Zephi got to call the shots today for what we did up here in Stratford upon Avon, and she wanted to go to The Spotted Treehouse. We could’ve driven anywhere, but that was her shout. She thought about Warwick Castle just because she had heard of it. Warwick Castle seems to be trying to teach potential visitors about what it was like to be a serf in the middle ages. Some complete bastard has decided that it’s appropriate to charge almost £40 a head if you don’t book in advance. If you do book in advance you are still paying £24. You are paying much much more on the day so they can fleece families who haven’t done their research.
The castle was erected by the Normans as an act of subjugation on the Angles and Saxons who couldn’t fully understand the impact these conquerors would have on their basic way of life. William and his disconnected friends destroyed all the history and all the meaning across this land, and replaced it with frenchish mannerisms and big walls of stone. Warwick Castle was one of his early bastions. A horrible stone memory of when they took our identity from us.
An interesting place yes. But at that price point it’s meaningless. It’s just buying a car for some exec. Zephi was right. We were better off staying local and having fun with art at The Spotted Treehouse.
The Treehouse does stag and hen parties, as well as entertaining easily bored five year old girls. Martin will take you through the process of being crafty. You will make a thing. You then have to wait for it to be fired, but it will have been made by your fair hands. Joyous. For a delightful few hours Zephi was swept up in making things, and was lucky enough at the end to be invited upstairs in order to meet a very pissed off hot bunny rabbit and the most brilliantly zoned out chinchilla. She got to stroke them. No such luck for me. I observed from afar. But the chinchilla was then most temperamentally beautiful creature. We still make it hard for them to live in the real world because their fur is so soft we want to wear it. We are atrocious great big stupid noisy mouthpeople.
I’ve enjoyed being up here with Min in the land of Shakespeare’s niece’s brother’s cousin’s desk which is definitely located in the office of the Shakespeare-related Shakespeareperson who was definitely totally 100% related to Shakespeare Shakespeare Shakespeare that’ll be ten quid please and don’t complain you should see what they’re asking for at the crap castle.
This whole town is swamped in Willy. It’s absurd. All the shops are trying for puns. Even the ice cream parlour is attempting “Romeo and Gelato”. I love that voice – that body of work. There’s so much in it that speaks to me directly. But I wonder if it wouldn’t start to piss me off if I had to be here the whole time. What would this town be doing if he had no connection? I’m more interested in places that don’t trade off it. Although I’ll be back here soon with Lou to see Richard III, and I’m looking forward to it.