Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Shakespeare, breakfast roll man

As our departure draws near I had a bee in my bonnet to visit his nibs birthplace. Well given that I have spent much of the last 5 years studying his works I figured why not check out his crib. After much grumbling and giving out, like it or lump it, it was off to Stratford-upon-Avon with us. It's a picturesque village for the most part but the facade looks like a post office or public swimming pool, all red brick and tinted windows.  Not sure would the famous man of words find it aesthetically pleasing. Once inside we were guided along through a serious of short vignettes of facts and figures regarding William Shakespeare, in the voice of Patrick Stewart, Captain of the Enterprise. ‘I never knew Shakespeare wrote StarTrek’, The Small Man thinks he’s hilarious. No, but you can be sure if you poked and proded it enough you would probably find Shakespearian themes and references scattered throughout. I have to say, the kids were well impressed. The Youngest said it was better than she expected, and, no whining. Meanwhile, Himself is away off searching for monkeys and typewriters. The old house itself is just as you would imagine. Tiny windows, low ceilings and doorways, stone flagged floors, Tudor style and slightly askew. His father, John Shakespeare was a glove maker so all the tanning for leather was carried out on-site using, amongst other stuff, urine. They must have had shares in Febreze. On entering we were escorted through the various rooms by strange people in period costumes (well, they said they were costumes but I’m not so sure, they looked awfully comfortable in them). We proceeded up the rickety stairs to the room where he was born, and where he slept along with his parents and siblings, for much of his early childhood. Crowded, smelly and they still managed to produce more children. Little boys at that time were apparently dressed as girls because the belief was that the evil spirits and whatever you’re havin’ yerself would spare the boys life if they were disguised as girls. Girls weren’t worth the effort, those from the dark side priced little boys. Funnily enough, this would continue into later life for budding thespians, since men had to dress as women frequently where ladies were not permitted to tread the boards. My two girls, little feminists, not impressed. They reckon women had it rough in ‘olden times’ as they call it.

And so there he was, a young gassun, helpin his aul lad make a few gloves, fast forward a few years and he’s away off to London to make a name for himself. He pitches his plays (many of them reworkings from other writers but sin sceal eile) to a few dragons to be told ‘I’m out’. Finally he gets a backer and The Globe’s his oyster. On return to his homeplace he buys a house for himself and the missus, and also inherits the family home after his father’s death. So what does he do but lease it to a lad who turns it into a pub, the Swan and Maidenhead Inn. Shakespeare, the property developer, a breakfast roll man, hard hat, high viz, cup a’ scald in hand, truly a vision of times past. After all that, we were treated to a couple of lines from Taming of the Shrew, in the wonderful garden, by two actors. The Youngest said she didn’t get it, what on earth were they talking about. The Middle was lost too but enthralled nonetheless and we managed to run the giftshop gauntlet without purchasing. All’s well that ends well. 

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