Stratford-upon-Avon

Stratford-upon-Avon was quite a place. The whole town essentially revolves around Billy Shakespeare, who is apparently this guy who lived there, like, seven thousand years ago. There are five museums in the town established at houses which were important to Shakespeare’s life. The only one I had time to go inside was Shakespeare’s birthplace, a charming cottage on Henley Street, and I was only able to visit it for a few minutes. I think I saw all the houses though, and was able to appreciate that they existed and would provide me with nauseatingly accurate information on Shakespeare’s cooking utensils and favorite type of powdered wig if I did so choose to enter, so that was comforting.

So, you might be wondering, what was I doing the whole time, if I wasn’t expanding my cultural horizons by going to these wonderful museums? And I would be hard-pressed to give you an answer. But luckily this blogging thing is a one-way dealy, so I don’t have to answer that question. But I will anyway. (Why do I write these pointless tangents? Because they’re fun, that’s why, and they keep me entertained, like a dog chasing its tail.)

And watch me segue; wait for it….Speaking of dogs, the bed-and-breakfast we stayed in had a very friendly dog. It came to greet me when I arrived at the Linhill Guest House (but what’s in a name? That which we call a guest house by any other name would provide accommodations as satisfactory.) on Friday evening. The owner, a very friendly woman who cooked me two hearty English breakfasts over the weekend, welcomed me and walked with me down the street to a separate apartment known as The Cottage. It was a small guest house, but it had a television, a fancy shower, and free snacks in the kitchen, so I fell in love with it instantly. I was the first of its four inhabitants to arrive, so I was free to choose my room. Two beds shared one room, so those were out of the question. I was left to choose between an upstairs bedroom near the bathroom, or a double-size bed downstairs. It was a tough decision. I walked between the two several times trying to make up my mind, but, because I had to basically crawl under a low ceiling to access the downstairs room, I chose the smaller, upstairs bed.

This is a riveting story so far, if I do say so myself. Are you hanging on the edge of your seat, waiting to see how my bed decision plays out? Well, I’ll tell you. It was a good thing I chose the upstairs, because the downstairs bed was swallowed into a thousand-foot crevasse that night. It’s true; it was never heard from again.

We ate dinner at a place called Marlowe’s that night. There is little I enjoy more than a free meal. We were encouraged to choose anything on the menu, USC’s treat, so I had a three-course meal of chicken, duck and chocolate cake. I ate them all at once, stacking them vertically and using the chocolate cake as an adhesive between the two meats. (This story is going to be really hard to follow if I don’t stop making up ridiculous lies. But which would you prefer, an exciting lie or a banal truth? Ooh, that’s deep. Just in case you are an advocate of the latter, here’s the short version: I had dinner.) Most of us went to a pub after dinner and talked for awhile. It was nice to get to know more of my fellow Trojans, and I’m happy to say I met some very cool people. I returned home after a spell to sleep, perchance to dream.

After breakfast the next morning, some friends and I walked around town a bit before the official tour of Stratford-upon-Avon was due to begin. Unfortunately, we had to leave our tour of Shakespeare’s birthplace prematurely to get to the official USC tour. Ay, that was the morning of our discontent. But Stratford is a cool place, and I’m glad we had someone knowledgeable to tell us about it. We walked past each of the three theaters in town (two of which are being repaired at the moment), and along the river Avon, and through town past Shakespeare’s primary school, and we visited his grave. His relatives are buried alongside him inside a cathedral. His tomb does not have a standing marker; it is just a flat slab of rock on the ground, inscribed with nothing more than a warning to anyone who would move his bones. There was a memorial to him on one wall, built just a few years after his death in 1616.

After yet another deliciously expensive meal (if food be the music of life, cook on), we reached the highpoint of the trip: attendance at a masterful performance of The Tempest that evening. I have never read the play, so I was unable to appreciate it in its full glory, but its partial glory proved impressive enough for me. It was performed with an African slant, so themes of apartheid and colonialism were evident in the performance.

After the play, along with several other students, I went to the Dirty Duck pub, the typical after-play (not foreplay, ahaha) social scene. Apparently, the pub is actually called the Black Swan, but American soldiers in WWI nicknamed it and the name stuck, so one side of their sign reads Black Swan and the other reads Dirty Duck. Because it was their last performance of The Tempest in Stratford, many of the actors arrived at the pub to celebrate. It was fun to see them in their natural habitat.

I awoke this morning and thought I caught a glimpse of such stuff as dreams are made on, but it turns out it was just a lampshade. And now I’m back in London. The End