Sand Martin

You're walking down Ffordd Fred Keenor and it's not immediately obvious there's a proper pub here—that's part of the charm. Sand Martin sits quietly on the border of Canton, the sort of place where people actually know each other's names and the staff remember what you drink. It's unpretentious in the best way: worn wooden floors, a genuine mix of ages and types, and none of that Instagram-baiting nonsense. The real ales rotate, the food's straightforward and doesn't pretend to be something it's not, and there's usually someone in the corner you'd quite like to chat to if you weren't being antisocial.