The Bard's Town

It took DW and me longer to get out of London than we had anticipated. To begin with, the rental agency was farther from our Soho youth hostel than we had calculated, and carrying our sizable backpacks and camping gear on the Underground was more challenging than we had planned, even though our friends, Catheleen and Joel, were helping us carry it. By the time we had reached the rental agency and loaded up our Ford Fiesta, it was beyond the lunch hour.

But we were still not ready to leave London. We had promised Catheleen and Joel that we would drive them to where they planned to meet some of Catheleen's friends (she had been in the UK on a student work visa and had been there for a few months before Joel, DW, and I joined her) near Canary Wharf.

Because we were coming from the west end of London, and DW was navigating as I was driving, we passed Westminster Abbey and Big Ben—where I stalled the car, twice, to the chagrin of the drivers behind me—St. Paul's Cathedral, the Tower of London and its neighbouring Tower Bridge, and finally Canary Wharf, before doing a bit of backtracking as we made our way to the M40, which led us northwest toward our destination for the evening, Stratford-upon-Avon.

By the time we got outside of London, it was late afternoon and traffic was slow-moving. We were in a panic, as we had reserved tickets for my favourite Shakespeare play, Henry IV, Part I, and we had to get to the box office by 6:00 or risked losing those tickets.

On the open motorway, I put my foot to the floor but the Fiesta only gave so much. As memory serves me, we reached the Royal Shakespeare Theatre with minutes to spare. I pulled up to the curb and DW hopped out, wallet in hand, and dashed to the doors.

Tickets in our possession, we had about 90 minutes before the curtains went up, and we still needed to find our camp site, change for the theatre, and eat. Our campground, Riverside Caravan Park, was just over a kilometre away, on the opposite side of the River Avon. We checked in, set up our tent, and made a quick dinner before cleaning up, getting changed, and driving back into town, where we found a car park a short walk from the theatre.

Plenty of time to wander around the vicinity before taking our seats.

The canal in Stratford-upon-Avon. The parking garage we used is in the background.

Record flood levels, with DW, for scale: January, 1901 and May, 1952.

Because our tickets were last-minute and because we were poor students, we were high in the back, but we still had a good view and I think we were able to see some things that would not have been as clear, had we been lower and closer to the stage.

I will never forget the experience of seeing a Shakespeare play in the bard's hometown. The acting was stellar. The stage design well-detailed and ever-changing. But what made this performance even more memorable had nothing to do with what was happening on stage: it was what was happening in the row ahead of DW and me.

Shortly after the lights dimmed, two elderly American ladies were admitted and shown to their seats, directly in front of us. As they made themselves comfortable, they were nattering on in a conversation that had apparently been started before they were directed into their seats. There creaky southern drawl was loud and slow, and a few people tried to shush them as the actors took to the stage.

Within minutes of settling down, one of the old ladies muttered to her friend, "I can't understand a word they're saying."

More shushes came from the surrounding audience. We tried to give our full attention to the performance.

A few minutes passed and the same woman said, louder this time, "I just can't understand a word they're saying." To her friend, she asked, "Do you know what they're saying?"

"No," her companion said, "I can't understand them either. Are they even speaking English?"

I leaned forward so that my head was in between theirs. "If you would just shut up," I said in a harsh whisper, "maybe we could all hear what they're saying. Either be quiet or leave."

When I sat back, DW slapped my arm for my rudeness, but the man who was sitting on my other side whispered, "Thank you."

For about five or 10 minutes, there was blissful silence. But then the first lady started fidgeting in her seat and started muttering again. "I can hear them but I just don't understand what they're saying." And again, the surrounding audience members implored her to be quiet. The old woman stood up and said to her friend, "Come on, let's go," and shuffled her way to the aisle, her friend following.

There was a collective sigh of relief when the theatre fell silent, except for the voices of Prince Hal, Falstaff, and the rest of the cast.

After intermission, when there was no sign of the noisy Nellies, DW and I took their seats to be just a bit closer to the action.

The next day, we paid more tribute to William Shakespeare. We walked to his birthplace and family home, paid our respects at his resting ground, Holy Trinity Church, and drove to Anne Hathaway's cottage, before heading further north, to Wales.

Shakespeare's Birthplace (with me, centre photo).

Holy Trinity Church, where Shakespeare is buried.

On a side note, while we wandered the quaint streets around Shakespeare's home, I visited a shop and found a black leather briefcase that I fell in love with. While it was an unusual purchase for a vacation that included camping, I had to have it. (You can just see it, between my legs, in the centre photo of Shakespeare's Birthplace.)

I still have it today. It's one of the best impulse purchases I've ever made. And I still have the receipt.

The trip continues next week.