Ode To Stratfords (Both Of Them)

Callum Crumlish considers the other place (Stratford upon Avon rather than Stratford E15); then, in suitably Shakespearean language, he wonders where the two of them are taking us.

stratford-upon-avon
The Other Stratford: First built by medieval monks, Clopton Bridge over the Avon.

Although ceremoniously unreligious, I relish Easter time and the short holidays that come with it. This year, I spent a great deal of time eating chocolate, learning how to cook and, on the days I went into work, corralling hundreds of people through an unreasonable number of weddings.

On my days off, I ventured as far as Stratford. No, nolt Stratford where the Queen Elizabeth Park is, but Stratford-Upon-Avon, the birthplace, home, and final resting place of the poet and playwright William Shakespeare (d. 1616).

Among the history and legacy that has been so intricately woven into Stratford-Upon-Avon, it wears its heart on its sleeve. Unashamedly, there are directions to all of its attractions on every single road sign on every single corner and crook. The restaurants and pubs are baptized after plays, sonnets, and quips that old ‘Bill’ created. Hell, we even stayed in a hotel named ’The Shakespeare’. Perhaps a little too on the nose?

Humbling as it was to see where arguably greatest wordsmith in history began – within such cramped and claustrophobic conditions, and naught but a pillow and a bedpan as possessions – I found great difficulty in not comparing the wondrous country town of Stratford with that district within the heart of our East London: Stratford proper.

Stratford proper has been a place of comfort for me for a few years. When living their as a student, I became familiar with the quirks of its streets, and the manner in which people approach each other. Indeed, while Shakespeare himself added over 1700 words to our common language, the good people of Stratford have come up with an popular opening line: ‘You good bruv?’

Upon visiting Ol’ Bill’s homestead, however, I, oddly enough, began to notice a distinct lack of law enforcement. Now, mark me, I am not longing for a dystopian countryside wherein an armed officer of the law is perched at every cobbled crossroads or picketed fence, not at all; I was merely taken aback that, in a town that thrives on tourism, there was not more security, locked doors, or cameras.

Oh! That it should come to this! A day where I’m longing for more cameras!

Again, do not misunderstand me.

Re-entering Stratford proper, following the end of my weekend getaway, I stepped from my train on to the platform, rushed and resolute in getting to where I was going – admittedly lost in my own world – I walked straight into a police officer.

‘No worries!’, he called after me, with a smile.

I spun on my heels, shouted back my horribly British ‘Oh, so sorry’, and continued on my way, taking no notice at the time of the machine gun carried by the officer I had just body-hugged.

A few steps further towards home, I was stopped dead from entering my train. Following some sort of altercation, a young mother, accompanied by pram and baby, was screaming at a poor passerby – why? Who knows? It matters not for this tale. Other than finding this to be an extreme inconvenience to my day, I distinctly remember pondering when some sort of security would arrive at the scene, and, like magic, within seconds a pair of plods entered stage to diffuse the situation. And thus my worry diminished. The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

So, is it telling that, in the world we live in today, I found myself concerned – possibly even worried – that I saw no guards, arms, or security surrounding a 17th century house, in the middle of England’s tame countryside. Yet, upon a return to London, an armed guard mattered not to me, and comfort was found in security snubbing out a discomforted mother.

True is it that we have seen better days.

I cannot offer a solution to this. We cannot retract arms from the great city of London; there is too much danger in this world. Do I want guns surrounding the famous Bard’s childhood home? Of course not. Should I feel safer with more cameras and security? Absolutely not!

As George Orwell said: War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.

At this point, I wish I were ignorant.

 

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