Come on baby light my fire...we're roasting Shakespeare...

Come on baby light my fire – we’re roasting Shakespeare tonight…

Being a lover of words and of all things Shakespearian, where better for a weekend than Stratford-upon-Avon? Accordingly Sisters #2 and #3, Nieces #2 and #3 and myself boarded a flight to Birmingham.  Our flight was uneventful; bugles sounded when we landed and for a minute I thought it was a heavenly accompaniment to my fervent prayer of thanks for being on terra firma once more. Before long we were ensconced in our pretty little B & B, thrilled at being in the village and among the houses so familiar from the pages of books and the screens of TV and cinema. All set for a weekend of history and culture, tea and cream scones, and walking in the footsteps of the Bard.

That’s what we did. We walked the village and its environs, we visited Shakespeare’s house, the Town Hall, walked to Anne Hathaway’s cottage, the Globe Theatre, walked by the river, did it all. Interspersed with frequent stops for refreshments of every kind. By Saturday evening we were all walked out. We’d seen everything, gone everywhere any of us wanted to go. We'd had a wonderful time.  On one of our forays into shops, Niece #3 bought me a little hedgehog. Christened Snedgespeare, he starred in all my photos from then on.

Saturday evening- what to do? It was too early to go back to the B & B and we had no tickets for the play. One of the Tudor townhouses, now a hotel, caught our eye. We could have a quiet drink there, it wouldn’t be heaving with noise and disco-goers like the other places we’d passed.

The hotel bar was full; the Function Room was hosting a small wedding party, so we settled in at the side of Reception, in a lobby containing chairs, sofas and an open fireplace stacked with twigs, logs, papers and cones. Low tables held flower arrangements and candles. All very nice.  We were sipping our drinks and relaxing when a gentleman in shirtsleeves approached from the back of the hotel. With a smile and what sounded like an East European accent, he asked if we would like the fire lit. Oh yes, Sister#2 exclaimed; we’d love it! Us Irish love an open fire! With that he took a strip of paper from the fireplace, lit it from one the candles and touched it to the kindling. I thought it a strange way for an employee to light a fire, and even stranger, he continued on through the lobby  and walked out through the front door of the hotel.

The fire took light all right. It roared up. Within seconds a black waterfall of smoke was cascading down the chimney. Oh my god, the chimney must be blocked up, someone said. Better go and tell Reception what’s happening. Niece#3 got up and ran round the corner to alert the staff. By now smoke was billowing along the lobby. Next thing the smoke alarm went off.  Now the staff were evacuating the guests from the bar, next thing the wedding party were streaming out of the Function Room. No problem, just smoke from the fireplace, no problem, please leave the building. Oh my God, said Niece #2. I myself was beginning to worry in case we got blamed – this was a Tudor building, listed, priceless.  As we stood outside in the cold hoping we wouldn’t get arrested the Fire Brigade Tender arrived, sirens blazing, and firemen charged into the historical, irreplaceable building…. Eventually order was restored and guests and wedding party were shepherded back in. Our little group of unintentional near-arsonists meekly followed. The fire was a rosy glow now. The smoke had dissipated; the wedding disco was in full swing, the bar full of drinkers. We got fresh drinks, including a whiskey for Niece#3, a non-drinker who felt she needed something to get her over the humiliation of being related to me and her other aunt... Niece#2 was blaming her mother and me, insisting that we egged on whoever he was. He certainly had not been an employee of Shakespeare’s local Travelodge.

What to say? Well it has to be a quotation from the man himself; “All’s well that ends well”. It did all end well... We weren’t arrested, the hotel didn’t burn down, and Nieces# 2 and 3 still speak to me. While Snedgespeare is sitting on my desk, smiling a big hedgehog grin at me as I type.