They do things very strange…

Posted on June 3, 2015 by Steve Morgan

Juno was always very clear… “The beach is a place for dogs, don’t bother me with all of that sand and sea stuff.” And I have to agree, I’ve seen plenty of dogs being walked on or near beaches (don’t forget those pooper scoopers dog owners!), but a cat on a lead flouncing across the dunes is something that belongs only in the strange recesses of the imagination.

On a recent visit to the infamous Barry Island in South Wales (for anyone who has seen the UK TV programme Gavin & Stacey) I was reminded of a lyric by one of my favourite bands of all time… Steely Dan… “Over there in Barrytown they do things very strange”. So, maybe a cat on a lead, blah-blah-blah…

Following on from the unseasonal wintery start to this June a couple of days ago, it was good to experience Barry Island’s ability to create a mysterious draw of that sea and sand. It has the ability to entice all living creatures (except feline’s it would appear):

But the sea here is not for the faint-hearted; my memory of childhood visits was of a hike to get to it, and that still seems to be the case. Juno would certainly not have been the slightest bit inquisitive about something so wet that was also a distance away. It seems that people only travel to it in packs these days!

However, for students of classical architecture, you might think that Barry Island has the doric column vibe going, in order to stimulate those with an interest in culture:

But close up… you begin to see the cultural vibe is more of the ‘they do things very strange’ (or even ‘Gavin & Stacey’, who are serially referenced in this arcade):

It is safe to say that many things at Barry Island have not changed since those long forgotten days of my childhood. A fading but familiar sign might have been the subject to prick up Juno’s ears, something to do with food. John’s is still going:

Though a few spare penny’s were lavished on the entrance…

… not too many are required for daily specials:

But for a true stroll down the seaside memory lane, and to prove to the Juno’s of the world that in Barry ‘they [just might] do things very strange’, just gaze at the internal decor:

So until we speak again, enjoy your memory lanes, and feel free to go ahead and do something very strange! Why not let me know about it with a comment on this blog post?

Locally sourced what?

Posted on February 15, 2015 by Steve Morgan

On my travels recently I met up with my daughter in the city of Juno’s birth, London. Where to eat? So many choices (if you can afford most of them). Avoiding the bog-standard see-them-everywhere chains isn’t a difficult decision to make; but then you are faced with the culinary equivalent of the dreaded ‘estate agent speak’, where language seems to be the vehicle for promoting more of a smoke-and-mirrors confusion than aiding your powers of decision-making. It’s a competitive world, this restaurant business, and nowhere moreso than in the centre of one of the world’s leading cities.

Modern European does what it says on the tin. Fusion conjures up visions of either some kind of scientific experiment or an industrial procedure, either of which should cause alarm if you are purely focused on eating. Brasserie keeps the industrial metal vibe going. Bistro is something now applied to so many different places that its origin as a small cheap Parisian eatery has long since been lost. You can choose by country of origin, as London seems to have more types of cuisine than there are countries on the planet these days; but then you find yourself meeting up at a railway terminus without a Masters Degree in local culinary geography, so walk the streets and take pot luck is the most likely order of the day. Then there is the question of whether you are looking at a stand alone restaurant or is it part of the expensive boutique hotel next door (and does that matter anyway)?

You can always decide on the criterion of available budget; but some external menus are either written in small font size with dim lighting, or the pricing doesn’t easily correlate to each item, and the hidden extras just might surpass the cost of the main meal.

Where is my trusted feline advisor when I need her? This is the moment where Juno would undoubtedly be referring to me as ‘indecision central’ or ‘the resident knowledge gap’. Previous experience of the area of Bloomsbury does nothing on the night to speed the decision, but at least my young companion is no car driver so the long lost art of walking is not beyond her ability. At last, we walk through the Dickensian Woburn Walk…

… and stumble across an advert for Italian-British fusion at the simply named Number Twelve. It was not clear until you search for the rest room that this is part of the Ambassadors Hotel, so be prepared for a degree of elegance in decor, layout and quality of the food. This is definitely not your basic and simple bistro, and despite being tucked away in an isolated corner the service was welcoming. The window table was next to frosted glass with seating backing up to the window, so it is not going to be a place where the passers-by get to decide on whether they try it out based on gawping at what you are eating! The fillet steak and grilled salmon main courses were very well prepared, and despite having six chips on your plate it has to be said they were large and perfectly cooked. As for the side of chilli spinach, what a delight…

Not a cheap eating option, but if you are in the mood to savour some quality this is definitely a place worth checking out. However, I am left baffled by the menu and advertising claims to locally sourced ingredients… as Juno would have most definitely reminded me, the only locally sourced ingredients in London are concrete, tarmac, glass and exhaust fumes. Whether you are in for the surf or the turf options, until we speak again don’t let your eating be put off by culinary estate agent speak!

Searching for the zeitgeist

Posted on July 5, 2014 by Steve Morgan

Why does my ‘resident renogade’ always take it upon themselves to do the opposite of what I suggest? Only the other day, and against the spirit of the age for international travel, they were lost for things to do in the spare moments during a UK coastal appreciation gig. I couldn’t resist to proffer the obvious combination of a long walk off a short pier!

Unknowingly, I was offering this advice to someone who happened to be gazing at the world’s longest. Time for a quick reappraisal of the situation, and by my calculus what was needed here was a recalculation of the ‘long to extra long’ boards to steps ratio…

And as if this wasn’t enough of an intellectual challenge for a sophisticated cat, originating from London I should have known that the neighbouring county of Essex bucks many a trend. Us cats are known for our curiosity, but I am sure you will forgive my incredulity at the evidence that the all-pervading nannie state had been well and truly driven out of town. Something distinctly American seems to be happening in a noisy corner of the land of the white stiletto, as a subtle obesity drive seems to be going down, with a distinct charge-for-walking vibe, bucking the current trends for healthy living…

Where is the zeitgeist when you most need it, I pondered?

All that was left was for me to assimilate the wisdom of a local insightful exhortation…

… which come to think of it, is precisely what I did when I decided to move to Cardiff with the ‘in-house numpty’ on their attempt at a personal homecoming and cultural re-imagining. Until we speak again I shall be a claw-sharpening Juno, intent on re-moulding my ‘resident servant’ into something more contemporary.

Dreaming of The Hamptons

Posted on April 12, 2014 by Steve Morgan

My ‘surrogate nomad‘ tends to go off on rather strange trips, and thinks it is funny to ask me where I have been immediately when they return home. Even the menacing laser look doesn’t seem to stem the flow of nonsense from the failed comedian…

So, the best I can do is curl up and dream of exotic places based on the incoherent mutterings of the ‘resident worker bee‘ with these destinations attributed to me despite the fact I haven’t left home. Forgive me on this occasion for dreaming of life in The Hamptons… the exclusive summer home of wealthy Manhattan cats amongst others. Exotic food immediately comes to mind, after all what am I supposed to do with this nouveau plastic cuisine?

Meanwhile, my ‘culinary torturer‘ is happily socialising with fabulous company in somewhere called Dangs Vietnamese Restaurant

eating sumptuous salmon complete with green stuff and a side dish of white stuff, and a decorative pineapple (which should be a feast for a more deserving cat stuck here in Guantanamo/Cardiff Bay).

I am dreaming of a dramatic and welcoming skyline…

… but then find I am engaged in a bit of the cognitive dissonance thing, as the best Cardiff can offer is the dreaming spires of the Millenium Stadium:

But this is nothing compared with the reports from the ‘lost wanderer‘ who speaks of such a warm welcome in The Hamptons, only for the dominant vision to be one of a prominent middle finger to the world!

My dream comes to an unexpected close with the realisation that the middle finger is the iconic message from middle England… I had been vaguely remembering that my primary ‘comfort provider‘ had droned on about visits to Southampton in recent months, and was now returning from Northampton… it was all a bit Hamptons-lite in the end!

Until we speak again I intend being an inquisitive Juno, wondering what Northampton has that keeps my so-called ‘intelligent one‘ returning for the last 17 years.

Bring me my sword

Posted on January 24, 2014 by Steve Morgan

In Cardiff it seems to play a minor role as a side to a mountain of chips, particularly on the infamous Caroline Street, so I take a rare trip back to my city of birth to satisfy my sophisticated taste for the tasty swimmy things… in short I need some quality fish! Ok, so my ‘fishmonger general‘ provides me with morsels of M&S poached salmon for a treat now and then, but I am talking serious consumption here.

Billingsgate Fish Market may have moved from the convenience of the river close by, to its location since 1982 at Canary Wharf, but there is a little known corner of Borough Market in south-east London that I trust sources nothing but quality goods, and not to be mistaken it is a restaurant conveniently called Fish!

Under cover of darkness I slink my way through the forever changing market architecture…

and with the looming spectre of Southwark Cathedral in the background I anticipate nothing less than a religious experience. Even The Shard will have to take a back seat role on this canvas, as I and a trusty companion are cats on a mission… to celebrate christmas on the 22nd January!!! Not bad really, we have done it in June before now.

Thai fish cakes and a bruschetta offer tantalising starters, while a fabulous New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc demands to be savoured:

But I didn’t come all of this way to be denied my prize. Whilst my compadre shows interest in a delicate piece of halibut, I demand my sword… fish with some serious attitude. I have come for nothing less than the perfectly grilled swordfish, ok, and some delightfully arranged chips as a side dish (and more of that New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc!):

I can satisfyingly say I was not disappointed, and this was one fish that can be proud of its sacrifice. Even the accompanying pak choi and carrots were lightly cooked to add a little snap to the meal, all perfectly complemented by the light and fluffy chips.

Even with the possibility of trains thundering overhead, I have been a satiated Juno, and until we speak again I can strongly recommend that you get yourselves along to Borough Market and check out a quiet little corner where your sword awaits you.

Haggis hunting

Posted on January 16, 2014 by Steve Morgan

My ‘deluded gastronome‘ has an occasional penchant for testing the powers of curiosity bestowed on my species. Just the other day I was issued with a food-related challenge, and being perpetually tired of a bland rocks & water diet I thoughtlessly accepted the challenge. “It’s haggis shooting season at the start of each new year” I was dubiously informed, and ““they taste at their best when cooked freshly caught.” Anything to get away from the vet’s Science Plan products, so off I went on a clueless trail in search of the mythical haggi.

Cardiff doesn’t seem to be over-supplied with haggis emporia, and after a brief sniff around the market and Wally’s Delicatessen in the Royal Arcade I realised this was going to require a serious adventure. Stowing away in the baggage compartment of what I can only describe as a flying shed (that’s the plane, not Cardiff Airport, or is it both?) the next stop was…

At least I understood that these creatures were quintessentially Scottish, so let’s go search the capital… but were in Edinburgh do you start, the World Heritage architecture is everywhere:

Jenners department store and the Old Waverley Hotel provide an imposing backdrop to the Scott Memorial on Princes Street.

Historic buildings line the hillside from the castle at Arthur’s Seat and Holyrood Park all the way up to Edinburgh Castle.

If the castle is where the haggis hang out they seem to be well protected by gun emplacements. But all of these tourists ambling around would surely be aware if a gastronomic delicacy was hiding out in such a popular venue.

Then there are the myriads of old courtyards and alleyways to scurry about and hide away in:

To make things more difficult I spy one of those ubiquitous tourist buses on the Royal Mile… hopefully they are not all searching in packs for the same quarry as me?

One thing I am learning quick is that the haggis is difficult to catch; they are full of heart and lungs, and once sighted they are offal! I have to admit to being temporarily fooled by the sight of what I thought were haggis’s left out to dry, before sale along the Royal Mile:

But I quickly realised there is a plethora of bald Scotsmen graciously giving up their pelts for the benefit of the older American tourist trade. In fact this one had donated so much of himself to tourism that he now needed an external stomach complete with a feeding tube… serious sacrifice man!

I certainly hope these haggis characters haven’t chosen the underneath of the kilt and sporran combination for warmth and a secure hiding place… I for one happen to be too much of a lady to check!

I was beginning to lose heart in my quest… was the haggis really just an illusionary character from fiction established to taunt the unwitting newcomer to these parts? But then I had a significant tip-off as to where I might satisfy my mission, and appetite. The haggis had recently been seen on Cockburn Street:

Following the lead I was surely closing in on my prey. The signs were promising indeed:

The Arcade on close inspection resembled nothing like an arcade. At least Cardiff had one over on the Scottish capital when it came to real arcades! But in this context who cares… the sign says ‘Haggis and Whisky House‘; with any luck my prey might even be sozzled enough to make capture simple.

The journey and challenge results in a most worthwhile prize, and the haggis comes with a whisky sauce to compliment the tatties and neeps layered beneath the gallant but vanquished foe.

As I recline, stroking satisfied whiskers after consuming the melt-in-the-mouth feast, I have to admit that the haggis may be claiming a late victory, as I am now what can only be described being close to the Royal Mile as regally stuffed. I have a choice… for some strange reason The Arcade seem to have anticipated the effect of haggis overload on certain customers, so they advertise breakfast on the ceiling for those who find the horizontal to be the most comfortable pose in the hours after the haggis has been consumed:

If even more eating isn’t the ticket for you, why not try the remedy favoured by the fitter few locals, there are plenty of steps for exercise:

Personally, I chose to look in on the famous Rose Street in the New Town part of the city… probably one of the most challenging pub crawls any cat could wish to attempt.

The Kenilworth offered a couple of Harviestoun Brewery’s finest… a ‘Blond Bombshell’ and the end of the seasonal ‘Sleigh Driver’. All that was left to say was bon voyage haggis, as it was carried away on a sea of fine lotion.

It was time for me to bid a fond farewell to the never less than dramatic city of Edinburgh and return to my ‘resident scribbler‘ to relate my triumphant response to the challenge… and to suggest a place where the old git could retire to:

Enough of the flying sheds, I think I have found an altogether more space crafty way of returning back to Cardiff. Well if Dr Who can do it!

Until we speak again I am Juno wishing you all an ‘och aye the noo’, and good luck in your haggis hunting.

A Cat and the Dude go Greek

Posted on December 8, 2013 by Steve Morgan

Having a ‘personal food taster’ can be a bit tedious at times; particularly when they refuse to taste what they put in my bowl, yet seem only too happy to travel back to my original homeland and let me know how good the food was! Why go eat in London… it couldn’t have been a longing to see the old place? Having said that, London has many merits to get people into the christmas spirit without necessarily having to shop… like Tower Bridge at night:

Or a view into Hayes Galleria near London Bridge. But it still primarily harbours madness… millions of people constantly rushing around to be somewhere else, and taking photographs of anything that doesn’t move (and a few things that do) just so they can be digitally stored with all the others that are hardly worth giving a second look… or simply adding to a blog post to interrupt the reader’s urge to fall asleep!

On this occasion, the local cat was simply in the mood for meeting up with the recently inaugurated ‘Dude‘, who’s last visit to this side of the bridge necessitated a viewing of The Big Lebowski in celebration of his newly acquired title. I am told that they decided to take a stroll along the South Bank of the Thames, and kind of drifted towards their favourite Greek place. After all, I am told that if you can come up with a great idea the dude abides. The South Bank is where you can see some great examples of old and new next to each other, such as Southwark Cathedral and The Shard (you will have to guess which is which)…

… which kind of puts you in the mood for good food. However, most of the cuisine will be of a modern variety along this stretch of ‘nouveau tourism overload’. So, in order to combine old culture with modern cuisine Greece is the most likely source of satisfaction.

This Real Greek place on Bankside has a great location opposite St Paul’s Cathedral, and if you chose to sit outside (not a particular treat for December) you might just take in a view of the latest developments in the world of the super-rich over the river in the City of London.

Meanwhile, back in the real world, closer to the Greek economy itself (as opposed to the poor bankers having to make do with reduced bonuses in six figures rather than seven), a joyful feast awaits anyone with a couple of hours of time to relax and a budget of no more than £20/head including some fabulous Retsina wine.

On this occasion, the ‘One who should be more respectful of my culinary limitations‘ went on mouth-wateringly about souvlaki’s, greek salads, dolmades, calamari; and even spoke lovingly about ‘chips’… and then some more about the unique resin flavour of the Retsina (so much so, that the waiting service always ask if you have tried it before each time you order it). Something to do with respecting your tastes rather than any godforsaken health and safety requirement, I imagine.

Talking about imagination, I am Juno, left with the feline cuisine of rocks and water yet again. I will just have to continue dreaming of good greek food until we speak again.

US Congress: Health Benefits of Greek Cuisine (usa.greekreporter.com)

Two cats go to Newport

Posted on September 29, 2013 by Steve Morgan

If you have never had the experience of being in a war zone look no further than the city centre of Newport on the Gwent coast. The grunge Capital of Europe is known historically for its small unfashionable venues playing host to the likes of Nirvana, the grunge greats of Seatle; and centre for a great many charismatic bands from the Newport hinterland (aka known as South Wales). Rumour has it that the great Van Morrison lived in one of Newport’s prime hotels for some time; and if he hasn’t been seen for a while the hotel is shut and boarded up… who knows?

But today many of those venues are sad boarded up relics, still displaying tattered and torn posters and faded murals of past rocking nights… devastation-chic is the style of the moment. The anthem for the Newport of today is best summed up by the Stereophonics ‘Maybe Tomorrow‘! So, it was with unfocused anticipation that Fat Freddies Cat and I slinked into Newport, where the grey clouds coming in off the channel offered one of the few signs of hope. Many of the pubs offer the attractiveness of a perpetually underfunded homeless hostel, probably providing the very social services support that has been steadily strangled by the good folk of the Westminster village. The coalition government need look no further if they wish to showcase a living ‘Museum of Austerity’, in tribute to a policy of rewarding the rich, in the misplaced belief that the greedy bastards will then cascade their wealth downwards through generous investment.

As I have suggested in a previous post my fellow cat has a nose for the good pub; even if it happens to be an oasis in a desert of Euro-fizz Emporia. And so

ye olde murenger house we find ourselves at ‘Ye Olde Murengers House’ sipping well kept Sam Smith’s Ales, chomping on some good quality pub nosh, and parting with very few of the standard beer vouchers for the pleasure. This claims to be Newport’s oldest public house, built in the 16th century; but then, so do many others. It can’t be a tourist trick, there aren’t any tourists who venture outside of the iconoclastic tin shed of a new railway station. But this pub has much to recommend it, particularly as an old pub that retains what the good old pubs were largely about, even with locals debating the forthcoming trials and tribulations of the future of the city’s chartist mural.

We could keep refilling our bowls at this fine watering hole, but cats staggering in the mid-afternoon gloom is not a desirable sight. So, what to do on a Saturday afternoon in downtown dereliction? There is a yellow stream flowing across the bridge (no, nothing to do with hours spent gargling the nectar!), so being cats of curiosity we follow… minutes later we are at one of those sporting venues known to very few people anywhere outside of the greater Newport metropolitan area… Rodney Parade. It seems that the old exiles of Newport County, recent victors of the mighty Welsh ‘Battle of Wembley’ (North v South against Wrexham, if you weren’t watching the world-wide coverage back in May), are about to take to the field against the English Riviera minnows of Torquay United.

We venture forward to the ticket office, to be halted in our muted enthusiasm by the dimly lit figure behind the iron bars stating that will be £20 each… Twenty quid! We might have come from Cardiff but do we look like foreign investors making a takeover bid? Do you throw in the keys for the Freedom of the City for that price? ‘Miss Newport 1973′ looks suitably unmoved by the remonstrations, and we walk towards the turnstiles, lighter of cash but grasping the magic tickets that will provide entry to a world of League Two football (real football, as the multitudes who don’t have the option of following the Mighty Bluebirds will quickly claim):

So what does real football look like? Here I am with my chair seemingly placed on the pitch (down in this league for your twenty quid you can pretend to be the corner flag). We are all strapped in and ready to go…

The problem with Premier League style of play is that teams have to adopt tactics, and play within systems. Down in the real world, when the ball goes missing you can just fire the starting gun and have a good old fashioned race instead, and even the referee joins in (probably benefitting from a head start over players half his age): And the more open stadium means that gusts of wind off the River Usk have the potential to suddenly blow most of the players over, or have they decided it is better to audition as a dance troupe for the old version of ‘Come Dancing’ before it got strict. Fortunately, some of the local houses on the other side of the pitch are suspended on ropes so they can withstand the climatic vicissitudes (not a phrase often associated with the Premier League matches):

For the record Newport County won 2-1, so the cats of Cardiff must have brought some of the magic dust along to share with our ‘Old Ironsiders’ cousins. Look out for the continuing rise of Newport up the leagues. I have been Juno, and my elitist Premier League representative will be back to report on another match soon.

The City of Arcades

Posted on July 11, 2013 by Steve Morgan

If there is one defining thing about us dames… it is that we do like to shop! Back in the wilds of East London I had to make do with scraps from street markets, and the bins of corner shops and local stores. I am not complaining, at times I had the choice of delicacies from many different parts of the world. It often felt like the United Nations emerged from the diversity of those very streets; and that got me excited about the idea of being near to Tiger Bay… the original United Nations-by-sea. But, that is not to be; I am near it, but the Tiger Bay I heard other cats talking about has long since gone.

It seems my local corner shop is now a great big John Lewis store, a bit more upmarket than I have been used to, but something I can easily adjust to as long as my personal banker keeps the taps running.

But wait… it seems this Cardiff place has something else to interest us discerning shoppers. It seems like the Victorians in this part of the world had an idea for building shopping ‘arcades’, and from the Royal Arcade in 1858 to the Dominions Arcade in 1921 Cardiff has become famous as ‘the’ city of arcades. As I slink along the shop fronts it can get quite confusing with all these different arcades with their fancy shops, and some not so fancy shops. High this and Morgan that, the odd Castle, and even a Duke, not to say a Wyndham (whatever that is).

Then I hear there was a Queen Street Arcade, a Dickens Arcade, an Andrews Arcade, and an Oxford Arcade… all gone. It is enough to make your head spin, but at least there is one great industry thriving in all of these arcades… coffee! How much coffee do you think there is in Brazil… well most of it seems to have found its way to Cardiff from what I see as I mooch along these mini glass-rooved shopping cathedrals.

After a smooth cappuccino in the Morgan Arcade I am looking like this:

A few macchiato’s in the Castle Arcade and the world is beginning to look at bit like this [go see loads of brilliant images by my friend Fat-Freddies-Cat at http://www.panoramio.com/user/5357514]:

castle arcade cardiff - balcony panorama

Then an espresso in the Royal Arcade and I’m shimmying across the glass roof looking something like this:

Thank heavens for the dimly lit recesses of The Old Arcade… the more familiar territory of the alley cat, with its stretch of beer-soaked, cigarette-butt littered cobbles leading me directly into the culinary palace that is… the Central Market.

I will have many more tales to tell about my sojourns around these arcades (and the market), but in the meantime if I have sparked your interest in this unique feature of my city I suggest you go to http://cardiffarcadesproject.com/ for loads of stuff and things about each of the arcades. See you again soon. Juno

Dealing in fractions

Posted on July 8, 2013 by Steve Morgan

I often like to do some silly impressions just to pass the time of day, and as a means of expressing my considerable talents. Here is one of me in a ‘Half Cat Half Rabbit’ moment:

It got me thinking that there is plenty about what I see around Cardiff that falls into various halves and quarters, and here are just a few reflections to share with you. Firstly, I was somewhat dismissive when my personal claw clipper came back from a Council meeting telling me that we live in an area of the city that has a below average crime rate. After all this is the edge of the city centre, in the south of the city that was the old docklands. I remember living in the old docklands in East London, and I wouldn’t say that these areas are noted for domestic open-door policies, if you know what I mean. But I can see how crime rates are so low in Cardiff, largely because the criminals are so obvious to spot… here we see ‘Half Swan Half Burglar’ going about their trade:

Doing things by halves isn’t necessarily going to get you anywhere, particularly if you are a dumb animal. Why not at least try under the cover of darkness?

Then as I stroll around the neighbourhood I feel sorry for some of the buildings… here is ‘Half Building Half Dream’, as I imagine this shabby excuse for a pile of glass and concrete thinking ‘when I grow up I want to be like that picture’. You didn’t know buildings have feelings?

Now, the Shard in London, that’s a dream…

Enough of these halves, it turns out that Cardiff is really a city of quarters… from the previous dreaming building I can see there might one day be a Capital Quarter, to go alongside the Brewery Quarter, Castle Quarter and Morgan Quarter:

Just to mess with your mind a little, I thought I would throw in a fifth quarter… the Blue Sky Quarter (complete with Welsh flags at the entrance) just to stimulate your own thinking, put in any quarter you like (that probably means something different to our American readers):

Anyway, all this strolling around the city and thinking in numbers eventually gets to a cat, so I am off back to my own quarters. See you again soon. Juno

	Wanda Rusiecki on Titting yer tats
	Wanda Rusiecki on Getting so much better…
	Wanda Rusiecki on Getting so much better…
	Steve Morgan on Getting so much better…
	Steve Morgan on Over there in Barrytown

JUNO's VIEW

Seeing Cardiff and the world through the eyes of one cool cat

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