After dropping my gear at The Lemon Tree (which is also an excellent restaurant), I proceeded to the Xplore! Science Discovery Centre (or Canolfan Darganfod Gwyddoniaeth to you and me), where I spent a happy hour fiddling with this, experimenting with that, and accidentally breaking the other.

To recover from the science, I had a swift pint at Drunk Monk, before moving on to The Rockin’ Chair, where a local band called Declan Swans were due on stage.

It was an odd gig, alright. The first song was about gout, the second was about diarrhoea, and the third was about a kangaroo called Timmy, who duly hopped out from the wings during the chorus.

After a late dinner at Lisbon (family-run, unassuming, cracking pork belly), I went looking for a bit of merriment.

I found it in spades at The Golden Lion, where, back in 1882, lager was first brewed on these shores, by two fellas from Germany who couldn’t stand the local booze.

The pub was crowded with locals – letting their hair down, having a sing-song – and I stood out like a sore thumb.

When I pulled out my notebook and started jotting things down, a woman called Kathy staged an intervention. She leant across from the neighbouring table and asked – politely, mind – just WTF I thought I was up to.

When I explained that I was documenting unfashionable Britain, Kathy said that while I was welcome to run my eye over Wrexham and then share my thoughts, I should bear in mind that those thoughts wouldn’t count for much if I didn’t get amongst it.

‘Places are people in the end,’ she said, ‘so stop scribbling about the f***ing pork belly at Lisbon and get on your feet and sing a song with my cousin Raquel.’

The next morning, after a reviving stroll along the River Gwenny, I set off for the football. I don’t want to bang on too much about what’s happened with Wrexham AFC over the last few years, but given that we’re off to a game, perhaps a bit more context wouldn’t go amiss.

In March 2020, the club was at a low ebb. They were in the fifth division and in danger of being relegated to the sixth.

Meanwhile, across the pond, Rob McElhenney, having been inspired by a football doc called Sunderland ‘Til I Die, was on the phone to his buddy Ryan Reynolds asking if he wanted to go halves on a football club.

Wrexham was selected because, in short, the club had buckets of pedigree and was practically at rock bottom. Wrexham’s first game with Rob and Ryan in attendance was away to semi-pro Maidenhead, who had a window cleaner in midfield.

When the celebrity duo did a walkabout in Wrexham the next day, I’m told it was a bit like when Charles and Diana visited in 1982.

Throughout the above, a documentary was being filmed. When the first series landed, Wrexham’s star well and truly rose. It has been ascendant ever since.

I was sitting with the away fans, because it was the only way I could get a ticket. For the first half an hour, Wrexham were awful, but then they woke up and scored three times in quick succession.

Every time I took out my phone to photograph the Wrexham celebrations, my neighbour looked at me like I was the quintessence of filth.

After the match, I popped into The Turf, a pub that’s been featured heavily in the documentary.

I got chatting with a group of Canadians who’d travelled over especially for the football (the lunatics). Our conversation was nipped in the bud when a rumour started up that Nessa from Gavin & Stacey was doing a shift behind the bar.

While it was good to see The Turf so busy, I do wish there was something in Wrexham’s success story that other cities could learn from and apply.

But there isn’t, is there? Because the truth is that what happened to Wrexham was akin to an act of God. For a similar PR impact, the Pope would have to move to Nuneaton.

The next morning, with a couple of hours to kill, I scored a cortado at a coffee shop called Bank Street Social, and then some stellar beans on toast at a place called Marubbi’s, which is claiming to be the oldest café in Wales.

As I was finishing my breakfast, a worker in high-vis overalls came in and ordered the XL. It came pretty quickly, but the toast was missing.

The lad brought this up with the waitress a couple of times, but the toast failed to materialise.

He was lovely about it, though, this lad, as he asked for the third time.

It got to me a bit, the sight of this strapping lad with indelicate manners, wolfing down his three egg, three bacon, three sausage and so on, saying ‘Don’t worry, it’s all good, no problem, okey dokey.’

When the toast finally came, some five minutes after the lad had finished his breakfast, he folded up the triangles and squashed the whole lot into his mouth, waving an unseen goodbye as he went.

It might sound daft, but that’s what travel is about for me. Little scenes like that.

I can hardly put the young man forward as a reason to visit Wrexham, of course. He might only eat at Marubbi’s once a week, for a start, and what if the toast comes promptly the next time he’s here?

No, if you’re going to come to Wrexham, come for the things that can be depended upon.

Come for the character of the streets and the buildings. Come for the amount of friendliness per capita. Come, if nothing else, to acquire a few lines of Welsh, including byddaf yn ôl, which means, as chance would have it, I’ll be back.

Ben Aitken is the author of Shitty Breaks: A Celebration of Unsung Cities.

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