I stood in line at the crowded Pub on a chilly Thursday night. Ian and AP flanked me, both just as thirsty as me for another pint. By this point of the evening, we had lost track of, and did not quite care, how many we had drunk. After all, we were drinking our sorrows away as, earlier in the day, the notification came to us that our train to Belgium had been cancelled.

So, we cursed the French (our train operators) and hoped our altered mental states would lend to new travel plans. Ian, in a stroke of genius, suggested Wales. Our friends would be there, and it was already on the boys’ travel list. Using our convenient apps, we booked a 10:00 a.m. train to Cardiff and what appeared to be a decent hostel. Pleased with our plan and our late departure time, we congratulated ourselves with a few more pints.

The next morning, after shoving a few sugary treats into our stomachs, we set out with all the enthusiasm of adventurous young lads. Despite the normal train troubles, we went from Grantham to London and finally to Cardiff, settling in for the long ride. Ian annoyed me, as usual, with his snacks, which seemed to have come from a magic bag. No particular reason caused my annoyance—although it did subside significantly when he shared said snacks. AP disappeared to a semi-empty car to call his lovely girlfriend, surely not to return for many hours. I enjoyed my novel on Edward I to pass the time. The Welsh countryside slowly grew closer through our double-wide windows as we neared Cardiff.

Arriving in the city, the sky seemed to grow gray, and we resisted the urge to enter the Wetherspoons right out of the station. Finding our hostel proved more difficult than usual, as it was nestled between the attractions of the main strip—though, using our eyes instead of Google, we managed to locate it. Stepping into our hostel, we were greeted by a half-tiled main room and a bubbling fountain popular in Chinese restaurants.

Behind a tall wooden counter, a man met us with an indiscernible accent somewhere between Indian and Welsh. Utilizing our language skills learned from “studying” abroad, we managed to pay and get our keys. After walking up a stairway straight from The Shining, I found our room to be like a ship hold with steel bunks and squeaky bed springs. Ian and AP took the top bunks, and I got the bottom.

After locking up our bags, we ventured back out onto the main strip. In front of us was a long cobble road flanked on both sides by bars and restaurants. Shoppers thronged the street while cars dodged through. At the end of the stretch sat a large castle of weathered stone with Welsh flags flying proudly from its towers.

Intrigued by the castle, we decided to investigate. Arriving at its gates, we learned the unfortunate news that it had just closed and would reopen at 10:00 a.m. the next day. As a group, we agreed to visit it in the morning—I suggested that we should walk around the city and see if there was anything else interesting.

As a group, we knew very little about the city of Cardiff—we went there simply because it was the capital. Such was the extent of our paleolithic thinking. To some credit, I knew it was a port city; this led to us trying to reach the sea.

Though it can’t be true, I swear the sky was dark for the entire walk and it seemed we were strolling at midnight. Following the river (which would must lead to the sea), we twisted and turned through the streets.

At some point, after we had reached the harbor, AP suggested that we catch a bus back to the city center. I said, of course, but how about we go a bit further? I don’t know why I always insisted on walking more, but at least I lost weight in Harlaxton.

The thing we didn’t know was that our further walking would lead us to bus stops that never headed back. After realizing this, we grudgingly trekked across a traffic-packed bridge. In that seemingly eternal night, we had grown increasingly cold, and our legs had practically disintegrated.

Limping through the final stretch, we arrived at a restaurant that Yelp claimed was the best around. I never found out if that was true, as they couldn’t get us a table for another hour. This simply wasn’t acceptable to our rumbling intestines, so we shuffled down the street to another place.

We barely spoke once we were seated, and struggled to not pass away before our food arrived.

Something to know about our group of three is that we were extremely tight with our money… unless it was spent on food or beer. I ordered an appetizer of calamari which I, ever generous, shared with my comrades. I would claim that it was the best I’ve ever had; that could perhaps be attributed to our proximity to the coast or to my hunger. I could go on about the fine dining we had, but is it not written in the scrolls of our stomachs?

Now tramping back to our hostel with full stomachs and refreshed minds, we partook in deep philosophical conversations. Deciding that we were rather parched, the troops marched into a super Tesco and purchased a large bottle of gin which was accompanied by an inadequate amount of chaser. It would have been more than enough chaser if not for my weak teammates hogging it.

Smuggling the bottle to our room like vagabonds, we cracked it open, and the “real” party started. Our Australian roommate introduced himself and gave us a bit of background on his travels. He suggested the castle and said that, past that, we could see the city. When it comes to hostels, if your roommate isn’t an Australian, you are most likely in the Matrix.

Leaving our humble abode with a sufficient buzz, we ventured back out into the night. Under the neon moon, we sampled the best Wales had to offer beverage-wise. I switched intermittently between Gin and Tonic, Tequila shots, and beer. Ian and AP followed suit. We started in a dive bar that didn’t ID AP. This was important to the night out, as AP had lost his ID on a school trip and did not bring his passport; instead, he had brought a paper printout of a picture of his passport… Needless to say, AP had his fair share of heckling that night from us. In said dive bar, we found ourselves to be the youngest by about 40 years and felt quite out of place. In our travels, we had come across many situations where we were surrounded by the elderly in the bars, but we found that in Europe, they party harder than us! After listening to some classic music and having cougars eat us alive, we ventured back out on the strip.

Walking down the street with our still sure feet, we encountered several denials of entry due to AP’s lack of ID. Of course, Ian and I were very kind and surely didn’t use many expletives to display our displeasure with AP. Rolling with the punches, we ended up at the best venue of the night: a rocking bar with live music. Walking in, we could see that it was quite the operation with a large, rounded ceiling like that of an aircraft hangar. At the end of the building was a giant stage stacked with amps and instruments, about which I proceeded to bore my friends immensely with my yammering about this speaker and that. Walking up the stairs to a separate sidebar, we grabbed our drinks and hurried back to the floor. Crammed against the stage, we about blew out our ears as the musicians attacked their instruments with swift strokes. We stayed for while until our hearing was almost certainly in real danger—using the bathroom before we left, which was always necessary as you never knew where you could find the next one.

We exited the rock bar and searched for our next thrill. Only a few minutes later, AP excitedly pointed out a Ballie Ballersons! You might ask: what is a Ballie Ballersons? Well, it’s only the best idea for bars since selling beer: a ball pit club! We had been to one in London and had a blast.

Determined to get in, we haggled the doorman until he let us in without paying the cover, and found our memories ruined. The one in Cardiff was as dead as a racehorse with a broken leg. That experience only reinforced the saying to never meet your heroes. With our spirits significantly dampened, we headed back to our hostel with the intent of calling it a night.

I haven’t mentioned Ian for a bit, which is a snub to the importance he held for the success of each trip. He is a good-natured fellow, with a ready smile and kind words. He balanced my irritable nature and AP’s carefree manner. As we traveled from bar to bar, Ian always kept pace with the drinks and was willing to dance. Being curious and social, he would always make quite a few friends everywhere we went. Rest assured that, without Ian, AP and I would’ve most likely been dead by the end of the semester.

With that point made, I’ll continue with the fact that our responsible notions of an early night were dashed by jazz music. Being highly sophisticated gentlemen, we couldn’t resist carrying on when we heard a live jazz band playing up the street at another pub. Walking straight past our safe beds, we arrived to see string lights hung between both sides of the alley with a full brass band playing a swing tune. It couldn’t have been a better scene, and we were jumping to get in—but this was halted by the unfortunate fact that one of us was wearing joggers instead of jeans. At some of the “higher class” bars, you must wear jeans, which we all thought was quite inconsiderate of the traveler who values comfort and space in their bag.

With such bad news, we were determined to end the night on a high note. Walking just a few steps further, we came upon a local brewery with some silly name like Big Dog’s Brewing Company. I had a thick brew that was quite hard to put down, Ian passed on another (being smart), and AP accidentally ordered an IPA which he always does. Sitting on something akin to a park bench, lover boy called his girlfriend again, and I fell asleep.