Just a short drive from my West Midlands home in Dudley lies the birthplace of the undisputed titan of world literature: William Shakespeare. He was an English playwright, poet, and actor—widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world’s pre-eminent dramatist. Often hailed as England’s national poet or simply “The Bard,” his legacy looms large over the region. My family and I frequently spend our days in Stratford-upon-Avon, taking in the historic sites from the top deck of the open-top tour bus.
Among those storied sites is the childhood home of Shakespeare’s wife, Anne Hathaway (c. 1556–1623), who grew up in the picturesque village of Shottery in a spacious farmhouse now famously known as Anne Hathaway’s Cottage.
Then came the disaster of 1969. Flames suddenly erupted across the west wing of the iconic Tudor building, threatening centuries of irreplaceable heritage. Though the fire brigade battled the blaze and localized the destruction, a piece of history was lost—including the original rear door.
Enter the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, determined to restore the cottage to its original glory.
That is where my story truly begins. As a young craftsman named John Edwards, my claims to fame started with a high-stakes assignment: my company that I worked for was contracted to recreate the cottage’s solid oak rear door. Raw, massive oak sections sat in front of me as I worked off precise blueprints copied from the ruined original. Every single cut had to be exact.
To bridge the gap between centuries, we had to artificially age the fresh timber, ruthlessly battering the solid wood with iron chains, bent nails, and heavy hammers to forge the authentic dents and weathering of time.
Months later, after the cottage finally reopened its heavy wooden doors to the public, I took my family—including my late parents—on that familiar open-top bus ride to Shottery. The air was thick with tension and anticipation as we moved through the rooms, until we finally reached the back exit.
There it stood. My work right in front of me.
My dad stepped forward, leaning in close to inspect every artificially weathered groove I’d laboured over. Suddenly, a typical stereo type American tourist in a classic off-white cattleman cowboy hat, an expensive camera swinging heavily from his neck, paused beside us. He gestured at the timber with absolute authority and barked to his wife, “They sure don’t make doors like that these days, I tell ya.”
My dad straightened up, puffing his chest out with unmistakable pride. “Oh, yes they do,” he replied instantly. “My son made that just a few months ago.” Pointing his finger at me who was standing-out-of-sight behind the tourist.
The American tourist froze—turned around, then his eyes darted from the door to me, wide with sheer disbelief, suddenly staring at me as if he was standing face-to-face with a celebrity.
I had mixture of emotions raging from shear embarrassment to a overwhelming feeling of self pride of being a part of the history of William Shakespeare the greatest Writer of all time.
I’m afraid this is as close as I will ever get to fame in the sense of English literature world I’m sure.
THE END
Some photos of my day out to William Shakespeare'‘s country. ‘Stratford-upon-Avon’:
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