Shrewsbury: The Coolest Town I'd Never Heard Of

After a morning cappuccino and a pain au chocolat (I could get used to these types of breakfasts), T, who requests to be referred to in my posts from now on as "Johnny Bamamfa", and I check out of our Dublin hotel and walk to the nearest light rail station. We are heading for the ferry terminal in Dun Laoghaire, 12 km south of Dublin. Thanks to a helpful Rick Steves, we know that the town is pronounced "Dun Leary" and don't embarrass ourselves while buying our tickets.

Dun Laoghaire is a charming, seaside town, and I am glad to have a few hours to walk around before the ferry leaves. We stow our luggage in lockers at the ferry terminal, and head out onto the promenade.

After walking along the coast, enjoying the sea air and a couple of pleasant, flowery parks, we stop into a busy place on the old main street for a tasty lunch and tea for two. My deliciously fresh tomatoes with mozzarella and fresh bread remind me yet again how much I miss fresh fruits and vegetables (as well as the altitude-challenged baked goods) in short-growing-season-Wyoming.

We return to the ferry terminal and go through a security checkpoint similar to that of an airport except that I'm not limited to 3 oz. liquids and I don't have to take off my shoes. The ferry is difficult to see out of the terminal windows, so I board the boat without a clear impression of what it looks like. Big and white, mostly. The passenger parts of the ship are almost entirely enclosed, but we manage to find a spot outside at the rear (aft?) to watch the cars drive on and wave our handkerchiefs at Ireland.
The "superfast ferry" doesn't seem all that fast to me as its diesel fuel smell and shrieking children start to give me a headache, but its advertised 99 minute ride sounds much better than the 3 hours and 45 minutes of the not-so-fast-ferry. Even though the Irish Sea breeze is closer to a gale, I spend much of the journey outside. The stifling atmosphere of most of the boat makes the movement of the waves and vibrations of the motors just a tad bit too noticeable.

Holyhead, Wales looks uninspiring. We disembark at a dingy pier to load onto a bus for the dull (except for a stray oystercatcher) drive to the terminal. We explore the town for the forty minutes before our train departs and find a few things to appreciate. There is a cool, new pedestrian bridge with a spiral ramp that leads to the old main street and a local pub that sells me a Strongbow that does wonders to settle my stomach (and tastes good, too).

The train skirts the north coast of Wales, and I find the scenery and the conversations of other passengers suitably entertaining. One bloke bonds with the couple across from him when they all break out beers to drink. Two Spanish girls sit across from us and spend lots of time on their mobiles. The landscape is pastoral and soothing; I see lots of sheep and bunnies, with mountains in the background.

After the train goes from Wales to England to Wales again and back into England, Johnny Bamamfa and I exit the Shrewsbury station (a cool building in itself), take our first look at the town, and say, "Wow." From my internet research, I was expecting a few preserved Tudor-style buildings, but the whole town is full of them. Crooked old buildings surround crooked little lanes, and I love it instantly. Even the TopShop, WH Smith and McDonalds on the main pedestrian shopping street fit with the theme. "Unspoilt by Progress" reads a sign on one pub, and I have to admit that they have a point. Our hotel is similarly Tudor, and very quaint. We are assigned the Prince Philip Suite, and the only Prince Philip I can think of is the ninety-year-old-or-so one currently married to the Queen, which doesn't seem to be a very romantic name for a suite, I have to admit. The room is great, though. From the front door, we walk down a few steps to the bedroom, and down a few more to an area containing a desk, wardrobe and the door to the bathroom. Exposed wood beams and funky angles add lots of charm.

I enjoy a great meal of Welsh rarebit (I've been waiting to try this because of the name; excellent with local cheese) and smoked haddock in a funky little restaurant that I worried might be too posh until I noticed details like the leopard-skinned table cloth in the corner, the purple feather boa drapery bunting and the deer head peeping through a red sequined mask. Back at the hotel, my sleep is disturbed only by the rowdy Friday night revelers at the Loggerheads pub across the alley.

My goal in the morning is to find The Dingle, a beautiful garden I saw on the internet, and, yes, I also want to find it because the name makes me laugh. En route, we see a coffee place with big windows looking out on an interesting street and an ad for coffee and cake. Tomorrow we will start our stay in bed & breakfast spots. If the Welsh breakfast is anything like the English or Scottish ones, it will include lots of fried meat, potatoes and eggs and maybe even blood pudding. I savour my cake.
The Dingle is a fantastic garden. Johnny Bamamfa and I wander through it and the larger Quarry Park surrounding it and end up walking quite a long way along a path near the lovely, meandering River Severn. We have long since burned off our cake breakfast and are more than eager for lunch. The Three Fishes pub doesn't disappoint. In another old Tudor building, we eat fish and chips and mushy peas that taste absolutely wonderful. Several old gents at the bar, who seems to be passing the time with pints while their wives and daughters are shopping, give us friendly advice about our upcoming walk across Wales. One has hiked the trail, others have been to some of the villages, they all cheerfully argue about distances and difficulties and where the loveliest spots lay.

We tour all of Shrewsbury that we can cover on foot. The only thing left is to find the statue of Darwin, the town's most famous son. We do find him, as well as his indoor mall. I chuckle and wonder what he would possibly think of his most prominent legacy, complete with The Body Shop.