Mrs. Teabody Returns to England. Part 1: Stratford-upon-Avon

This is the diary of a trip, made mostly for those of us who traveled together.

 Please feel free to read if you are so inclined.

Let's go!

This holiday to England with Mr. Teabody and friends Joan and Donna would turn out to be the best thing that's happened to me since the world shut down in March 2020. Like so many other people, I have always been regenerated by a voyage to another life, an endeavour that calls upon some talents (?) that too often lie dormant for long periods of time. Let's face it: doing nothing is easy. Travel? It makes demands. It presents challenges. It calls upon you to make choices/decisions that sometimes make you feel you are in a "ohboyherewego" film clip that may or may not end well. This one does end well. It does exactly what travel should do at its best. But you must listen. I will tell the story in parts and the very first part is a sentimental journey to Stratford-Upon-Avon. You know: Shakespeare and all that. 

 Leaving home: There was a missed turn-off in Frederick due to lively, enthusiastic chatting inside the car but that misstep was easily corrected. The next one would come when the little genius route suggester talking out loud from my cell phone insisted that we really wanted to drive on busy, busy Route 28 instead of leisurely, mostly vacant 267. We arrived at the Crowne Plaza Hotel parking lot in Herndon that would provide a home for our car for the next nearly two weeks. (Use WAY.com app). In fairly short order our bags were installed in the waiting shuttle and soon we were hurtling toward Dulles and pulling up curbside, delighted to check in breezily with friends Joan and Donna going off in one direction with a tall Prince pushing Joan like an empress on a wheeled throne and with us sailing through TSA pre check and then an easy transition to our gate and our first visit to the Virgin Clubhouse by virtue of our purchasing first class tickets. This was a nice experience for us. Donna and I dined on chicken masala and Joan and  Mr. T. munched impossible burgers. I had a glass of white. We remained in the clubhouse almost till boarding time. It was serene for a long while but became quite crowded toward the end. And then suddenly there Mr. Teabody and I were, being escorted to our precious "anniversary celebration" seats: flying first class for the very first time. 

Mr. T in his pod

 Virgin Atlantic first class: the pods. I was prepared for the limitations of the pods. I'd read about them, watched YouTube videos, knew there were shortcomings. Regardless, any way you look at it, being able to put your feet up, being pampered and offered all manner of refreshments didn't suck. Having your "bed" made up didn't suck and, most importantly, being able to sleep as your body was transported across the vast and dark March Atlantic didn't suck. Because we'd already had dinner in the Clubhouse, we refused the offered snacks and dinner. I half-heartedly munched a grilled cheese offered late in the flight. I could have had a fantastic meal. Could have drunk champagne, but no. I refrained because I was sated already.  Poor planning on my part. The young male flight attendant from Nottingham made up my bed with a white duvet, handed me a soft cylinder containing pajamas. I crawled into my pod like some dutiful oversized caterpillar and caught snatches of sleep-- far more than ever before. It was a very relaxed crossing. Cannot imagine going back to coach even though I know it is inevitable. Nice while it lasted.

All that wonderfulness would be somewhat cancelled by aspects of a not-so-happy landing. We landed at London Heathrow about six hours after taking off and that's when the fun part altered slightly. Because our plane was only about one fourth full, our pilot had to  set us down remotely. What that meant was that we disembarked via stairs instead of a jetway while Joan and Donna took an "elevator" to the tarmac. Only slightly inconvenienced but definitely weirded out, we waited for our companions in assistance. With six people needing transport the ONE attendant proved to be more than inadequate resulting in a delay which placed Joan and Donna in a holding tank for nearly an hour, placing J. and me rudderless in the immigration hall maddening the security guards who wanted us to just go through but, of course, we as we'll as the woman waiting for her back spasm-plagued husband could not abandon friends. 

After nearly an hour passed, I realized our bags had been long languishing in baggage claim and I started getting calls from our arranged driver. An executive decision put me through the E-gates and I got to dash all the way to the far end of baggage claim to get a smartcart, return to our belt number 4, stack four huge suitcases onto it and wait, all while trying repeatedly to call J (phone not turned on), Joan (phone not turned on) and Donna (phone turned on but not hooked up to airport WIFI). We were definitely out of touch. I stood by my truckload of luggage with my friends out of reach and my driver wondering in text after text where we were since our flight had landed at 8:30 and it was now almost 11. I was just about to approach Virgin help desk when I heard J. call my name, and suddenly the dark cloud that had been Heathrow dissipated and we wheeled our belongings into arrivals hall, found our driver from BlackBerry Cars and followed him to the car park. And then just like that with the trials of the past two hours behind us, we were hurtling toward Stratford upon Avon. 

The Shakespeare Hotel

Stratford-upon-Avon. (SUA) While the car traffic in narrow-streeted Stratford-upon-Avon is off-putting, in every other way SUA is the kind of town you would create if you'd fed your head an overly zealous amount of literature and English mysteries and PBS specials. It is beautiful. It is historic. It is unique and on this occasion it was bloody freezing. Our forty-eight hour sojourn in SUA would be marked by beauty and a cold weather free-for-all. Our driver pulled up in front of The Shakespeare Hotel in Chapel Street less than two hours after leaving Heathrow. Zippy. Remarkable. 

Famous brass door knocker

We stashed our luggage with registration  and headed toward food taking ourselves along Sheep Street to Lamb's marked with a brass cobweb door knocker from its inception as the Cobweb Tea Room. We climbed to the next floor without complaint. It was cosy and just a bit tilty and who doesn't love a half -timbered dining room? J. had a gorgeous plate of linguine with a beautiful little crowd of crustaceans on top.

 Joan and I opted for tomato basil soup with pesto crouton the size of a green glove. 

Donna was true to her scallops with the added flourish of pancetta and she also tried her first English dessert, a hazelnut parfait. Warmed and full-bellied, we tumbled out into a cold spring afternoon made pleasant by flowering boxes and baskets flanking shops along the way. Back at the Shakespeare, we could now occupy our rooms named unsurprisingly after famous Shakespearean characters and here began an oft-repeated pattern of having to drag our bodies and our suitcases bumping up the staircase.  Three of the four of us are neither strong nor large. Moving a suitcase from one level to another-- by times just along a level street - - proved a challenge throughout the trip. Just to get from the lobby to our rooms meant no fewer than three level changes in this elderly maiden aunt of a hotel. Heretofore suitcase moving will be indicated by this symbol 😂 Now to rooms. Donna was in Lysander, Joan was in King HenryV and J and I? What else? Hamlet for us. Great bed, perfect pillows, it was hard not to just sink into slumber but just three hours later we were marching back to Sheep Street and the venerable cafe called The Vintner where we'd meet, laugh with, listen to and love Jenny, our delightful Stratford friend of thirty years.

Dinner with Jenny at The Vintner

 The food was perfect.  I inhaled a delicious, warming coq au vin and a bit too much wine. We parted on the street outside the Shakespeare, climbed the staircase for the third time that day and without much fanfare, fell into a blissful slumber. We were in England at last and it felt wonderful. 

 Thursday the last day of March.  After a night of comfortable slumber, we four emerged from our rooms, navigated the stairs nimbly without suitcases and almost broke down the opening door of the breakfast room. Great everything from Croissants to Sausages and plenty of it. Yum. Directly after breakfast three of us did my old favorite Stratford tour walking along to Shottery to Anne Hathaway's cottage. A new feature we saw from afar looked like a huge crescent moon. (more on this later) A very happy moment which made me feel very much in England. Back at the Shakespeare after our hearty four-mile hike, we climbed into a taxi and were delivered to the Butterfly Farm. 

The  Butterfly Farm.  Many years before, I'd rejected the idea of ever visiting what I thought would be a pretty dreadful attraction but a stop there in 2018 proved me wrong in every way and now amid the very cold March winds, the idea of a tropical atmosphere seemed perfect. It was. In the forty minutes we spent following a path through an inside jungle we must have seen a thousand butterflies of every hue, shape and pattern. 

We became part of their flight paths, their landing fields, their daring mating rituals. It was enchanting made moreso with colourful and fantastical birds, cut leaf ants along a rope and a bright red iguana. Everything about us got warmed up. A lovely time.

Emerging from the butterfly jungle

We donned hats, scarves and coats once more to break into the brittle Stratford sunshine for our walk along the Avon to Holy Trinity. We were just passing the completely transformed RST when I realized I'd set my phone down amongst the butterlies. Plucky crew marched on. I broke into a fast walk back to the farm, retrieved said phone and set out for Trinity on my own. 

The MOMENT of the trip for me

Had to take a quick dash across Waterside for a pic of the Dirty Duck, then crossed where the river meets a huge green verge and a realization hit me like a velvet hammer: I was no longer bound in a nutshell that could be measured in miles, familiar faces and no surprises. Once again my world had become wide. And filled with endless possibility. Those tears that came in that epiphany would not be the only ones shed during re-entry but they were definitely among the sweetest. Joy.

Holy Trinity spire above a green lawn.

 Holy Trinity Church. A visit to the bones of the Bard was essential. 

The intricately carved misericordia, required. We looked, listened, made easy chat with the volunteers who dusted and directed. Half an hour into the visit a male teenager started taking his piano lesson. "Sentimental Journey" echoed along the cloistered walls, skated across stained glass, entered our hearts. We stood in place and listened. Music transforms every experience. It did this one. Bliss. 

We made small, sentimental purchases, toddled along the narrow streets of Old Town past old haunts like Pat's Pantry (gone), the "Sparkleen" laundromat (open)before ducking into a pub and making a lunch of toasted cheese sandwiches at the Windmill Inn just half a block away from the Shakespeare. We loped the final eight of a mile into the warming lobby of our hotel. Just one story above us was our huge, comfortable and warm bed. Donna headed to "Lysander". Johnny took the stairs for "Hamlet". 

Earlier that day Joan and I had discussed the possibility of visiting Anne Hathaway's cottage properly--going inside, doing the tour. Joan turned to me and asked a simple question: "Will we ever be back to Stratford?" There is always a truth in this question, and you don't get to be our ages without asking it. "Maybe" was not good enough when measured against the reality of our ever-shrinking list of trip possibilities. We got a taxi and headed back to Shottery.

It continued to be blowy and cold. Snowflakes alternated with snatches of sunshine. We paid £18 in the lobby where no attempt was made to close doors against the elements. Just as we started along the path, we spied a little tea shack.  I bought tea and the nice lady who made it for us took this photo of us next to the moon chair made of willow. After our photograph we headed for the indoors tour, hot beverage warming at least one hand. "Ah, no beverages allowed inside." Foiled. I placed them under a shrub and we walked back into the past. We looked at household accoutrements of more than four hundred years before and heard their history told by a gentleman who looked remarkably like the Barnaby of the present day "Midsomer Murders". He was lovely. He suggested putting our backsides against a small heater in the corner. We did so and were warmed in parts.

After our little session with Barnaby, we climbed rickety stairs and once again imagined the improbable love story between history's most famous writer and the woman who once lived here, sat by her fireplace, slept, dreamed, and wondered what worlds lay beyond . Oh, Anne. Here is spring come once again.

Forsythia is stronger than spring snow

 Our taxi returned for us at the appointed time and back on Chapel Street I tucked Joan back inside our hotel. Then on my own in Stratford, I strolled with all my memories along the streets I still knew well, bought red wine and white freesia for Jenny for hosting us for dinner and finished up at the Cornish pastry shop for Portugese tarts, Cornish bread pudding, shortbread, something chocolate.  With all my purchases in hand for the evening ahead, I determinedly set out along Grove Road heading toward Ambleside Guest House where all my memories had begun some thirty odd years before. I don't think I could ever have anticipated the sight greeting me. I checked the address repeatedly. Ambleside no longer existed, at least not as a guest house as I first knew it. Who has never made a sentimental journey home to a house  he once inhabited, one full of memories.  Who has not stood motionless, brain conjuring faces, laughter in front of that exterior looking for the person you were when you walked through those rooms, looked out on the world through those windows? I held all those faces, those memories  in reverence, was grateful, then let go and moved on toward now.

An hour later we were all cleaned up nicely in fresh clothes and being deposited at Jenny's doorstep only to marvel at her bold new kitchen breaking straight through into her colourful garden. 

We sat at her table eating a delicious roast chicken meal on warmed plates feeling to a person like the king and queens of everything. 

Post dinner bliss with our hostess

Full of all the best feelings, we broke the spell at 11 and taxied back to the Shakespeare for our last night. The next morning found us for the final time enjoying breakfast at the hotel, ready to make the journey to our next destination just three hours north. York.

All too soon, we were packed and dragging our cases DOWN the stairs. Much easier. No 😂symbol this time. Goodbye, Stratford-upon-Avon. Thank you for Jenny, for your flowery streets, your beautiful buildings, your amazing food and mostly for opening us up to living and traveling during the plague.