Notes from the trail ...

The premise is to jump in my car, accompanied by the irrepressibly optimistic and boundlessly patient Prideesh, and spend the first of two weeks touring this great sceptred isle, primarily the northern reaches. The second week is to be spent shacked up in some remote cottage outside Fort William with great access to long walks and a local pub. Fort William is just outside Glasgow for those still with us.

Day One then. It had been decided that this should not be an overly hurried or taxing affair. As this holiday was also going to be about literature we found ourselves accelerating along the A34 Oxford bound with Stratford Upon Avon our ultimate destination.

Of course Prideesh had arrived at mine just after the allotted time, ten of the morning. I for my part had only just organised clothing, had suitcase open on bed for effect and had yet to organise two new front tyres to replace those worn bold at the outer edges a thousand miles previous. I suppose in the great scheme then, leaving four hours late was actually an achievement. It started raining about half a mile down the road.

At this early stage there were a few minor hitches on the driver, direction giving front. This mostly revolved around the non driving participant forgetting that it was not only in her head that the direction needed to be communicated. The result, a slightly circular tour of the middle stages M40.

Soon enough though, hotel was located, car park was negotiated via a tour of the Sainsbury delivery bay and we were soon leisurely strolling about the streets of Stratford upon Avon, beneath grey but rain free skies. All around were lopsided timber framed buildings. It was not yet four of the afternoon.

The initial planning coffee, Al Fresco, was interrupted by a slightly less than coherent, but smiling Irish geezer from the black country, a formidable mix of genetics and culture that demanded attention. He managed in a few precious minutes to flash a number of livid knife wounds, a result of his recent trip to Swansea and invite us to stay at his mothers house, the last building on the west coast of Galloway apparently. He left us with his mobile and email details scrawled in a notepad and was last seen ambling down the street clutching what was according to the bar staff his 17^th bottle of Stella since one that afternoon. There was a white van at the end of the street waiting to pick him up.

A leisurely stroll down Bridge street and we happened upon the canal, probably painted and immortalised below curved struts a million times. Our search for the RSC box office was also over. We had entertained faint aspirations of some play that evening, in the unlikely event, according to the 'guide book' there were any tickets remaining. There were in fact several tickets available, a quick decision and we made our purchase under the austere gaze of Ian Mckellan, framed above details of his forthcoming stint as King Lear. An excited conversation later, now emboldened, we were soon also clutching tickets for that event circa May 2007. Undoubtedly this will be one of the two shows during the run that will be performed by his understudy.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent toiling about the streets of issue high street shops plugged into these Tudor constructions. As the light crept away too the autumn sunset we sat outside once more sipping coffee, this time with our own company while taking in the delicate structure that is reputed to be the birthplace of the great man himself. Shakespeare that is.

At 7:30 we were seated in the RSC theatre, lights down enter front right Julius Caesar, or at least a mannequin of. This was my virgin live Shakespeare event, once I overcame the need to understand each word and began enjoying what was happening on the stage, I rather had a good time. I did count myself fortunate that I never pursued the brief affair I had with acting circa my ninth year, the result of a much lauded impersonation of Pam Ayres; It must have taken ages to learn endless and infinitely intricate dialogue, and to act as well! I also doubted my ability to muster quite as much projectile saliva, not to sure I would pay the extra to sit in the front row, maybe its considered the done thing in Thespian circles.

The evening was rounded off with food from the kebab shop eaten in our room, it seems Stratford eateries shut down as the men of Rome begin falling on their swords.