Pt 3 - 10:

LITERALLY LITERARY 2

 

We woke to the sound of rain beginning to patter on the tent. We had just enough time to drag ourselves out of the bags and chuck everything, including the already damp tent, in the bullet before it came pelting down. The summer weather in this part of the country is everything it’s cracked down to be. Not a little bit pissed off we prowled the nearest town, Yeovil, for breakfast. Being eight o’clock on a Sunday, the joint was closed. In desperation we pulled up to a corner pub, the only place with a light on. I let myself in through the guest’s entrance and the landlady appeared out of a side door. I explained our situation and she offered to do us a full English breakfast with all the coffee we could drink. I could have had her children. She seated us in the main room of the pub, where the juke box blared as the boys in the band bumped out after a big Saturday night. She served us generous helpings of bacon, eggs, snags, mushies and baked beans with pots of coffee. Cheap at twice the price we thanked her copiously and left her a handsome tip for her life-saving kindness.

In the grey drizzle Stonehenge just looked grey, stony and hengy. For some stupid reason I’d imagined it standing proud in a remote wilderness. Instead, it’s wedged forlornly between the A303 and another arterial road called The Packway. The crowded, cold visitor’s centre lacked only an infernal Macca’s to feed the multitudes and complete the picture of crass commercialisation. As we wandered around taking the compulsory tourist snaps we sidled up next to a doughty English type with bushy mutton chops and a handlebar mo big enough to steer him with. Retired Colonel Buffington Tuffington-Smythe, or something like that, took it upon himself to tell us we were in the wrong place for stone circles. “Not too many tourists know about Avebury,” he said, “but it’s much older and more interesting than Stonehenge.” Despite the less than awe-inspiring impact of these huge monoliths on this dreary day, there’s still a fascination with the 247 burial barrows which dimple the surrounding landscape and the many unanswered questions about the culture which created it.

Since it was on our general trajectory and with no clear plan for the day we took Buffy’s advice and pootled across to Avebury. Even in the miserable weather Avebury was a revelation. It’s a pretty little town and while the standing stones are nowhere near the sheer size of Stonehenge, nor as imposing an engineering feat, they’re much more extensive and we were free to wander amongst them. The small National Trust museum at the site is an object lesson in how to mount an engaging historical display, with compact and informative exhibits that kept us interested far beyond the half-hour we’d budgeted for a squiz.

I’m generally not a fan of “experiences” because they often end up being little more than an experience of busloads of chattering tourists in colour-coded hats “doing” the “experience” on some micro-managed itinerary. There’s also a vigorous debate in Britain at the moment about what the critics derisively call the “theme park mentality” and whether it doesn’t detract from, rather than enhance, the visitor’s appreciation of an historical site. I certainly get that, and there’s no way this theme-park thing would succeed in somewhere warm and recently lived in like, say, Konopište, but in ancient buildings long since devoid of life it’s a way of reconnecting with a rich heritage – providing it’s done with class. Warwick Castle promised to be an exceptional example of the “theme park” approach in good taste, and with a reputation as the best preserved building of its type in England, it had a bit to live up to when we pulled into the carpark after a short drive from Chiseldon. The weather had cheered up overnight and we were fresh and ready.

The castle goes all the way back to 1068 when William the Conqueror ordered a mound of dirt, strangely called The Mound, to be piled up and fortified. There is barely a corner of Warwick that is not alive with medieval colour. Madam Tussaud’s has populated the entire site with figures from every walk of castle life, from the 15^th century Richard, Earl of Warwick to the kitchen staff; from a drawing room tableau of an 1898 Royal Weekend party including the likes of a young Winston Churchill to the washerwomen to the stable hands. All this is enriched with sensaround sound, immersive special effects and live actors wandering around in period dress. It’s a seductive and compelling cocktail.

Out in the grounds it’s your full-blown medieval fair, with stalls and stages featuring performers in costume – jugglers, magicians, minstrels – and a jousting track with regular “tournaments”. There’s an aging knight in shining armour astride a caparisoned charger entertaining an absorbed audience with tales of daring-do with a deft touch of humour. On an island in the River Avon stood a dozen or so tents, each housing an artisan in medieval dress demonstrating an ancient trade or craft; there was the fletcher, the woodturner, the blacksmith, the spinner, the potter. It’s all very professional and widely appealing, even to a couple of colonials from Western Australia. We blew away the whole day exploring the extensive site inside and out and drove away from the carpark well satisfied with it all.

*

Projecting my own priorities onto Stratford I’d expected it to be seething with Bardophiles. It was a pleasant surprise, then, to find it pretty negotiable in spite of the generous numbers. Anticipating a crowd, we kicked off early on this luminous morning at Anne Hathaway’s cottage. Kept largely as it was four hundred years ago with its low ceilings, heavy beams passing higgledy-piggledy through the middle of rooms and tiny, low doorways we were able to wander around at leisure. Pride of place near the huge hearth was the moth-eaten courting settle where the couple might have sat under the watchful eye of her parents. The extensive gardens were a particular joy in the warming sunshine.

Mary Arden’s house at Snitterfield has been extended to incorporate a museum of Elizabethan farm life, complete with a falconry display. The house itself lurches drunkenly along its Tudor façade, there wouldn’t be a right angle in the whole place, and while it isn’t actually falling down seems to be far less well managed.

The Birthplace in Henley Street – yes, everything to do with Shakespeare is capitalised - New Place, and his grave and bust in Holy Trinity Church were Mecca for a steady stream of Japanese tour groups, but there was a respectful hush and welcome lack of overcrowding in spite of that. Here’s a little-known fact I’m sure you’ll find fascinating: Shakespeare died on his 52^nd birthday; in a plot worthy of one of his plays, debate still rages about the cause of death – was it food poisoning, or murder?

Commercialised? Yes, but Stratford was at its very best this beautiful summer’s day, the shady parks exploding with vibrant colour and the Avon a picture of tranquillity. The Tudor architecture along the high street is worth a visit in itself, so well-preserved you half expect an aproned Elizabethan servant to empty her washing water out the second floor window.

*

We’ve embedded ourselves in the classic sandstone Cotswolds village of Chipping Camden for our exploration of Warwickshire and surrounds. It’s a pretty little town planted in rolling green farmland fed by a network of narrow country lanes. Much of the distinctive yellow stone architecture is stiffly formal, richly embellished with gargoyles and fancy finials and elaborate corbelling. The earliest buildings were around in the 14^th century, though most hail from between the fifteen and seventeen hundreds. They still celebrate Scuttlebrook Wake – and good on them, whatever that is.

As part of my selfless mission to visit as many country pubs as possible, we dined last night at the Eight Bells Inn, a charming little establishment with a warm atmosphere and lovely staff, and followed up with dinner tonight at the Churchill Inn at the nearby hamlet of Paxford. The atmosphere was extremely convivial, so much so I threw caution to the wind and tried venison for the first time; the flavour had an earthiness redolent of wild mushrooms. The chatty fellow at the next table thought we’d like to know about the very different start to his day. “A bull sat on my car,” he announced, “A two ton bull! I rang the police but they were busy. Eventually it went away, but I had to walk here,” he gazed into his pint and trailed off into his own thoughts. Seriously, this place is full of card-carrying eccentrics.

Ordinarily I’d be excited at the prospect of returning to London tomorrow, but I’m aware of a rising anxiety. PGSD: Post Gasperplas Stress Disorder…I’m still uncomfortable with the thought of pressing crowds.

Next time: London calling...again