"I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it"

"I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it" - (As You Like It: Act II, Scene IV).

My mother-in-law came for a two week visit and we've had a wonderful time exploring Oxford and surrounding treasures.  Just before she left my niece came and we all spent a day exploring Stratford-upon-Avon.  What a gem of a town!  My love and appreciation for the genius of Shakespeare has been renewed. 

The fields are still bright yellow with rapeseed.  I've been cooking with rapeseed oil and I like the slightly sweet nutty taste.

The song "Fields of Gold" has taken on new meaning for me.

I love the skyscapes here every bit as much as the landscape.

I love these Cafe windows that look out over the garden of William Shakespeare's birth house.

Home where the Bard was born.  He was the 3rd child of 10.  His father was a glove maker. 

On the grounds of his house, a few actors stroll about and suddenly start acting our scenes from various Shakespeare plays.  It is absolutely captivating. 

This is the family home of Anne Hathaway, the wife of William Shakespeare.  They were somewhat well off for their time. Anne was also 8 years older than William and he was just 18 when they married.  Their first child was born 6 months after the wedding followed shortly by twins.  His only son died at age 11 and, while his daughters married and had children, within 3 generation, there were no more direct descendants. 

 Through chance, the Hathaway cottage has stayed preserved pretty close to it's original state since Anne and William where married.

The cottage gardens are stunning.

I love these ancient windows, no matter how drafty they might be.

A house in Stratford.

I have always loves wisteria and I'm delighted to see it blooming everywhere here.  

My Shakespeare by Kate Tempes

He’s in every lover who ever stood alone beneath a window,In every jealous whispered word,
in every ghost that will not rest.
He’s in every father with a favourite,
Every eye that stops to linger
On what someone else has got, and feels the tightening in their chest.

He’s in every young man growing boastful,
Every worn out elder, drunk all day;
muttering false prophecies and squandering their lot.
He’s there – in every mix-up that spirals far out of control – and never seems to end, even when its beginnings are forgot.

He’s in every girl who ever used her wits. Who ever did her best.
In every vain admirer,
Every passionate, ambitious social climber,
And in every misheard word that ever led to tempers fraying,
Every pawn that moves exactly as the player wants it to,
And still remains convinced that it’s not playing.

He’s in every star crossed lover, in every thought that ever set your teeth on edge, in every breathless hero, stepping closer to the ledge, his is the method in our madness, as pure as the driven snow – his is the hair standing on end, he saw that all that glittered was not gold. He knew we hadn’t slept a wink, and that our hearts were upon our sleeves, and that the beast with two backs had us all upon our knees as we fought fire with fire, he knew that too much of a good thing, can leave you up in arms, the pen is mightier than the sword, still his words seem to sing our names as they strike, and his is the milk of human kindness, warm enough to break the ice – his, the green eyed monster, in a pickle, still, discretion is the better part of valour, his letters with their arms around each others sholuders, swagger towards the ends of their sentences, pleased with what they’ve done, his words are the setting for our stories – he has become a poet who poetics have embedded themselves deep within the fabric of our language, he’s in our mouths, his words have tangled round our own and given rise to expressions so effective in expressing how we feel, we cant imagine how we’d feel without them.

See – he’s less the tights and garters – more the sons demanding answers from the absence of their fathers.
The hot darkness of your last embrace.
He’s in the laughter of the night before, the tightened jaw of the morning after,
He’s in us. Part and parcel of our Royals and our rascals.
He’s more than something taught in classrooms, in language that’s hard to understand,
he’s more than a feeling of inadequacy when we sit for our exams,
He’s in every wise woman, every pitiful villain,
Every great king, every sore loser, every fake tear,
His legacy exists in the life that lives in everything he’s written,
And me, I see him everywhere, he’s my Shakespeare.