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We drove off into the unknown and before long found ourselves in Stratford,
a rather charming Cotswold-type town somewhat marred, in my view, by the
rather brutish Royal Shakespeare Theatre. We stayed in a typically twee guest
house, wherein Judith had a communication problem (“What will your husband
have for breakfast?” our prim hostess asked. “What hus—?” asked Judith. “Oh,
Michael, haha…” said she, “Cornflakes and poached egg,” neither of which I
would ever order). Our hostess pursed her lips a bit but took the American accent
for the usual transatlantic mishmash (who would know a Canadian accent!). I
enjoyed my full English.

We enjoyed a little tour of the area – as picture-perfect an Olde England as
it is supposed to be (which is to say, nothing at all like the rural England where
people actually live). We went to the theatre and found that ‘Pericles, Prince of
Tyre’ was being performed that evening, so that, of course, we saw. This is hardly
a play at the epicentre of the Shakespeare canon, even when leavened, as it was,
by Judi Dench in the role of Marina. Frankly, it was pretty heavy going; it is small
wonder that scholars are doubtful whether much of it was written by Shakespeare
at all. Still, we were glad that we had had the experience (of course the fame of
Miss Dench was at that point limited, neither of us knowing much of her at all).

Next morning, we drove back to Sussex, but on the way passed Fairford. This
being April 9th, 1969, we actually witnessed the first British flight of Concorde, a
moment of aeronautical fame. A sight not to forget.

Once returned to domesticity we enjoyed some ‘acquaintance’ time, Mother in
particular needing persuasion that this was the right partner (Father thinking her
wonderful!). However, it started off very well when Judith decided that it would
be nice to have a Canadian-style shrimp cocktail. As we had no ketchup or similar
concoction, we visited the village shop (where one of the other Judiths worked, of
course!) and bought a chili sauce, which looked exactly like ketchup. We mixed
that up with some horseradish and dolloped that on some excellent prawns. The
problem was that Canadian chili sauce bears resemblance to British chili sauce
only in its colour. Father (who didn’t even like curry!) looked as though he were
about to have apoplexy upon tasting it; it was indubitably the hottest sauce that he
had ever tasted. The point of the exercise was, however, quite different from what
would have been my embarrassment if I had prepared the dish; Judith was able
to take it in her stride and duly laugh it off. It was a good bonding moment with
possible in-laws, she making what could have been a troubled introduction into
something about which we had a snicker for years to come.

A few days later, Judith was off to Montreal, where, I knew, were waiting the
arms of the nearly-qualified surgeon. She seemed to me, however, to have some
ambivalent views about this fellow; her doubts basically being that he was more
impressed with himself than with her. And as I knew that she liked me, I thought

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