I’ve always been fond of Stratford-upon-Avon ever since my first visit (to see the RSC/Terry Hand’s production of Henry V with Allan Howard). Given the continual impact of tourism for decades I’ve always thought the District Council did a commendable job of maintaining the town’s character while allowing it to evolve. And this time, our accommodations (the Cherry Trees), was exceptional on all points and served one of the best English breakfasts I’ve had ever (replete with homemade marmalade). Lynn was particularly fond of their side jetting showers and the garden off our room.
For all that, I found the half day we were there to be saddening and I was glad to be away the next morning. Robert and I visited Shakespeare’s Birthplace which has evolved into a kind of Disney ride nightmare. To begin we were shuffled from locked room to locked room and shown banal, generic video presumably to increase our interest and understanding of the import of what we were about to see. By the time we escaped to the garden we were so bored and furious that we left without seeing the house itself. Who do they imagine it appeals to? Martians? I also discern a similar spirit of frantic, popular appeal in some of the recent events the RSC has advertized while the old theatre has been gutted and remodeled. Fortunately, that is nearly done. I can only hope that the RSC, the National Trust (or whoever is responsible for the Birthplace nightmare ride), and the District Council can find a better vision of what Stratford is and can be.
To my mind, it’s all about the plays: introducing people to them, creating seminal productions that stay with people for a life time, showing people how a glover’s son from Stratford came to write them.
The next morning after rambling all over Ludlow Castle, we continue northwest to Shrewsbury and then, Wales. To be continued.
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