
We started with Pane Aglio e Mozzarella: four squares of lightly toasted ciabatta, drenched in garlic, olive oil, and melted mozzarella. It arrived simply, without theatrics—just bread on a thin bed of rocket, doing exactly what garlic bread should do. No frills, no fuss, just delicious.
Mum absolutely won the ordering game that night. She chose the paccheri pasta in a creamy sauce with pancetta and walnuts. It looked indulgent and comforting—the kind of dish that makes you instantly regret not ordering the same.
I had been tempted, but in the spirit of variety, I opted for the risotto with tomato sauce, n’duja, and burrata, topped with a single basil leaf that felt more decorative than functional.
This dish was not for the faint‑hearted. The n’duja delivered a fiery kick that the burrata struggled to tame. The heat dominated so much that any subtler flavours were lost in the chaos. A bit more burrata—and perhaps a whole basil plant—might have helped. Still, the risotto rice itself was cooked perfectly, which redeemed it somewhat.
To accompany our meal, we shared a bottle of Colle Al Vento Primitivo di Manduria—a lush, dark, berry‑rich red that paired beautifully with Italian food. A very good choice, even if I say so myself.
6. Drinks at the Marriott
On our way back to the Airbnb, we made a spontaneous stop at the Marriott for a nightcap. I’ve always had a soft spot for this particular hotel; we stayed there often when my husband worked in Cardiff, and it still feels familiar and comforting.
The bar was quiet and civilised—exactly what we needed after a rich Italian meal and a drenching walk between taxis. We both ordered double Baileys on ice, which felt like the perfect cosy ending to the evening.
What We Did…
Street Art and Shopping
No trip of mine is complete without a deep dive into a city’s street art scene. Before arriving, I’d done my homework using BLOCAL and @cardiffstreetart, and I had a list of pieces I wanted to track down. Mum, ever patient, came along for the adventure.
We began with “Golden” by @rmer.one—a striking skull mural we’d spotted on our first day while walking between Coffee Barker and the Airbnb. It sits on the corner of Quay Street and Westgate Street and is impossible to miss.
From there, we wandered into Womanby Street, which turned out to be a treasure trove of murals. The first to catch our eye was a huge portrait of singer‑songwriter Gwenno Saunders, created by Rmer One and Barny Zadok for the “Get It Right” anti‑piracy campaign. It stretches across the side of Clwb Ifor Bach and is wonderfully bold.
Tucked into a doorway, we found Bili the Cat by @lemboart—small but full of character.
Further along, another Rmer One piece adorned the wall of @thebootleggercardiff, followed by a vibrant mural at the Fuel Rock Club by @peaceful_progress.
Before leaving Womanby Street, we paused to admire a few final pieces—each one adding to the eclectic, creative energy of the area.
Next, we headed up to City Road, partly to scout the location of Giardini di Sorrento for that evening. From there, we made our way to Tavistock Street, where we found another Rmer One mural: a black‑and‑white portrait of a woman, still striking despite showing signs of age.
Our final stop was Northcote Lane, which was bursting with artwork. We spotted a mallard—apparently once part of a larger piece—by Colour Doomed and HB (Helen Bur).
Nearby was “Making War” a collaborative mural by the same duo, each artist painting one of the central figures.
Next to that was a piece by Italian street artist RUN, followed by my personal favourite of the day—another Colour Doomed and HB collaboration, full of emotion and beautifully executed.
Near the end of the lane, we found a cheerful butterfly in the sunshine by @artbyunity, and opposite it, the final bit of graffiti we’d see that day.
After our morning of street art exploration, we headed into the city centre for some much‑needed retail therapy. Cardiff’s shopping scene is varied and vibrant, and we happily wandered through the arcades and high street stores until our feet demanded a rest.
A Trip Worth Taking
Cardiff is absolutely a city worth visiting, and I’m so glad I had the chance to return. Despite having spent time here years ago, this trip felt fresh—full of new discoveries, good food, and the kind of memories that only a mother–daughter getaway can produce.
We didn’t manage to fit everything in, which is always the best excuse to come back.