Cardiff Calling – Why London Will Never Steal My Heart

Cardiff Calling – Why London Will Never Steal My Heart

There are cities that impress you, and then there are cities that find a way into your heart. For me, London has always belonged to the first category, spectacular, endlessly fascinating, full of noise, rhythm, and cultural chaos. I love visiting London. I love wandering through Camden on a Sunday afternoon, grabbing a pint in some half-forgotten pub, and most of all, I love catching a gig at the Roundhouse. There’s something magical about that venue. Maybe it’s the circular architecture, maybe it’s the ghosts of all the legendary bands who’ve played there. Whenever I stand inside, waiting for the lights to go down and the music to hit, I feel that old familiar rush, the reason why we travel in the first place.

If it’s not the Roundhouse, it’s Shepherd’s Bush Empire. Or maybe a sweaty night at Electric Ballroom. London’s got no shortage of iconic stages, places where history feels alive in the hum of the amplifiers. And of course, no trip to the city is complete without a visit to Sister Ray, that legendary record shop tucked into Soho like a shrine for vinyl lovers. I’ve spent hours there, flipping through sleeves, hunting for that one obscure live pressing that I definitely don’t need but absolutely must have. London is, in that sense, everything a music lover could dream of.

And yet, for all the excitement, all the cultural overload, London and I, we don’t really connect.
Not on a deeper level.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ll always go back. It’s one of those cities that pulls you in, no matter how often you’ve been. But there’s something about it that keeps you at a distance. Maybe it’s the scale, the constant noise, the sense that the city doesn’t really notice whether you’re there or not. London doesn’t embrace you; it absorbs you. And when you leave, it carries on, unbothered. Which is fine, some cities are like that. But it means that, for me, London will never feel like home.

Cardiff, on the other hand… that’s a different story.

The moment my train leaves Paddington, I can feel my pulse slow down. There’s something soothing about the Great Western Railway, the quiet rhythm of the carriages, the subtle tilt as the tracks cut through the English countryside. You pass Reading, Swindon, the hints of rolling hills. Then, somewhere before Bristol, the landscape opens up. The sky feels wider, the air a little cleaner. And then comes my favourite part: the tunnel under the River Severn. One moment you’re in England, and the next, you burst out into the light in Wales.

It’s always a small, private celebration.

Even though the train winds through some of the less glamorous backyards of South Wales, those industrial relics, the tracks framed by warehouses and weathered brick, I can’t help but smile. Because I know what’s waiting at the other end.

Cardiff.

I step off at Cardiff Central, still one of my favourite stations in the UK. There’s something oddly charming about the contrast between the old platforms and the modern station forecourt. I tap my ticket to exit, walk out into the open air, and there it is, BBC Cymru Wales gleaming across the square. The glass, the steel, the clean lines, a statement of confidence. The old meets the new. Somehow, it all fits.

And every single time, I feel a little thrill. A quiet sense of arrival.

Maybe it’s because Cardiff isn’t trying to be something it’s not. It’s not polished like Bath, not overwhelming like London, not overly trendy like Bristol. It’s just… Cardiff. A city that wears its heart on its sleeve. The kind of place where strangers strike up conversations in the queue for coffee, and where you don’t feel like an outsider even on your first day.

Of course, part of my connection to Cardiff is personal. A good friend of mine lives here. One of those people who make any city instantly feel warmer. Through him, I’ve gotten to know his family, their neighbourhood, their favourite pubs and Sunday routines. But even beyond that, Cardiff has a way of making everyone feel included. And that is not a marketing phrase.

There’s something about the vibe here.

Take a rugby match, for example. On match day, the whole city seems to hum with energy. The pubs are full, the streets are buzzing, and yet, there’s no edge, no hostility. Fans of both teams share tables, pints, laughter. There’s banter, sure, but never bad blood. Coming from mainland Europe, where football rivalries can sometimes feel like a small-scale war, this warmth still amazes me. It’s sportsmanship with a smile. Passion without poison.

If you ever find yourself here on a match weekend, go to The City Arms or Tiny Rebel and just watch. It’s the best kind of chaos, but friendly, loud, and full of song. Welsh fans have a way of turning everything into a choir. By the end of the night, you’ll probably be singing along too.

But Cardiff isn’t just about the stadium or the crowds. It’s the in-between moments that make it special, the early morning walk around Bute Park, the smell of rain on the River Taff, the slow stroll through the arcades where independent shops still thrive. It’s sitting by Cardiff Bay with a coffee, watching the water reflect the changing sky.

It’s that quiet sense of belonging.

There’s also a certain poetry in the fact that the city’s symbol, the red dragon, greets you everywhere. On flags, on murals, on souvenirs. It’s both fierce and welcoming, proud but not arrogant. Just like Cardiff itself.

I’ve travelled to many places, but few cities have ever felt this genuine. Cardiff doesn’t try to impress you, it simply invites you in. It’s big enough to surprise you, small enough to stay personal. And maybe that’s what I’ve been missing in London.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ll always go back to the Roundhouse. I’ll always lose an afternoon in Sister Ray, and I’ll keep returning to Shepherd’s Bush whenever a band I love rolls through town. London will always deliver the moments. But Cardiff? Cardiff gives me something else entirely.

It gives me connection.

And that, in the end, is what makes travel worthwhile.

Because sometimes, it’s not about how many places you’ve seen, it’s about where you feel seen.

And in Cardiff, every time I step off that train and breathe in the Welsh air, I know I’m right where I’m supposed to be.

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