Day 1 – Thursday 18th May 2023: Classic Welsh Send-Off & the Journey Begins
We kicked things off with a classic Welsh send-off, gathering at Llandudno Junction station—me, Carlos, Steve, Mic, Tim, and his dad, Keith. The atmosphere was already buzzing. The train took us to Liverpool Lime Street, where we stopped for a few pints at the Crown Hotel—a proper old-school pub full of stained glass, polished wood, and that comforting scouse hum.
Then it was on to the shuttle bus to the airport and a smooth 2-hour flight to Barcelona.
After landing, we made our way to our large but totally antiquated apartment near the old Bullring. The place had charm, doors that didn’t shut, a shower with a mind of its own (and creaking floorboards) in equal measure, but it was home for the rest of the week—and we were ready.
We dropped our bags and headed straight out in search of drinks, after all this was a pub-crawl disguised as a cultural getaway. At the first bar we found, Tim, parched and ever the optimist, walked up and asked the barman:
“A pint of John Smith’s, please.”
The barman blinked. Then, in total confusion:
“Fish and chip?”
We lost it. That line became the running joke for the rest of the trip.
Day 2 – Friday 19th May 2023: Sagrada Awe, Subway Wanders & 6am Madness
We kicked things off with a bit of culture—a visit to the Sagrada Família. I've seen it twice before, but honestly, it never gets any less jaw-dropping. Gaudí’s unfinished masterpiece is like a gothic dream crossed with an alien spaceship—spires twisting into the sky, stonework so intricate it feels alive. Spiritual or not, you can’t help but feel something. Never got to see inside though as we'd still probably be waiting in the queue to get in now!
From there, we crisscrossed the city on Barcelona’s brilliant metro system. Clean, efficient, fast—ideal. But those long underground tunnel walks between stations? Absolute calf-killers, especially in the heat and after a few Estrellas.
The day turned into a rolling pub crawl. We wandered through neighbourhoods, ducking into bars with cold beer and wild soundtracks. One spot had weird cocktails, another had punk posters peeling off the walls—each one a little gem. The city became a blur of laughter, glasses clinking, and music blasting from open doors.
Eventually, we got back to the apartment—but crashing wasn’t on the cards.
Instead, the six of us ended up throwing our own party. Just us, but the way we were carrying on, it felt—and definitely sounded—like the flat was packed. The music was loud, the drinks kept flowing, and somehow the neighbours didn’t complain.
We finally called it a night at 6am. Or more accurately, we called it a morning.
Day 3 – Saturday 20th May 2023: Camp Nou Majesty, Loudmouths & Late-Night Kebabylon
After a much-needed lie-in and a recovery session that involved more coffee than conversation, Steve, Mic, and I headed out for something special: a night at the Camp Nou.
Even walking up to it is a buzz. The scale of the stadium is something else—88,000 seats, wrapped in concrete history. You don’t just watch football here; you feel it. Every seat, every chant, every echo is soaked in decades of glory, heartbreak, and pure passion.
We watched Barcelona take on Real Sociedad. Barça had already sealed La Liga, but Sociedad came to spoil the mood. A quick goal from Merino, followed by Sørloth’s second-half finisher, gave them the edge. Lewandowski pulled one back late, but it ended 1–2—Barça’s first home defeat of the season. Still, the atmosphere was electric, even in defeat.
After the match, we linked back up with Tim, Carlos, and Keith at an Irish bar. They were already a few pints deep and full of life. We settled in... until we encountered a bloke from Leicester with a voice so loud it felt like your brain was short-circuiting. Every sentence he shouted was like a fire alarm test in a broom cupboard.
We made a sharp exit.
Next, we stumbled into a bar with a YouTube jukebox—and that’s when things got surreal.
We queued up a few tracks, and suddenly Spam Javelin’s “Nazi Line Dancers Fuck Off” was blasting across a bar in Barcelona. Then up came The Affliction, Steve’s band, with their classic “Good People.” Watching our own noise on-screen with strangers around us—absolute magic. Punk DIY dreams made real, one blurry video at a time.
We stayed for a couple of hours, revelled in the weirdness, and then, like true champions, finished the night at Kebabylon—a spiritual experience in the form of greasy late-night food.
Back to the apartment and asleep by 4am, dreaming in feedback and falafel.
Day 4 – Saturday 20th May 2023: Cable Cars, Card Swaps & a Feast Fit for Kings
By Day 4, we were craving something less hectic—and daylight. After dragging ourselves up, in a post-vegetative state, we stumbled out and hit up the Mercat de Sant Antoni Sunday market—a few minutes from our apartment. The place was alive with locals: stalls piled high with books, vinyl, comics... and kids swapping Pokémon cards like it was some underground trade summit. No official tournament, just pure trading chaos at benches and corners, like Sunday morning Pokémon capitalism in action .
After breakfast we made our way down to the Port Vell cable car (the Transbordador Aeri del Port) from Sant Sebastià across the harbour. Ten glorious minutes of floating above the Mediterranean, with glittering sea, docked yachts, a huge Virgin cruise ship, and the city’s red roofs stretched out beneath us. We hopped off at Miramar, our spirits lifted by the sea breeze.
Down we slid on the Montjuïc funicular—a swift, scenic link from the tram network into the leafy slopes of Montjuïc—before strolling/staggering through gardens and fountains, catching glimpses of Barcelona from above. A perfect antidote to the previous nights' chaos.
As the sun dipped, we recharged at the apartment, then headed back to the old Bullring (Las Arenas) for a proper dinner. We picked Pura Brasa Arenas, a brasserie inside the converted bullring/shopping centre by Plaza España.
The feast was modest—I lied:
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Steve demolished a steak the size of a cow. No exaggeration.
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I tackled a mac & cheese portion so massive it could’ve fed a vegetarian brigade.
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Keith got stuck into a full meal and single-handedly polished off a bottle of red like it was lunch.
Massive portions, bold flavours—and nobody left hungry.
We rolled back to the apartment under the city lights, feet sore and stomachs full. No late-night rager tonight—just content, comfy, and oddly proud we managed to keep the rest of the trip from spiralling. Sometimes, relaxing counts as an added bonus even on a boys' trip abroad. Although Keith and Mic did stay out and rolled in about midnight and raring for a party!
Day 5 – Sunday 21st May 2023: Homeward Bound (Eventually)
And just like that, the end crept up on us.
We woke up slowly — more like resurrection than waking, really — and began the familiar dance of packing up, finding passports, checking pockets for keys, chargers, dignity. The apartment looked like it had hosted a student rave and a tactical retreat all at once: pizza boxes, empty bottles, broken bottles, mystery socks, and hangovers hanging in the air like incense.
Still, spirits were oddly high. Probably because we’d somehow made it through five days in Barcelona without any major injuries, arrests, or international incidents.
We grabbed a final coffee (or whatever form of caffeine we could hold down), and made our way toward El Prat Airport — swapping war stories from the week, quoting barmen and loud Leicester lads, arguing about who snored the worst (me), and whose turn it was to forget something important (Michael).
A 2-hour flight later, we touched down in Liverpool, dragging ourselves back toward Llandudno Junction, where it had all begun.
Somewhere between the pints, the platform announcements, and the last of our leftover Euros being blown on crisps and snacks, it hit us: we’d nailed this trip. Loud, messy, no sunburn and brilliant — nailed it.
Back to Llandudno Junction, back to Wales, and back to normality — or something close to it.
Postscript: A Sad Note
When I got home, the comedown hit harder than usual. Not just because the trip was over — but because I found out that Algy Ward had died.
If you know, you know. His basslines weren’t just riffs — they were anthems. And The Damned's Machine Gun Etiquette wasn’t just an album — it was a way of life. That record is one of my all-time favourites, and Algy’s playing on it still knocks me sideways. Loud, tight, fearless. Pure energy. The best heavy metal bass player punk ever had, in my book.
He never played it safe. And neither did we, not on this trip. So it feels right to raise a glass — belatedly — to Algy. A legend. A lifeblood. A part of the noise that made us.
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