Much Ado About Frostbite

This year’s the 400^th anniversary of William Shakespeare’s death, so there are understandably lots of commemorations all over the English-speaking world. If you read of my trip last month to the epically treacherous Minack Theatre in Cornwall, you’ll know that I’m trying to do my bit to mark the occasion. This week in Shrewsbury was my second tip o’ the hat to The Bard.

Unfortunately, the elements were not in my favor here any more than they had been when I risked life and limb on that rocky cliff in Cornwall.

Like the Minack, the grounds of Shrewsbury Castle provided a physically stunning setting for the comedy “Much Ado About Nothing.” In many respects it felt like a late season football game in Chapel Hill or at Panthers Stadium in Charlotte: Ice-cold temps, people bundled up like Eskimos against the biting wind, stadium chairs in tow, tail-gate picnic hampers filled with goodies, an expectant air on the lawn. It was a sell-out crowd.

The only flaw here: IT’S AUGUST. And most of us are bundled up in winter gear, except for the fools who are determined to gut it out in sandals, short pants and cotton tops simply because the calendar says IT’S AUGUST.

Me, I was wearing layers of every heavy garment I had packed, including wool socks, a turtleneck sweater, sweatshirt and fleece jacket, plus two scarves. Vanity flew out the window here; practicality ruled. It was damned COLD, and I didn’t really give a flying fig what I looked like. After all, castles are fortresses built on top of hills, with absolutely nothing to break the effect of the wind that was whistling down from the North Pole on this particular evening. This AUGUST evening.

No foolin’, folks: It was in the forties. By the end of the first act, I could no longer feel my face or fingers.

The woman I was with (incidentally, one of the fools wearing sandals) laughed and said this – sitting in unspeakably uncomfortable conditions -- was what the English considered fun. You can imagine my reply.

By the interval (intermission), I had had enough. Shakespeare or no Shakespeare, I didn’t give a flying fig how those silly love triangles were going to get resolved. Despite the heroic efforts of the energetic actors, I was over it. There were not enough clothes in my suitcase to have warded off the bone-freezing chill on that hill.

Fortunately, sandal-girl was also ready to leave, so we packed up our gear and left without ceremony. Wild horses couldn’t have made me stay. What football fans see in torturing themselves in frigid conditions like that, I have no idea. Maybe they inherited a death wish from their English ancestors.

Despite the continued unfortunate weather, there have been more agreeable outings this week, thankfully. Yesterday I drove about an hour north to the ancient city of Chester, which was settled by the Romans in the first century AD. Went first to a terrific organ recital at Chester Cathedral, and then grabbed a double-decker bus for a guided tour of the city. One of the most memorable sight was a restaurant called Hickory, advertising “authentic American barbecue.” Yeah, right!

I’m trying to keep up with the Olympics, but as I found out four years ago when I was over here during the London Games, the BBC is interested only in “Team GB” – the British athletes. You’d barely know there were any other competitors from any other country. The Americans? Well, I’m assuming they’re in there running and rowing and diving their little hearts out, but except for the magnificent Simone Biles and our other lady gymnasts, I’m unable to follow any of Team USA on TV.

Go to NBC online, you say? Think again: NBC blocks online coverage to anybody trying to access it overseas! Isn’t Michael Phelps swimming again? How’s he doing?