There are two kinds of Swindon. The one you see on signs. The roundabouts. The station. The traffic that starts as soon as you think you’re early. And then there’s the other Swindon. The one drivers talk about, usually while stuck behind a bin lorry.
Because if you want the truth about a town, you don’t go to the council. You ask the Swindon taxi company drivers.
The Secret History of That Chip Shop
On the surface, it’s a normal chip shop. Greasy counter. Faded menu. Smell of vinegar in the air before you open the door. But one driver will swear blind it was once owned by a man who played snooker with Eric Clapton.
“Used to come in for a pickled egg,” he’ll say, nodding like it is sacred knowledge. “Back when it was proper fish, not this freezer stuff.”
You nod, of course. Because arguing with someone who’s been driving Swindon streets since before you could spell “roundabout” is not a good use of your afternoon.
The Pub With the Cat That Barks
Somewhere near Old Town, up a hill you’ll never remember the name of, there’s a pub that looks like it’s been closed since 1998. But according to your driver, it’s still open — just to people who know.
He’ll tell you they do the best pint in Wiltshire and have a cat that once barked at a pigeon. “Swear on my licence,” he says, which is quite a serious oath for a man who’s seen five mobile phones left on one back seat in a single day.
Whether the pub exists is beside the point. The story exists. And in taxi land, that’s close enough.
The House That’s Always For Sale
There’s a house on a street near Stratton that, according to local lore (and one very certain taxi driver), has been “just about to sell” since 1992.
It changes estate agents like socks. It’s had at least four different types of gravel in the drive. Once had a cardboard cut-out of a dog in the window to make it look “lived in”.
No one ever sees lights on. No one’s ever parked outside. But it’s always got a new sign up, with words like ideal for first-time buyers or plenty of potential.
You mention it, and the driver nods. “Yep. No one’s allowed to buy it. It’s a front. Probably MI5. Or worse, a letting agent.”
The Roundabout That Moves
There is no roundabout that literally moves. That would be dangerous, and confusing. But there is one that feels like it does. Drivers say it wasn’t there yesterday. You swear it was smaller last week. The road markings seem to change with the weather.
Some say it’s the one near the Magic Roundabout. Others insist it’s on the way to Wichelstowe. No one agrees, but everyone’s certain it exists.
No satnav can help you. The only way through is to trust your driver, close your eyes briefly, and pretend the rules of physics still apply.
The Café With No Name
There’s a café off an industrial estate that does breakfast rolls so good, drivers build their routes around them. It has no sign. No online reviews. No card machine.
You only find out about it if you’ve spent enough time in the passenger seat.
The bacon’s thick. The tea is strong enough to kick back. The lady behind the counter remembers your order after one visit and has opinions about local football that she will share, even if you didn’t ask.
It may not appear on maps, but it has a following that could start a small cult.
The Honest Rating System
Taxi drivers have a way of rating places that you won’t find in any official guide.
Good curry means “You’ll smell it on your coat for three days, and it’ll be worth it.”
Decent boozer means “No one’s thrown a chair in six months.”
Bit dodgy after dark means “Don’t go there unless you want to lose a shoe.”
These aren’t just reviews. They’re warnings, compliments, and memoirs rolled into one.
Why It Matters
If you spend all your time looking up reviews, planning routes and following star ratings, you’ll miss the stories. And Swindon — odd, honest, occasionally baffling Swindon — is full of stories.
Most of them live in the back of taxis. In quiet chats at traffic lights. In rants about potholes. In praise for a builder who once fixed a wall and brought homemade cake.
You won’t find these things on a blog. Except this one.
You’ll find them in the bits of Swindon that live between the roads. And in the drivers who, for better or worse, have seen it all.
Sometimes twice.
So next time you hire a taxi in Swindon, ask the driver where to eat. Or drink. Or why the old fountain near the shopping centre makes a noise like a duck in distress.
They’ll tell you. Probably more than you wanted to know. But you’ll leave with more than a receipt.
You’ll leave with Swindon. The version that never makes the news, but probably should.
And maybe, if you’re lucky, the address of that barking cat.
