Much Ado

Stratford is a peculiar place. If it weren't for Shakespeare, it would be just another small English town, but because he was born, lived and died here, it's impossible to move without a reminder of it. Quotes from his plays are everywhere. Tourists are everywhere, even in November.
I haven't been to his house, his wife's house or his grave, but I am writing this during the interval of the most sparkling version of Much Ado About Nothing, set at Christmas time after the First World War. The man was a genius. He deserves to have a town themed around him.
I don't suppose he ever thought there would be a butterfly farm in Stratford, but I did go there today and nearly went mad with the joy of having huge brilliantly coloured wings flapping all around me. A childish pleasure perhaps, but one I readily admit to enjoying.
And I still have the second half of the play to look forward to. What a day!