After almost a week in the city – of exploring the sights and participating in very English activities in the mornings; getting lost in the streets, roads, walks, crescents and cul-de-sacs for surprises and adventures in the afternoons; and watching their favorite musicals and enjoying one-of-a-kind concerts in the evening – all on their own, I decided it was time to accompany them for a weekend to Stratford-upon-Avon.
In preparation for my young visitors to have a proper frame of mind, I suggested to my nieces, who were both lovers of biographies, to surf the Net and have a good read on the Stratford poet who is also widely accepted as the greatest English dramatist. I urged the romantic one to drop by the neighborhood library of Kessington for a copy of Romeo and Juliet. I even persuaded the practical one to read – perhaps once again – an abridged version of Merchant of Venice.
"Tio, what a suggestion," my nephew exclaimed. "Imagine, how can one take a pound of flesh without spilling an ounce of blood?"
"Exactly, that’s the whole point," I answered.
"Exactly," he repeated, almost in desperation.
I was positive that at this very instant, all four youthful travelers agreed unanimously that their once normal uncle had transformed into a stranger from an ancient past.
I realized that this moment was like one of those moments when my father would sigh and say, "Ah youth, they claim to know everything and yet misunderstand just as much."
The objective of the weekend with my nephews was rather simple: to appreciate William Shakespeare – in his world of Stratford-upon-Avon, the place where he wrote his dramatic poems and his poetic dramas, which continue to be timeless for their appeal transcends historical, social and cultural boundaries because they deal with humanity and the things that matter in everyone’s everyday life.
As we drove along the M40 one very early Saturday morning, my companions spoke of everything that had nothing to do with the Bard or his birthplace. One not easily discouraged with their seeming indifference, I had great hopes of what the weekend would bring.
Our first stopover was a few miles away from the last hamlet before Stratford-upon-Avon, where good friend Paul has always had his picture-pretty cottage complete with a rambling English garden with flowers in full bloom during spring and summer. Absolutely an ideal spot for a lazy weekend. So we just dropped our overnight bags and a few provisions and went out again quickly, before we were tempted by our surroundings and decided not to leave our comfort zone at all.
We soon headed to the center of town for some authentic English breakfast – a guaranteed upper for most mornings – while everyone around us was having cream tea and scones.
Before long we were on the top deck of an open-top hop-on, hop-off Guide Friday tourist bus on our way to the various Shakespeare houses . As we slowly crossed the village with Tudor buildings, mostly made of centuries-old wood, we could not help but notice how so many business entities and properties cried out and wanted to establish some connection with the most famous local boy. Some examples : The Shakespeare Hotel, The Twelfth Night Guest House, William’s Restaurant and The Bard’s Tea Room. One niece rightfully labeled it as the "Shakespeare industry in action."
We visited Anne Hathaway’s Cottage (did I hear someone from across the Atlantic Ocean, say Hiawatha’s Cottage?) and were taken aback by the hordes of tourists wandering from room to room. They lingered longest at the busy tourist shop where they bought almost every item in sight – from postcards to key chains, from T-shirts to scarves, from coasters to coffeetable books – all bearing the sketch or portrait of Shakespeare or the many attractions of the countryside shire by the river Avon. Outside at the gardens, they quickly paused and readily posed as the cameras clicked and videos rolled.
It was less crazy and frenzied at Mary Arden’s house which delighted my group as we were able to closely study and examine the furniture, fixtures and furnishings. This they fully appreciated. We roamed around a wide open space of beautiful flowers with blazing colors and greens of various shades where a unique demonstration involving a couple of falcons (or were they eagles?) was ongoing.
I lost my companions as I moved on to the Farm Cottage where I learned how the nursing mothers of Shakespeare’s days continually drank pints of ale and other liquid concoctions which often resulted in strange behavior I would rather not touch on.
After a late three-course non-traditional (if you can call it that) English menu, we proceeded to Shakespeare’s birthplace where we spent some time to know more about the man. Trying to absorb it all, we decided to take a leisurely stroll on the beautiful gardens of Warwickshire right in the heart of England. Here we were surrounded by trees, herbs and flowers mentioned in his literary works.
We then felt it was time for a brief relaxing river cruise down the Avon along with the swans. We disembarked near the Holy Trinity Church where we joined visitors from all over the world making the all-important pilgrimage to Shakespeare’s final resting place.
We were alone with our thoughts as we read the verse inscribed on his tomb:
"Good friend, for Jesus’ sake forbear to dig the dust enclosed here.
"Blest be the man that spares these stones and curst be he who moves my bones."
After dinner, we returned to the riverfront only to be pleasantly surprised by its own transformation. Gone were visitors in shorts and T-shirts and skimpy outfits. Instead people were in smart jackets and slacks and summer frocks as the play goers made their way for post-theater meals following The Swan at the Royal Shakespeare theaters.
All you could hear were voices full of admiration of what they had earlier experienced. "There goes another audience," I thought, "captivated by the town’s most beloved son."
I casually mentioned to my observant and by-now-getting-carried-away-with-what-they-saw nephews and nieces the possibility of watching a Shakespearean play be it a tragedy, history or comedy–after all they enjoy London’s West End musicals. No one seemed to be too interested in the offer. One summarized the group’s sentiments when she said, "A musical is a musical, a play is a play but Shakespeare is Shakespeare."
But I didn’t lose hope for by the time we all retired to Paul’s dream cottage close to midnight, they all spoke of everything that had something to do with the Bard and his birthplace.
"All is not lost," I said to myself as I whispered a little prayer.
On Sunday morning, unlike the day before, there was no need to get up early. We had successfully attacked and accomplished our list of things to do and the only remaining activity on our weekend itinerary was to bring ourselves back to London in time for the early afternoon Sunday Mass.
However, while I was enjoying my breakfast in the patio – nature’s best setting, I tell you – I had invited a couple of elderly ramblers who had earlier crossed the property to join me. They had one suggestion – a backstage theater tour. I explained the visit and my companions bought the idea. We dashed to town.
At the theater my young ladies tried the medieval costumes while my young gentleman toyed around with props. The excellent guide informed everyone of the various theater tricks – lychees for bulging eyes and syrup for stage blood. The tour was informative as well as entertaining.
As we finally prepared for our journey home, my youthful companions, who all seemed to have matured overnight, declared they were all ready for a Shakespearean performance. "But just to soften our introduction to this new world, can we opt for a comedy instead of a tragedy?"
I smiled and promised the group that before the summer ended, we would be back for an unforgettable night with Shakespeare at a theater by the river Avon where the swans glide peacefully.