And Did Those Feet in Ancient Time (The UK, Day II)
Yes, more of the UK experience at long last. For those of you desiring a reminder (and I can’t blame you: the last instalment was a month ago after all), head to the entry in the Table of Contents above titled “On Merry England’s Far Famed Land”.
Are you all sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin…
Having now slept and started to adjust to the fact that I was in the cradle of civilization and culture (Stratford-upon-Avon), the opportunity to learn something about this place of great acclaim presented itself. So, who better to drag me about the town of historical import than that Man of Great Historical Import himself: Our Man in Shakespeare’s Stratford: Stephen Newman, BA (Hons.)!!
That’s him on the left, hoisting a pint in the Black Swan Pub just around the corner from the Royal Shakespeare Company‘s venue called “The Other Place”. It also happens to be about a block from the Royal Shakespeare Theatre. Coincidence? Hardly.
I noticed that, for some strange reason, much of Stratford’s historical spots and locations of significant events seemed to be in Public Houses. Now I did not object in the slightest. Heavens, no! But it did seem quite intriguing at the time. He claimed that the route of our historical walk was principally one that he and Hilary took of an afternoon and also a fine overview of the area’s past.
I would hesitate to suggest that the precise route may have been altered to include more salubrious pauses along the way, but one might be forgiven for suspecting him of doing it for the benefit of a traveller’s acclimatization to the local customs.
As you go through the day, you can simply click each of the images to make them larger. If you wish to see the whole set of photos I took that day as a slide show, then head to the set on Flickr here: long link shortened.
The Black Swan Pub was our first port of call of any great note. The place is just as tiny as you can imagine from the image to the left. Yes, that’s really all it is. We didn’t really poke about much, but as near as I could tell there is this one room that you see here, then a room much the same size on the other side of the entrance, a space outside the front raised above the road, and then a back-yard kind of patio thing (if I’m guessing correctly by the indications in the rear near the bar). And that’s all. this most infamous of modern theatrical watering holes is not much more than about 1,000 ft² in total, and doesn’t seem to have been re-decorated since… well it doesn’t seem to have be re-decorated period to be honest. How can one renovate history, after all? There’s some astonishingly young looking faces on those walls, let me tell you. Derek Jacobi with hair…? There it is…!
And the local brewers’ India Pale Ale is a wonderful example of how it ought to be made.
On to the banks of the River Avon, with the development of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre already underway. They’d seemingly gutted the old building already, but probably had a long way to go before they were done tearing it apart. The plan is to basically open up the entire northern façade and expose the innards of the building to the people wandering the park next to the Administration Centre. The spot is a popular one for picnics, jugglers and boaters alike (there’s a lock that controls a little pond as well in the park), and by facing that side in glass, plus adding a café, bar and restaurant on that side with public access, people can find reasons to come to the R.S.T. other than solely to attend a performance. They can come to the park, decide to have a coffee, talk to someone over a pint, hear about a show they’re attending shortly, and then decide to attend themselves. Or, having just knocked off from work, they can lazily drift to the theatre, have a glass of wine and a light supper, then stroll through the vomitorium to their seats. What better way to connect the theatre to the community?
Also, the theatre-side of the river is to have a shore-walk — just in front of the green curtained area in the image to the left — to allow pedestrian traffic on both banks of the Avon; something that’s not been possible since the R.S.T. was constructed in its current incarnation. Before the 1930s or so, the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre also blocked the path, but with far less territorial zeal than the R.S.T. does now (that’s the S.M.T. with its pitched roof at the heart of the building in the photo).
So, again, things are opening up at the Royal Shakespeare Company. Just as the R.S.T.’s stage is coming to the people in the form of a thrust-styled layout, so to is the use of the building made more amenable to people’s comforts by adapting to that which is already desired, rather than imposing a regimented or ‘approved of’ use for the area.
Instead of either demanding that people ‘need to attend for their betterment’, or simply whining about people not coming to see live theatre anymore, this wonderful approach brings theatre to the people. If you can’t beat them, join them!
“The Royal Shakespeare Swan” may not be an official office held by this feathered citizen of The Avon River, but its incessant noise-making at me as I took photos of the re-construction-shrouded R.S.T. [image above] caused me to yell at the foul thing to shut up. Having told it this thrice and not been heeded, I took a photograph at it.
Blissful silence and co-operation suddenly reigned. Showed him, eh? And they say that Colonials have no hidden skills…?! Pshaw!
The area around the river clearly showed the marks of the flooding of a few months previous. Along the path on the river-bank, as well as in the parks beyond it, Steve was able to point out marks on the trees where the water reached its height. The entire area around the Avon was completely inaccessible and incapable of being used at all. The lawns were under at least a foot of water, doing considerable damage to the bowling and cricket pitches. Several trees, already shallowly rooted in the ground on the river’s edge, had to be sacrificed before they fell on some poor, antiquated denizen skuttling about looking for kindling or some such. Indeed, the banks themselves altered their shapes due to the constant irritation and inundation of water for the period of the flood. It only lasted about a fortnight, but the effects were easily observable several months later. I suspect that the repairs will take at least a good year or more to accomplish fully.
The Royal Shakespeare Burial Place is located beyond the altar in the local Roman Catholic Church. Well, it was when he was there. I think. He was Catholic certainly, and so was his family. Which caused a bit bother for them occasionally during the latter part of Good King Hal’s reign, what with him telling the Roman Pope what that august official could do with his refusing to annul the marriage between Henry VIII and Katherine of Aragon so that Henry could boff Anne Bolyn and — he hoped — finally begat a son.
Well, he didn’t end up with a son, but his daughter Elizabeth I continued the tradition he began of saying ‘L’eglise, c’est l’estate; et l’estate, c’est moi!‘ Ergo, we get a play of Henry VIII’s life from Shakespeare which paints Hal as a man ill-counselled by those around him, and the mother of Elisabeth as being a good woman trapped in a bad situation.
Okay, Henry VIII didn’t use that phrase in the last paragraph, and neither did Elizabeth I, but if Shakespeare can make stuff up for the sake of a good turn of phrase, why can’t I?
So, William Shakespeare ended up buried in the church which his family attended, his body located in the lauded position of ‘above the altar’, or physically past the altar when one worships, making him rather a deity in his own right. Which — given the all-encompassing power he had on the language, English History, theatre, other story-telling techniques, and all sorts of things which still fascinate us to this day — isn’t all that out of proportion, really.
The Royal Shakespeare Ghost House — which is actually called “The Falstaffs Experience” — is no longer owned and operated by a certifiable lunatic. It was at the time we visited, and that’s him there in the long coat at left. The building’s provenance is a bit elusive to me. I think it was once owned by someone famous-ish. It may also be haunted, possibly the most haunted building in Britain or something. Certainly it is sufficiently haunted that there were monthly seances — catered, no less! — held through midnight that gave fairly good trade from those interested in those spiritually resistant to leaving this plain for fields of a more Elysian nature. Steve — the one in the photo — invited me to attend the one which was a few days later, but it was the next evening and I was to attend Twelfth Night and expected to want to sit in the pub with a pint after the show so I declined. That was a shame, really, as this is the sort of thing that one doesn’t ever get a chance to do at home in the Colonies.
The skipping of the event was doubly regrettable, as Twelfth Night ended-up being so incredibly impressive [see the “Twelfth Night a Hit! A Palpable Hit” entry in this series for my review] that, in typical neurotic fashion, I scampered back to the flat as I dared in the nearly empty town’s street — stopping occasionally for some night photography [more of those to come once they’re rescued from Steve’s lap-top] — and then proceeding to get both a review and myself thoroughly hammered-out into the wee hours. The seance would have been a damned site better all around, and I probably would have got right pissed into the bargain anyway.
Typical, though: I chose the ‘alone’ activity and eschewed the ‘social’ one. Especially typical was my avoidance of the Black Swan where I might fall into conversation with some actor or theatre-type. Once drawn into chatting I would likely have made a sycophantic ass of myself and who knows what else as well?
Where was I? Oh yes: Falstaff’s.
Good fun to be had there, but I wish I had got a guided tour from someone like Guy or Phil who were involved in the initial construction of the place. I’m sure there were far more secret gems than the ones which were found. At one point I was informed by a card that it was both possible and legal — indeed, even encouraged — to take a Morris Dancer firmly by the bells [be careful that you read word correctly] and fling him as far as you are able.
Good information to have, that. I’m still looking for a Morris Dancer, though. Maybe next September…?
The Royal Shakespeare Gargoyle is a small architectural detail that can quite easily be missed on a building that Steve Newman is positive dates to Shakespeare’s life. Logically therefore, the Bard of Avon would certainly have seen it, if not used it to steady himself upon whilst heading homeward after hoisting a few. It’s right on the main street, at the intersection of Ely and High Streets (which, in typical English fashion change their names on the other side of the intersection to Sheep and Chapel, respectively).
“What’s in the building?” you ask? Well, it looks like an office or a flat upstairs. Yes.
“And on the ground level?”
Well, it’s… the local… Boston Pizza.
Lo, how the mighty have fallen.
The Royal Shakespeare Gentleman’s is possibly unique in all of the United Kingdom because, as far as Steve is aware, this is the only Public Bathroom in England that provides facilities exclusively for Gentlemen. There was no “Ladies’ Room” provided, due to this end of Ely Street being primarily occupied by abattoirs until the early-twentieth century. As the Drovers were the only ones to frequent the street — which literally ran with blood, and naturally no Lady would wish to be present — there was no need seen to spend the funds on both of the usual sorts of Public Lavatories.
It’s the small brick shit-house on the right in the photograph.
The Royal Shakespeare Language Bastardization is located a scant forty paces from the place of Shakespeare’s birth. The fact that the sign on the book shop on the right is missing the initial letter in “Publishers”is bad enough, but then you realize there ought to be a possessive apostrophe at the end of that word (and possibly an “s” as well, if you have a healthy respectful attitude regarding Fowler’s Modern English Usage and your last name is “Strantzas“). Gracious!
But wait! It gets worse! The sign for the boutique on the left ought to read “Fudgetastic”! Now that’s proof positive of English being a ‘living language’, isn’t it? The missing final letter “c” doesn’t render it much worse than it already was, does it? Yes, truly, this is the language that Shakespeare contributed so very much to, isn’t it?
These twin destroyers of God’s Own Tongue (English) are located directly out the salon window of Steve and Hilary’s flat. How Steve’s restrained himself from putting the torch to the pair of them eludes me. If I were permanently located there, they wouldn’t last the month. I doubt I would be prosecuted, either. There’s standards to be maintained, after all!
And Did Those Feet in Ancient Time (The UK, Day II) was originally published on I.A.M. Musing About…
