Barry Island: The Place My Heart Always Returns To!

It’s hard to put into words why Barry Island means so much to me - but I’ll try. Because for me, it’s not just a seaside town. It’s memories, people, love, laughter, and heartbreak. It’s a part of my soul.

People may wonder why I’m talking about making Barry Island better - especially when I’m from Merthyr Tydfil. And don’t worry, I’ve got plenty to say about my home town too. But I want to start here. I want to write about Barry first. Because this place gave me some of the most treasured moments of my life. It's the backdrop to my earliest memories, the setting of joy and sorrow, and now, the place I get to pass those memories on to my own children.

My first memory of Barry Island is etched in my mind like it happened yesterday. I was in the back of our red Datsun Cherry, my dad at the wheel, Madonna’s Holiday playing on the radio. We were heading to Barry Butlins, and as we drove through the gates, the smell of hot dogs hit me like magic. That sweet, salty smell carried the promise of fun, of adventure, of something special. Later that evening, I sat in a Butlins club sipping a fancy mocktail, complete with an umbrella, thinking I was the height of sophistication.

I spent countless days at Barry Island with my dad. Just the two of us sometimes, riding the old cable cars that used to glide over. We’d watch the banana boats come and go from Butlins - an iconic sight now sadly lost to time. My dad would take me to see the endless rows of scrapped steam locomotives in the sidings nearby. He knew their stories. Many of those engines were saved, and I like to think a little of his passion lives on in every one of them that found a new life.

He passed away in 2013. And every time I set foot in Barry Island, I feel him there. Not in some ghostly way, but in the wind off the sea, in the way the sand shifts beneath my feet, in the memories that come rushing back like waves.

My mum played her part too. She organised the Sunday school trips, and those days were filled with joy. We’d go down with the chapel, and I’d spend hours beside her and my cousin Hannah. Hannah wasn’t just family - she was my best friend. We were inseparable. I still see her laugh in my head when I close my eyes. One of the happiest memories I have is the two of us on the long-gone log flume, screaming and soaked, not caring about anything except the thrill of the moment.

Hannah died in a tragic accident when she was just 12. I was 9. I never truly got over it - and to this day, Barry Island holds both the warmth of that love and the sting of that loss. Every time I walk the prom, I feel her there beside me, forever young.

My mum passed away in 2020, and I miss her every single day. But in Barry, I still hear her voice telling me to watch my step, or calling my name across the noise of the fair. She’s woven into the memories as much as my dad and Hannah are.

In the early ’90s, my brother Jason took me to the Radio 1 Roadshow at Barry. I forget the exact year, but I remember the crowd, the energy, the music, and the feeling of being part of something big. It was one of those days where everything felt alive and electric.

Barry Island has changed, of course. The cable cars are gone. The log flume is gone. Butlins closed its doors. But the memories? They live on. In my heart, Barry will always be the place where life felt full - of joy, of love, of family.

And now… it’s my turn.

Now I’m the dad, taking my beautiful children to the very place my parents took me - alongside my beautiful Zoe. There’s a new water ride there now, and we’ve all been on it together. It might be different, but the magic is still there. I look at my little ones and hope, deep down, that they’ll carry these moments with them like I do. That one day, they’ll bring their own little ones here and keep the magic alive, just like we did. Just like my mum and dad did.

Because Barry Island isn’t just where my memories live - it’s where new ones are being made.


Raising a pint to my dad








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