Stratford-upon-Avon, England
Sometimes the best part of being a tourist is walking away.
The rail stops between Manchester and William Shakespeare’s birthplace in England convince me that I was entering a quaint, quiet world: Spring Road, Hall Green, Yardley Wood, Whitlocks End, Wythall, Henley-in-Arden. I envy the people I see walking on paths beside bright green fields of grass.
In Stratford-upon-Avon, I find one of these paths along the River Avon. I awake the next morning and leave my centuries-old hotel with just such a walk in mind.
The path is wide with hard-packed earth in town, and meanders under a canopy of trees. From the eastern side, I find views across the river of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre and Holy Trinity Church, where Shakespeare is buried. At the edge of town, the trail narrows. The trees close in, and the canopy becomes as dark and close as a tunnel. I climb a steep bank of manmade, earthen steps braced with wooden beams, and descend again. Then the trail opens onto rolling fields colored with tall grass, dandelions, and wildflowers. Sheep bleat in the distance, birds sing overhead, and leaves rustle in a slight breeze; otherwise, I hear no sounds. It is unspoiled by tourist crowds.
I walk for more than an hour, and pass exactly two people heading in the opposite direction. I stroll past a small herd of cows, no fences to separate me from them. One watches me pass, but others are dozing and pay me no mind. There are no people in either direction as far as I can see. I have walked more than 3 miles, and I debate whether I should go farther. As much as I am enjoying the walk, I know that I will have to walk just as far back to town. I have other things to see there, so I reluctantly turn around.
On the way back, I veer off this path to another that crosses the river via an old, steel bridge. This path is a bit more crowded — if a few bicyclists and dog walkers can be considered a crowd. I fall in pace with a young woman watching a young spaniel run in and out of bushes, wetter and muddier each time he emerges. Whenever he strays too far, she calls him with a soft, British accent that turns his name into song: “Chaaaaah-ley! Chaaaaah-ley!” The dog pokes his head out, then runs back into the brush.
I pass a horse track, a field full of sheep, and then I am in town again. I have spent about three hours on the trail. It was a good morning.
Royal Shakespeare Company
The rest of the day I am a tourist, visiting Shakespeare’s birthplace, houses where his family lived, and the church where he is buried in the chancel. Parts of Holy Trinity Church were built in 1210, with additions in the 1300s. The chancel was built in the late 1400s. Shakespeare, who was a lay rector of the church, is buried here with his wife and other family members. The original font in which he was baptized is displayed nearby. A curse is engraved on his grave slab warning against exhumation, which was a common practice for retrieving bones during that period:
Good friend, for Jesus’ sake forebeare
To digg the dust encloased heare;
Bleste be the man that spares thes stones,
And curst be he that moves my bones.
His bones have not been moved.
Before long, it is time for a night at the theater. A month before, I bought my ticket for a Royal Shakespeare Company performance of the comedy “As You Like It.” Now I sit in the 1,040-seat auditorium, in awe that I am seeing a Shakespeare play performed here by the Royal Shakespeare Company. Wow. Another item off the bucket list.
My time here ends too quickly. There’s still so much to be seen this week. I board a train again the next morning, on to my next stop: Bristol.