The Five Environments – Stratford-upon-Avon

Ah, Stratford.  How I love thee.  How I dote on thee!

 

 

Except thy weather, which was depressing.

 

Thy Tudor homes, thy smoky pubs, thy sweet immersion in Shakespearean history.  Ahhhh, to see thy lovely green hills again!

OK, enough with the "thys."  This house here is Shakespeare’s birthplace, on Henley street.  It used to be a lot plainer outside and in, but then it was discovered that those old Elizabethans liked bright colors.  In order not to have to change the forty seven million postcards that have The Birthplace picture on them, the historians decided not to change the outside much, but the inside is now a riot of colors and patterns.  (That is a true story.  They really didn’t want to have to throw away the postcards.  Isn’t it funny how decisions are made?)

 

 

Many a wicked night I stumbled across the River Avon on this, the Clopton Bridge, tipsy and giggling and watching the sun rise.  Given that the bridge has been around since 1480, one has to wonder just how many drunken feet have made their way across its stones.  Everything in that town is at least a zillion years old – even our house, our everyday, normal, modernly decorated row house was at least 250 years old.  After a year in England, I became a historical artifacts snob.  People will come up to me and be like – oh my God, this house has been around since 1892!  And I’ll snicker uncharitably in my sleeve.  It’s one of my less attractive personality traits.

 

 

Tudor homes with hedges and gardens and people dressed up like 16th century glovers or farmers abound in the area around Stratford.  This is Shakespeare’s mothers house.  Her name was Mary Arden.  I’ve always thought Arden was a great name, I want to name our next dog Arden.  Or maybe Henley.

 

 

And, of course, there are the theatres.  Oh dear, if you ever wanted to really, really, really enjoy a Shakespeare play, this is the place to go.  These people know how to wrap their tongues around the bard.  That sounds dirtier than I meant it to.  Oops.

 

If you’re ever in England, I highly recommend Stratford-upon-Avon as a stop.  (There is a Stratford in London, so be careful when buying train tickets.)  It’s about as storybook Ye Olde England as you can get, with great restaurants, fabulous old pubs, a beatiful river to walk on, wonderful theatre . . . I could go on.

 

But I would hesitate before deciding to live there.  Simply put, 12 months of rain with, on average, one day of sunshine per month – it’s rough if you didn’t grow up with it.  And in February, when it gets dark at 3pm and doesn’t get light until 10am – you could practically lose your mind.

 

But maybe that’s just me.