Saturday, 13 September 2025, Stratford, Oxford (The Store)

Written 2 November 2025

Although this photo doesn't show it, the Quay's breakfast buffet did offer milk as an option. You didn't have to use ketchup or HP Sauce on your cereal. When I asked for decaf tea, I got Tetley; the tag just said Tetley, no "British blend," no "decaf," no nothing, but pretty good tea.

On a table in the lobby was this whimsical duck, largest of a series of three, all dressed alike but holding different poses.

The lobby ceiling showed definite Art Deco influences.

And at the right, several of our party (including David) acting like young people as they wait for the bus to come around.

Once it did, we were off toward Stratford-upon-Avon to tour Anne Hathaway's childhood cottage. By the roadside, I spotted a lot of stubble fields, but a couple of fields still bore green maize. The sheep were all white, but I passed a couple of fields of mixed dairy cattle—Holsteins, but also something red and something black. Over the backs of one such assortment of cows, just after Manchester, you could see a forest of smokestacks and tanks.

Back from the road, across a cornfield, I saw long low sheds that might be chicken houses, and over a field of sheep, I could see smokestacks behind, and windmills behind that. The fields were smallishand bordered by kind of scrappy-looking hedgerows; maybe the hedgerows have fences inside them. Some bagged hay bales waited acoss from a dairy farm. As we moved farther south, I started to see what looked like gorse on road embankments.

Stefano provided general information to keep us awake:

• London, Birmingham, Manchester, and Liverpool are Britains largest cities, in order of size.
• There are presently lots of jobs in Manchester, in IT and that sort of thing.
• Everything there is half the price of the same thing in London.
• The two best retirement homes are student accommodations and retirement homes (wasn't sure what he meant by that).
• There are lots of empty office spaces in the South; owners are thinking of redesigning them into appartments.
• We started to see white flags, each with a red cross, by the side of the road. That's St. George's flag, but now the flag is used by right-wing people and has gotten a bad connotation. April 24 is St. George's day.
• A million-person demonstration in supposed to happen in London today, against an ultraconservative candidate who so far has no party.
• The new minister may change current plans and put refugees in military bases, rather than hotels or council flats, ship them off to Africa while their cases are reviewed, then ship them back to their home countries or bring them back to Britain, depending on the outcome.
• A thousand people every three days come into the UK illegally over water. The first gate to Europe is Italy. From there they go to France and try to get to the UK by water.
• Today is Mick's sixth consecutive day driving the bus, so tomorrow will be his compulsory day off. We'll have a different driver for the day between our two nights in Oxford.

At midmorning, we made a comfort stop at a large truck-stop-type place that housed every possible American chain shop. It also dispensed lotto tickets, and since the week's jackpot was particularly large, we all bought tickets. I didn't win anything, and I don't think anyone else did, either.

Back in the lobby, again waiting for the bus to come around, we exchanged book recommendations. I made note of We Wolve Murders, by Richard Osman (but not part of the Thursday Murder Club series); Butter, by Asako Yusuki (inspired by a real serial murder case in Japan); A Short History of the World in 50 Failures, by Ben Gazur; and A History of Britain in 10 Enemies, by Terry Deary.

Back on the bus after the rest stop, Stefano handed out "Welsh cakes," which were very much like what seem to be called "Garibaldis" these days (the American package used to say "raisin cakes")—a layer of raisins sandwiched between two thin layers of cookie/cracker dough for baking. My grandmother used to buy them for us kids, and she (and we) always called them "fly cakes," because she told us the raisin layer was mashed flies. The Welsh cakes were a little thicker and softer, and they were round rather than in the shape of thin rectangular planks, but the effect was much the same. I don't buy Garibaldis often, but I still love them, and David still hates it when I call them fly cakes.

Our next stop was in the village of Shottery (about a mile from Stratford), to visit the cottage where Anne Hathaway (William Shakespeare's wife) grew up. It was originally known as Hewlands farm, and the first dwelling was what's called a "hall house." The fire was in the middle of the main room, smoke went out through the thatch, and the family slept around the sides, feet toward the fire.

We had to wait in the garden for a little while, for a tour group ahead of us to finish. That's when I got this great photo of dried up thistle blooms (probably actually artichokes). Behind them, you can see part of large wicker object, a sort of love seat, that was apparently a fairly recent addition.

In the right-hand photo, you can see more of it. The middle is obscured by an unfortunate professional photographer who was there trying to take serious shots while we milled around and generally got in the way.

Anne was the eldest surviving daughter, one of 7 out of 10 children who survived. Her grandfather (John) bought the place in 1542, and when her father (Richard) died, it passed to her half brother (Bartholomew) who started to enlarge it. The left-hand photo shows the bulk of the original cottage, and the right-hand one the part he built on, eventually more than doubling its size, to 12 rooms.

I asked about the thatch and was told that they spent 25,000 pounds to thatch it 10 years ago and that the job was expected to last about 15 more years.

Anne and Will knew each other; their fathers were on similar committees in town—the sort of committees taht decided you could be fined for muck heaps outside your house, or for not going to church, or for wearing rich colors if you weren't noble.

They were "handfasted"—a sort of binding engagement that was considered almost the same as being married—but it wasn't clear to me whether she got pregnant before or after that. When they were married, she was 26, and he was 18—about average for a woman of the day to marry, but very young for a man.

Will he was the oldest surviving son (hird child but oldest to survive), so they moved to his place.

The cottage was passed down in Annes's family until 1846, when they had to sell it, but they stayed on as tenants until the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust bought it in 1892. The trust still owns it. Because the Hathaways and their descendants occupied it continuously, it still contains some of the family furniture.

Here's more kitchen, this part with the fireplace and oven.

And here, at the right, is what might be the notorious "second-best bed" that Shakespeare left to Anne in his will. No one is sure.

Back on the bus and leaving the cottage, I spotted a hop hornbeam tree. And throughout the hedgerows and along the lanes, I saw huge numbers of hawthorns in fruit. They must be gorgeous when they bloom in the spring!

Mick and Stefano dropped us off in downtown Stratford to forage for lunch and to visit the museum. I had done research in advance and picked out a very nice and conveniently located restaurant where we planned to have lunch. Unfortunately, we found it buiging at the seams and had no chance of getting in. They directed us down the street, so we set of in the direction. On the way, we passed the Shakespaw Cat Café.

We ended up at the Phoenix, which describes itself as "Stratford's best independent bar." We found it a little garish and seedy, but it served quite a passable pepperoni pizza.

After lunch, we had time for a (very) quick turn through the museum of The Shakespeare Centerf, run by the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, shown here at the left.

I think, though I'm not sure, that the urban cottage at the right is the actual birthplace. I'm sure the center must have an elaborate website explaining everything.

Back on the bus, as we left Stratford, a great grey heron (very similar to our great blue) launched itself from somewhere in the center of town and flew across our bow.

From Stratford, we continued on toward Oxford, where we checked into the Store hotel. The building was apparently once a store, "The Store," the largest, oldest, and most important in Oxford, a positive landmark. Once it finally closed, it was converted into a hotel. It opened less than a year ago.

At the left is the view from my hotel window, which turns out to be of St. Michael at the North Gate, an early medieval church (now decommissioned, I'm pretty sure) that still has some medieval stained glass and allows access to the tower. I never got around to walking around the corner for a better view of it.

We went to dinner at No. 1 Ship Street—that's its address as well as its name—right around the corner from the hotel. At the right is David's first course, which I cannot identify. It doesn't seem to match any of the first courses on the menu I photographed, so I guess it was a special. Pork belly?

My starter was a soup, and I remember it as being very good, but again, it doesn't match anything on the printed menu.

My main course, though, was the catch of the day. A flatfish I think, with "sea vegetables" (samphire and ice plant), brown butter, lemon, capers, and parsley.

David's main was a veal schnitzel with broad green beans and a duck egg. The menu also mentioned anchovy, but he apparently didn't notice that.

For dessert, he had lemon tart with mascarpone and raspberry sauce.

I went with the house-made ice creams. Again, it they were excellent. Coffee and strawberry, maybe?