This first week has been a whirligig. Every moment there seems to be something to do, even in a place as small as Stratford. The first little journey we had was to the King Edward VI School, which Shakespeare supposedly attended as a child. We were given a tour by two schoolboys, who provided slightly bashful commentary throughout. It was strange to be there, thinking that perhaps Shakespeare sat, learned, and daydreamed within its walls.
Tour guides at Shakespeare’s school
As for Anne Hathaway’s cottage, the gardens and copses around it gave it a sense of the picturesque, although not much of the sublime. I walked alone through the rooms in the house relatively quickly because I got perturbed that I was walking through what was once the center of someone’s small, private life.
A bed in Anne Hathaway’s cottage
Mary Arden’s Farm was far more fruitful. Logistically this was strange, because it is a bit more twee than the cottage or the school. However, I was fortunate enough to spend a majority of our time there pontificating on Shakespeare with an employee, who simply identified himself as “Sam,” and was one of the most knowledgeable Shakespeare scholars I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. Ashley, Sara, and I mostly just stood around him as he told us about various productions and his opinions of them, as well as interesting anecdotes about several prominent actors. He was not a scholar in the traditional sense of the word, but someone who has the special knowledge that can only arise, I imagine, from attending various productions with admirable frequency (once-a-week, I think he said).
A falconry demonstration at the farm
The specific parts of Shakespeare’s birthday celebrations were not very memorable. What was most memorable was the general air of joy all around town. That hundreds of years have passed and people still feel compelled to shout “Hooray!” for Shakespeare is amazing.
Shakespeare’s banner
The Shakespeare Service, at Holy Trinity Church, was a very special way to conclude the week; by happy accident we were seated in the very room Shakespeare’s grave is in. I don’t think it is an exaggeration to say that I sat in wonder at this fact for most of the service.
One of the beautiful stained glass windows at the Holy Trinity Church
As an aspiring writer (or rather, aspiring to be an aspiring writer) the idolatry is getting out of control, but, “By my troth, I care not.”