But Wales is assertively (people are just not aggressive here) reinventing itself. Seaside Cardiff is just a two-hour train ride from London, though many still think of it as the former coal-mining center of the world. Although the legacy remains -— as do the 160 nationalities that found a home here -— much is different. As the city celebrates its centennial, the new Millennium Center is the architectural focal point of a vital new mixed-use waterfront area, not unlike Baltimore’s Inner Harbor, with shops, restaurants and bars.

I’m staying at the newly opened Holland House, smack in the city’s center, with its tastefully and minimally decorated, comfortable rooms and the serene Vital Spa. A couple of blocks away is Queen Street, a pedestrian-only Victorian and Edwardian shopping arcade, complete with colorful carousels and alive with people. I tuck into the Cardiff Indoor Market before it closes, for a chance to meander past booths selling Welsh cheese, pastries, flowers, seafood. I purchase some grapes and a package of Welsh cakes, flat scones stuffed with currants.

Outside, I chat with a middle-aged homeless man who’s posted hundreds of his poems on a fence outside the market, adjacent to a church. I read a few; they are heartfelt, if not accomplished. I drop a few coins in his box. He engages me; we chat about life on the street, our shared love of writing. “We’ve got a long history of poets, but I’m not a drunk,” he says with a laugh, alluding to Dylan Thomas. He invites me to choose a favorite poem as a keepsake. “I don’t let many people have one.” He winks as he gingerly places the page into a plastic sleeve.

I stop in briefly at the National Museum & Gallery, which has a fine collection of impressionist paintings (who knew?), along with the investiture items of Prince of Wales, including the crown. An older woman joins me in front of the case. “We loved our Princess,” she says wistfully, referring to the late Princess Diana of Wales.

Big City Night, Big City Lights
That night I eat at the city’s finest hotel, the posh St. David’s Hotel & Spa, favored by visiting celebrities and dignitaries. It’s a striking building that helped launch the renovation along the Cardiff Bay waterfront; the interior reminds me of Ian Schrager’s minimalist hotels.

I’m dining at The Tides Grill with its floor to ceiling windows overlooking the shimmering water. Tonight, for the grand opening of the Millennium Center, there’s a smart crowd gathered for the festivities and the prix fixe menu that features such culinary treats as potted brown shrimps with melba toast: pleasantly briny fingernail-sized crustaceans cooked in butter and served chilled; creamy vegetable risotto; citrus-kissed grilled organic salmon with a delicate mélange of turnip, lime and parsley served with a gorgeous side of sautéed leeks; and Welsh and continental cheeses, including Llangofen, a red, garlic-infused Leicester and Y-Fenni, a mustard infused semi hard cheese. There are wines from France, New Zealand, South Africa, Chile, Italy and Lebanon(!). I try the pleasant St. Emilion made for the hotel’s owner, Rocco Forte.

I chat with the piano player during one of his breaks. When the fireworks go off, a young couple on a date both hold up their cell phones and clicks away, snapping pictures to the staccato sounds of the pyrotechnics. Everyone bursts into applause. The 180-degree view is of a glittering sky with dandelion bursts in hues of red, white, gold, pink. Shortly after the culmination, the piano player taps out “A Star Spangled Banner.” Several diners turn to smile at me.

Of Castles and Cockles
I return to the waterfront the next morning for a daylight look at the Millennium Center, a striking architectural building made of Welsh materials (multicolored slate, steel, hardwoods). The home to the city’s most prestigious performing arts companies, it’s the first national cultural institution built in 50 years. Run by the former director of the Sydney Opera, city backers hope it will do for Cardiff what the Guggenheim did for Bilbao, Spain. It’s a glorious building, one citizens should be justifiably proud of; I hope it does put Cardiff on the global arts map.

No one leaves Wales without visiting a castle or two or more, so I make my way to the fortress-like Cardiff Castle, in the heart of the city. Two thousand years of history reverberate here; lavish Victorian flourishes overwhelm the eye, but the castle is an impressive example of Norman roots (it also houses Roman relics). On the outskirts of town, is a more fairyland castle: Castell Coch, with its woodland setting, conical towers and verdigris turrets.

I’ve been told the most innovative chef in town is at Le Gallois y Cymro. Chef Padrig Jones runs a multilingual establishment: an attractive, two-level bistro with hardwood floors and a small bar. The place is abuzz with business types, lunching women and nuzzling couples; one family parks a stroller beside a table. The three-course prix fixe menu blends indigenous Welsh and provincial French dishes. Sipping a glass of Sancerre, I begin with moules mariniere, a classic preparation of knuckle-sized in-shell mussels before moving onto the roasted cod. The buttery fish is dressed with sea salt and served with a fricassee of earthy shitake mushrooms and spinach, and spongy cockles redolent of the sea. Cockles, I can’t believe I got to eat cockles! The sunny lemon pudding is both luscious and zingy. (Note to the smitten: they have a gourmet to-go shop around the corner).

Heading For the Hills
The next day, I head off to the famed countryside of southern and mid Wales, where sheep outnumber people four to one. I’ve got reservations at Llangoed Hall, one of the finest hotels in Wales (a member of the exclusive Welsh Rarebits hotel group). Sir Bernard Ashley, the husband of Laura Ashley, owns Llangoed Hall, which is located on 17 acres of lovely gardens and parkland overlooking the River Wye. The décor is less fussy than I imagined. Yes, there is sherry in my room and it has an old fashioned skeleton key, but the cheery blue and white scheme, huge Venetian mirror, four-poster bed and copious bath are stately. Rates include afternoon tea and full Welsh breakfast.

In front of a roaring fire downstairs before dinner, a few men puff on cigars (yes, they are in tweed jackets). Across the country, chefs are reinterpreting traditional recipes for a modern palate and the food here is topnotch. During my stay, I try tender Welsh lamb on a bed of finely diced ratatouille with a rich Madeira jus; succulent Welsh black beef fillet on “bubble and squeak” rosti with truffle and foie gras ravioli; dark chocolate fondant served with a sprightly scoop of pistachio ice cream; and an autumnal roasted apple with dried fruit and caramel on sweet brioche. I develop a deep fondness for the Château Beauregard Ducasse 2000, which is made for the inn.

To work off all the calories, I tour the surrounding towns and tidy villages of the Brecon Beacons, with names like Crickhowell and Abervenny. Stephen Griffin, one of the country’s coterie of blue badge tour guides, takes me to Hay-on-Wye, the quirky used book capital of the world. There’s a light rain falling outside. It’s fascinating to browse the dusty shelves of bookshop after bookshop, while listening to the babble of consonants and not nearly enough vowels that is the Welsh language (although I’m pretty sure I’m not burning many calories flipping pages).

I tell my guide I am into grazing and he obliges, walking us to a shop where he recommends a cheese called the black bomber. It’s an extra mature cheddar with a rich depth and tang; it also comes in a ginger-infused version. Stephen also introduces me to Brecon gin, distilled with botanicals including dandelion. Although I’m not sure I can discern the dandelion, I’m a gin girl; I like it and buy some to take home. We also sample bara brith, a dark fruit bread (not to be confused with American fruit cake) that is taken with tea. I go especially wild for the crisps (potato chips) in such offbeat flavors as Thai chili and coriander, sea salt and pepper and turkey and sage dressing (!). They go great with fizzy elderflower presse, a refreshing, herbaceous bottled water that has hints of pear.

Stephen says we can’t miss the Felin Fach Griffin Inn, a relaxed gastro pub. After a drink in the bar in front of a blazing fire (all those fires do effectively counteract the chill of the damp climate), we are seated for a terrific steak with leeks and béarnaise sauce served with homemade soda bread, farmhouse butter, perfectly crisp chips (French fries to us) and Strongbow cider. The ever-present leeks? I learn they are one of the country’s symbols, along with daffodils and dragons.

Sated in many ways, it seems to me that Wales is stepping out of the shadow of the neighboring countries, like a younger sibling might. I tell Stephen that the dragon might represent the nation roaring back into vogue with travelers. He demurs, a typically modest Welshman. I hope so; the country deserves a proud and singular status alongside its United Kingdom cousins.