Shakespeare’s county is April wet. The trees stand, drawn in dark brown lines, shrouded in a soft grey mist. Fine rain falls in constant drizzle every day. Acting as a tourist guide to visiting friends I lead them from Tudor tea shop to Tudor pub, huddled up against the cold. The smell of beer soaked into old wood greets us at The Garrick door. We can shelter here and wait for the time when the play is about to start.

Now as friends we gather here.
The play’s the thing and
the rain it raineth ev’ry day.

On a plinth, Shakespeare sits, in thought, high above it all. I was taken there often as a child. The sun shone then, every day it seemed. I squinted up at him and shielded my eyes against the sun as he sat quiet, dark against the light, somewhat of a mystery. But the light changes hour by hour, and the weather season by season. He is a man of this town and the surrounding fields and his birthplace and his grave are here.

Sundays were a pilgrimage
with a hey and a ho!
When I was a little tiny child.

The wind and the rain has always been plenty.
Present mirth, hath present laughter:
What’s to come, is still unsure.

~~~~~~

(the last two lines are by Shakespeare – I thought I should allow him to add the last few words and the title)