By Laura Caiswell 
Most travel guides for Wales are written by people who spent three hours in Cardiff and then looked at stock photos of sheep. I’ve lived here, worked here, and spent way too much money on waterproof jackets that didn’t actually work. If you want a list of ‘top ten historical landmarks,’ go buy a guidebook at the airport. If you want to know where the soul of the place actually is—and where you’re going to get your car stuck in a hedge—keep reading.
The Cardiff Problem (and why I’m right)
I know people will disagree with me, and the tourism board probably wants me silenced, but Cardiff is boring. What I mean is—actually, let me put it differently: it’s a generic UK city that happens to have a castle in the middle of it. If you’ve seen a Greggs and a John Lewis in Birmingham, you’ve seen them in Cardiff. People flock to Cardiff Bay thinking it’s going to be this cultural awakening, but it’s just a mall with a moat. I once paid £18 for a burger there that was so dry I’m pretty sure it was a fire hazard. Don’t waste your limited time in Wales sitting in traffic on the M4 just to see a stadium. Go west. Always go west.
Pembrokeshire is the only reason to own a car
If you have any sense, you’ll head straight for the Pembrokeshire Coast Path. I’m obsessed with this place. I’ve walked about 60 miles of the 186-mile total, and I actually tracked the wear on my Merrell Moab boots—I lost exactly 1.2mm of tread depth over a single weekend near St Davids because the volcanic rock is basically sandpaper. It’s brutal on the knees but incredible for the head.
Specifically, go to Marloes Sands. It’s this massive, sweeping beach that looks like the set of a sci-fi movie. I went there last October and walked for 4.2 miles without seeing another human being, which is the exact amount of social interaction I prefer. The cliffs are jagged, the water is a weirdly bright turquoise (when the sun actually hits it), and the wind will literally whip the thoughts out of your brain. It’s the only place in the UK that makes me feel small in a good way. The single-track roads leading there are basically just grey ribbons of anxiety, though. Be prepared to reverse for half a mile because a tractor decided you don’t exist.
The Pembrokeshire coast is the only place in the UK that makes me feel small in a good way.
The 2019 Vauxhall Corsa Incident
I used to think the Brecon Beacons (now officially Eryri, which I keep forgetting to say) were manageable for a casual driver. I was completely wrong. In November 2019, I tried to take a rental Vauxhall Corsa up a ‘shortcut’ near Crickhowell. It was 4:15 PM, the light was dying, and the mist sat on the peaks like a damp, unwashed wool blanket. I hit a patch of slurry—which is a polite word for cow dung and mud—and the front wheels just gave up on life. I spent forty-eight minutes trying to rock the car back and forth while a sheep watched me with what I can only describe as intense judgmental energy. I eventually had to walk three miles in the dark to find a farmer who looked at my car, looked at my shoes, and just sighed. I felt like a total idiot. The lesson: if the road on the map looks like a squiggle, it’s not a road. It’s a suggestion.
Yr Wyddfa is a queue, not a mountain
Don’t climb Snowdon. Or, okay, climb it if you must, but don’t expect a spiritual experience. It’s a queue. You’ll spend four hours walking uphill just to stand behind a guy in flip-flops who is complaining about the 4G signal. I refuse to go back there. Last time I went, I saw a literal line of 50 people waiting to take a selfie at the trig point. It’s the Instagram-ification of nature and it’s depressing. If you want real mountains without the gift-shop vibes, go to the Glyderau. Specifically, Glyder Fach. It’s harder, it’s rockier, and you won’t have to listen to someone’s Spotify playlist on a Bluetooth speaker while you’re trying to look at a lake. Total waste of petrol going to Llanberis these days.
The part about the books
Hay-on-Wye is the only ‘tourist’ town I actually like. It’s a town full of second-hand bookshops. Anyway, I spent six hours there once and only came out with a 1970s guide to mushroom foraging, but the vibe is just… right. It’s not polished. It’s dusty and smells like old paper and damp tweed. I will say, though, the coffee in the main square is overpriced—I paid £4.20 for a flat white that was mostly foam. But I digress. If you’re going to Hay, go for the atmosphere, not the caffeine. It’s one of those rare places that actually lives up to the hype, unlike Portmeirion, which I’m convinced is a cult. I refuse to go back to Portmeirion. It’s creepy and feels like a Truman Show set where everyone is secretly watching you. Avoid it like the plague.
I don’t know if this is helpful or if I’ve just ranted for a thousand words. Wales is a difficult place to visit because it doesn’t try to be liked. It’s wet, the sheep are everywhere, and the roads are designed to break your spirit. But when you’re standing on a cliff in Pembrokeshire and the salt spray is hitting your face, you realize why people stay. I just hope the next time I go, I don’t end up in a ditch. Will the weather ever actually be clear for more than two days? Probably not.
Go to Marloes. Skip Cardiff. Bring better boots than I did.