Caerdydd/Cardiff

When I frequented the Metropolis many years ago our haunt was the New Ely until the landlord got fed up with Welsh speakers taking up his valuable space, although I lived in Merthyr and only went down occasionally, we collectively moved on to the Rhymney near the prison where the racist prisoners used to shout at Ap Siôn to go back home to Pakistan, this apparently had more to do with the price of soap than to his blood origins, although he was and is a prodigious curry eater, the hotter the better; his blood brother in curry eating is Castro, they order the hottest in the restaurant, and when it is served ask the waiter to take it back to the kitchen for an extra dose of spices. I remember one day on the way to the Rhymney after a match Gareth gave a huge swing at Castro, missed by a mile, then stormed off. We got into the bar, I went to the toilet and came out to see them both  drinking together at the table. The New Ely was where I met Hervé Kerrain, "the mad Breton" in the Dyddiadur y Dyn Dwad. Hervé was called up to the French army, but was one of a number of Bretons who don't consider themselves French so Gareth persuaded him to go with them to Cymru/Wales, where he was lacking in resources "I 'ave no muuny"  but was treated like a king, until the papers caught up with him then he went to Ireland and lived like a tramp, I found it ironic that a girl sang an Irish song at his funeral, anyway the French used to have a system whereby at the election of a new President there would be a general amnesty, so at the election of Chirac I think it was, Hervé came home only to be put into prison as it didn't count for him, not having already been incarcerated. The New Ely was also the pub where I met Jean-Louis Nano who told me of his project to open up a pub in the Breton hills and where a year or two later I met him again in his role of landlord of the Temps des Cerises in Berrien, one of the very first of the new Breton 'pubs' selling draught Guinness instead of bottled cheap German copies, just 7 miles from where I myself became 'mine host' at Ty Elise in Plouie/Plouye, another one of these new 'pubs' as against 'cafes', on my marriage to Elise Provost, the 'st' being pronounced in Brittany, as are the 't's' at the end of the place-names; my friend Bernard in Plouie/Plouye is a Maltret, whereas his cousin in Karaez/Carhaix is a Maltré(t), the towns are grander places. It's difficult for the French coming to Brittany not having prepared themselves for a distinct culture and mispronouncing everything, it also creates problems for the English expecting a French National homogeneity. Back in Caerdydd/Cardiff, on the odd occasion when I missed the last train home I used to stay at Ian Perriman's house in Alfred St. off Claude Rd. in Y Rhath/Roath which his aunt had left him, it was large enough for him to rent out the bedrooms, and I used to doss down there, whilst upstairs Dafydd Jones was writing the dyddiadur y dyn dwad, recounting the exploits of a band of friends, all of whom were born elsewhere, even if it was only from Ponty or the Rhondda just up the road, although many of the characters were immigrants from the Gogledd, as was the author himself. It was later made into a film where ap Siôn was an extra watching an actor playing his role; Dafydd also had a regular spot writing in 'Y Faner' under the pen name 'Charles' Jones. The Claude was the sunday morning haunt. Other watering holes at the time were mainly across town; the Conway, Half Way or the Robin Hood, and on a saturday night we were likely to end up at the Blue Moon or Pappagio's down the docks. Since I've come to Brittany, I've heard of the newer generation of pubs such as the Tomos Watcyn, selling its own brew, where Castro's son Iestyn worked behind the bar, The Cayo Arms, where apparently they want to replace the Eagle of Eryri, with a necktie, on Cayo's photo outside, and the Mochyn Du where the new annual St. David's Day march begins. My reason for writing this is because in my last dream I found myself visiting Caerdydd/Cardiff where Gareth ap Siôn took me to a real ale style ('in') pub of the moment, it was called Mulloney's and it was on George St.