Finding treasure close to home

“Give me the map.” – King Lear

Along with Her Majesty The Queen, Sebastian Coe, and Britain’s Olympic and Paralympic athletes, Shakespeare is having a great year. As the headlining act of the London 2012 “Cultural Olympiad”, Shakespeare’s life and works have featured in heavy rotation across a range of media (stage, screen, television, radio &etc). One of the most outstanding offerings of this landmark ‘Bardfest’ is a stunning exhibition at the British Museum mounted in collaboration with the RSC.

“Shakespeare: Staging the World” focuses on the playwright's world, both real and imagined. It takes us on a journey from medieval England and the forest of Arden, to Venice, Rome and finally to Prospero's magical isle.

Flying in the face of conspiracy theories, such as those espoused by the recent film “Anonymous”, the British Museum’s exhibition confirms William Shakespeare as the author of the greatest works of English literature, and posits Warwickshire firmly as the undisputed site of his inspiration and imagination.

Without doubt, Shakespeare’s Warwickshire origins were extremely important to him, and his works are steeped in references to local places, wisdom, tradition and folklore. His plays reveal a country dweller’s knowledge and appreciation of the romance and reality of rural life. This was delightfully realised in the exemplary British Museum show.

At the heart of the exhibition is the magnificent Sheldon Tapestry Map of Warwickshire. This map was one of a set of four tapestry maps made in the 1580s. They were commissioned by Ralph Sheldon (1537-1613) to hang in his new home at Weston in Warwickshire. The maps were made at the Sheldon tapestry works at Barcheston, Warwickshire. The tapestry works were set up by Ralph's father, William, with the aim of creating a tapestry-making industry in Britain by training locals to become weavers.

This extraordinary work of art – hand-woven in Warwickshire – is a pictorial record of the county in Elizabethan times, showing the River Avon, the Forest of Arden, the hills of Brailles and Burton Dassett, as well as fields, towns, villages and great houses of the gentry. It allowed me to see my world as Shakespeare saw it.

With delight, I surveyed the territory I call home, familiar to me even with archaic, 16^th century spellings: Warwicke, Lemmington, Kenelmworth, Coventrie, Stretford, Wasbvrton, Welsborn, Charlcot and Sherborn. Although rendered as Bearfoote, my beloved Barford was indeniably present - immediately distinguishable by its lovely bridge crossing the Avon.

I was surprised to find that this precious artifact, previously unknown to me, is held in the collection of the Warwickshire Museum Service. It can usually be seen in all its glory at the Market Hall Museum in Warwick. As is often the case, it is only in traveling great distances that we are lead to discover and appreciate the rare treasures that lie close to home.

More information

                           “Shakespeare: Staging the World” - Continues until 25 November 2012                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 www.britishmuseum.org

Typing 'The End'

Received news recently that we're soon to have a new editor at Warwickshire Life magazine. Although I adore our current editor immensely, I understand that change is inevitable.
Nothing, however, could have prepared me for the news that the new editor wants to cut my monthly column.
So, I have just now today submitted my final column to Warwickshire Life.
I've been (relatively) okay about it all. But now, after pressing SEND, I am heartbroken.

Woe is me. - Hamlet

Everything's coming up Roses

“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” – Romeo & Juliet

If procrastination were an art form, my level of genius would rival Mozart. These days, my preferred method of whiling away an hour or two is that most serious, most wonderful, and most British form of procrastination of them all: Gardening.

Of course, pride of place in any English garden belongs irrefutably to the Rose. And, at the moment it seems I do very little else beyond fretting about my roses. With good reason – I am aiming to win a ribbon in this year’s Village Show Flower competition. I was too timid to enter last year, fearing that a novice such as myself would stand no chance in the fray. More fool me, as the blooms in last season’s yield were profuse and of such lovely quality they earned even the praise of my chum and rose expert, Paul Smith, at Charlecote Park.

That lesson being learned, I ‘screwed my courage to the sticking place’, and was determined not to allow the floral opportunity to elude me twice. I tested the waters by entering an arrangement in this year’s W.I. Corsage Competition. The Corsage competition, though smaller in scale than the Village Show, is just as friendly and just as fierce. Perhaps, even a little more so as the coveted Barford W.I. Rose Bowl is at stake. The Rose Bowl remains in the possession of the winner for 12 months - a sterling reminder of the victor’s horticultural achievement. I yelped with glee when I was declared this year’s winner, feeling truly a champion amongst champions.

After such a remarkable success, I felt ready for an even bigger challenge: the Barford Village Show Flower, Fruit, and Vegetable Competition. I was ready, but what about the roses? To my utter dismay, the darling buds of May, June and July had all disappeared without a trace by early August. The prolific flourishes of last year, had given way to a meagre struggle for any colour at all.

I was beside myself, but not alone. Outside the Village Shop, I chanced upon my friend Kate, a stalwart of the annual Flower, Fruit and Veg competition. She and husband, Ian, were off to Scotland, she said. “But, you’ll miss the Village Show!” I gasped in disbelief. She looked forlorn, and replied sadly: “Nothing’s growing like it should.” I knew exactly how she felt. My own holiday plans (or lack of them) have been shaped and altered by many things, but I can honestly say, that roses have never been one of them. Until now.

Since ancient times, roses have enthralled poets and writers (there are at least seventy references to roses in Shakespeare’s works), as well as artists, monarchs, apothecaries, lovers, and, of course, gardeners. The queen of flowers and national emblem of England, roses are as temperamental as they are beautiful. When they are ‘happy’, all is right in the world, and they offer an abundance of flower and fragrance; when they are ‘discontented’ there seems no remedy, and their bare, yellowy, spiky and skeletal appearance seems a harbinger of impending doom. Without a doubt there are few joys more sublime than that of being the possessor and cultivator of a healthy, ‘happy’ rose.

Noting of the hazards of the invasive Wickwar rose (Rosa ‘Wickwar’), Sir Roy Strong once admonished gardeners to “Beware the Rose that will Engulf your Garden”, I think he may have gone one better, and offered would-be green-thumbers more apt advice: “Beware the Rose that will Engulf your Life”!