In the land of the Bard

Three months before my fourth birthday, my mother and I visited Stratford-upon-Avon, and spent time with Shakespeare’s delightful creation, Falstaff.  

The statue of Falstaff is part of the Gower Memorial at Bancroft Gardens. Crafted by Lord Ronald Sutherland Gower, the monument was presented to the town of Stratford in 1888 by that gifted aristocrat. The set of five sculptures consists of William Shakespeare looking down from his pedestal at Hamlet, Lady Macbeth, Prince Hal and Falstaff. Three of those fictional figures are depicted at significant moments in the plays in which they feature. Falstaff, on the other hand, appears in his characteristic stance — clutching an empty flagon of sack (sherry, as we know it), in expectation of a refill. 

Falstaff was one of several Shakespearean characters I would grow to love, as I studied English literature. Later, Shakespeare figured largely in the ISC ‘Compulsory English’ curriculum which, for nearly three decades, I was privileged to teach at Bishop Cotton Girls’ School in the City. In August, 1958, however, I could not understand why my parents found a strange-looking man so engrossing, especially when he was wagging his finger at me. As my sullen expression makes clear, I was neither eager to make Falstaff’s acquaintance nor inclined to pose for a picture.

My lack of interest in that bronze image in particular, and Stratford-upon-Avon in general, was at variance with my parents’ enthusiasm. Hearing them jabber about Shakespeare and catching the first syllable, I thought they were discussing a milkshake! Disliking that beverage, I was indifferent to sightseeing. Today, over 56 years later, I vividly recall my boredom as I was dragged from one Stratford site to another. I longed to be home in Cranfield, the village where we were living while my IAF father pursued a two-year course at the local College of Aeronautics.

My second encounter with the Bard’s birthplace, which took place 17 years after my face-off with Falstaff, was distinctly different. I was spending a week with our former landlady at Cranfield when she suggested a trip to Stratford-upon-Avon. Mary Street, whom I had once feared as a strict disciplinarian, turned out to be a congenial companion and a fascinating fount of historical information. In fact, one of her novels, set in the 16th century, had recently been published. 

At Stratford, I visited the house where Shakespeare was born in 1564, the cottage nearby where his wife had lived before her marriage, and the great dramatist’s simple grave at Holy Trinity Church. I then proceeded to call on my old friend at Bancroft Gardens. At this point in my life, I knew Falstaff well. Not only was I halfway to acquiring a postgraduate degree but ‘Henry IV’, wherein he plays a key role, was a prescribed MA text.  Falstaff of the Gower Memorial seemed smaller than I remembered, and he was no longer intimidating. If Miss Street had not been watching, I might have perched on his knee!