On Stratford on Avon: to see or not to see?

As it’s Shakespeare week this week, I thought I’d do a little review of my recent trip to his hometown, and the various adventures that befell me there.

This was my first ever solo holiday, if you can call it that. I asked my friends if they wanted to come and was met with “why don’t you just go to walk down by the bloody river there’s an old looking house there it’s basically the same thing?”

But I quite enjoyed it. Got off to a good start when all my trains arrived very promptly despite ongoing chaos and rail strikes. The Trainline app nicely broke down my journey for me. I was allocated a reserved seat for my journey to Birmingham, and for the next part of the journey, where I had to walk from Birmingham new street station to Birmingham moor street station, the app informed me that I could sit in any available seat. I took full advantage of this by spending two minutes sitting on an available bench mid walk.

The journey from modernity to the historical Stratford began nicely at Birmingham Moor street, a Grade II listed traditional railway station, looking very nice in the March (…?) snow.

After pleasant journey through various neighbouring towns I arrived in Stratford, and as I couldn’t check into my inn for a while, I immediately sought to tick the first item off my itinerary, a walk along the river Avon. Weather was cold but not too bad I thought. A brisk three mile circular route and I’ll be back by the afternoon to check in, grab a pint and a spot of tea…

Six hours later, I was walking aimlessly down a dirt road, into the blistering snow, my light jacket soaked through, my knees knackered, covered in mud and freezing, as the darkness was setting in. I was praying, as my phone had died, that I was heading back to Stratford. At some point I’d took a wrong turn, ended up in a field, nearly fell in an overflowing river and walked past what must’ve been about 5 of the towns I’d passed only earlier on the train (see pictorial journey below). Perhaps this under-preparedness is a symptom of a foolish first-time traveller, maybe it was just bad luck, but I think the fault is not in our stars, but in ourselves. Basically I’m an idiot.

Miraculously, I made it back to Stratford, but the deceased nature of my phone meant that I had no idea where my inn was. I had to go and charge it in a Greene King pub over a pint, one of about 10,000 Greene Kings in the town might I add. Still, despite this increased availability of pubs, because all the buildings are Tudor style and look like nice traditional taverns anyway, I nearly ventured into a post office, a Sainsbury’s and a building society for a pint before successfully reaching my destination. Upon paying for said pint in cash, my frozen fingers caused the barmaid to fear for a second that the abominable snowman had come to pay her a visit mid shift.

I was finally able to reach my inn to defrost, dry my clothes and wash up for the evening. Time now for a nice traditional tea in the pub. Unfortunately, however, the traditional inn I was staying in only seemed to sell burritos. And, while I have nothing against burritos, I rather fancied a traditional pub meal, especially as it was national pie day (which, interestingly enough, comes a week before national Pi day). I took to the Googles, and was informed that a pub by the river did a pie and pint deal every Wednesday. Perfect.

Unfortunately, however, the inn in question was quite a way from the in I was inn. And the weather had only gotten worse. By the time I arrived, I resembled the abominable snowman once again. Not only that, it turned out that the place was just a Greene King, four of which I’d walked past on the way (one directly opposite the place I was staying). And the pie deal wasn’t on. Never mind, I still had a lovely pie. I don’t know what Greene King do to their carrots but they’re fantastic - I’d happily eat them until I resembled an unusually tall Oompa Loompa.

Alas, after the events of the day, I returned to my rooms and collapsed, defeated, at 8pm.

Day two was Shakespearean themed. But first I had to have breakfast, and not fancying a burrito, I wandered to the Boston Tea Party cafe, which is seemingly a chain that hasn’t made it to the Northernly regions of the UK from which I hail (although the hail had followed me down). This is the best breakfast establishment I’ve come across, and it played absolutely banging choons throughout. I will mourn its lack of Northern presence until the appropriate steps are taken to rectify this problem.

I then wandered around the town which looked very lovely in the snow. The pleasure of the view was worth all the pain of the day before. Can’t have a white Christmas without a cold Christmas Eve.

I then had Shakespeare’s birthplace booked. This would have been magical for an aspiring bard such as myself had my colleague John not pointed out the (increasingly obvious once realised) fact that it is the only house on its street that didn’t burn down. But, alas, it was very lovely to behold. The kind lady at the reception gestured me to a doorway that led to the garden and the rest of the tour. I followed the direction of her hand a little to literally and ended up in the toilet. Full of boisterous German school kids. Too late to turn back, I had to simply pretend to go to the toilet and move on. The rest of the house proved very nice. A sign at the end encouraged visitors to keep the bard’s legacy alive through “dontations.” I opted to keep his legacy alive through making an effort to spell properly.

I then killed some time walking round the town. As well as the Shakespeare house I saw the “Shakespeare school,” where he went to school, the “Shakespeare church” where he went to church, and the “Shakespeare cat cafe” where he regularly enjoyed cappuccinos in the company of fluffy kittens. Although I do doubt the validity of that last one (convenient that all the other cat cafes in the town burned down isn’t it).

But I had plans that evening. For a while I had wanted to dine in a Michelin-rated restaurant. Not only because the food would be nice and I like food, but because all that is known about Michelin inspectors is that they dine alone. Perhaps I would be mistaken for one and treat like a King?

Anticipating the experience of a lifetime, I dressed in my finest fineries and headed for the lovely “Woodsman” restaurant. Then, just outside, and I mean, JUST outside, I stepped on a loose paving stone and for the third time in 72 hours found myself covered in mud and wet and sludge. But I ploughed on. Maybe they wouldn’t notice? I soon settled in and was treated to lovely wine, which the waitress would top up for me whenever it was running low. And a lovely selection of breads, which I complimented the restaurant on (although I have since been informed that focaccia is not pronounced “focker cheer,”). I enjoyed the delicious starter of ham hock and was really settling in, thinking I might be able to pull it off, when the waiter asked if I was done with the bread. Was I? I don’t know! What was etiquette? Do I eat it all now? I opted to do so quickly, and bit into the last slice only for the crust to quite violently stab me through the roof of my mouth. No. No I said. The evening is not ruined. And it wasn’t. My main course was lovely as I managed to drown the pain in wine. It consisted of carrots (almost as good as Greene King), Guinea fowl, and what I can only describe as a small Geordie bangers sausage roll (Geordie bangers is a brilliant North East company who blow Greggs out the water - I doubt they supply the Woodsman though), and what I can only describe as a baked bean crumble but trust me that isn’t what it was. Delicious.

I was drunk and at ease. But the waitress had become preoccupied and was neglecting to fill my glass now, so I had to do it myself. Unfortunately, however, I kept replacing the lid, and three times tried to fill my glass before taking the lid off. I think, and up until that moment I thought I’d really pulled it off to be honest, they realised I wasn’t a Michelin inspector. I finished my tart dessert in silence, gasped when I saw the bill (a fiver for f***ing water), and told myself, in the words of Shakespeare, “there is no good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” But, unfortunately, to tell myself that, I had to think, and that made it so.

On the last day, I thought I’d pay my respects to Mr Shakespeare before I left, so wandered back to the church after the obligatory Boston Tea Party visit. I paid the entry fee to see his grave and then couldn’t find it! I looked everywhere. I’d seen pictures before - it was a big monument. Turns out the monument is actually in the wall. The grave was on the floor. Conveniently, it actually says his name on it, but I was by this point rather withered. I took the obligatory photo, wondered if doing so was a bit weird, and headed for lunch.

It was fish Friday so I ordered a chippy. I then preceded to cover it with sugar (I’m sorry I don’t care how obvious the clear glass sugar dispenser in diners is, it was white and the other shaker had seven holes on it - this is the UNIVERSAL symbol for pepper). “That’s sugar darling!” the flustered lady informed me, asking if I wanted another one. I stoically refused and just put extra salt on. I told myself that someone must have accidentally discovered salted caramel in a similar manner. But I judge, having tried it, that sweet and salty fish and chips won’t catch on. Culinary disaster number three. And that was the end of my journey. I did walk several miles to Anne Hathaway’s cottage before I left (closed), but nothing much left to report.

Visit Stratford, I urge you, it’s lovely. Judging by when I chose to go, though, I would perhaps pay heed to the quote “beware the ides of March,” but, essentially, just don’t do the things I did.