Letter to home.

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William Shakespeare was born in Stratford Upon Avon, lived here most of his life, and died and was buried here.

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Marina McCarron

Even though Marina lives in the suburbs, this is a field just two doors down from her.

I know. I've seen his birthplace, his grave, and the gardens that mark the house he lived in. I've also seen the cottage his wife Anne Hathaway called home and granddaughter and son in law's grave. I've walked into a very old building that's now a hotel that has the vague aroma of not having been spruced up much since the bard's death, and I've seen the building that was home to the woman who gave birth to the person who founded Harvard University.

I've seen the pub named for the great actor David Garrick, and I know that Andrew Carnegie funded the town library, which was opened by Dame Judi Dench, a woman who calls Stratford Upon Avon her 'spiritual home'.

It sounds like a lot to discover, but I did it all in an afternoon. Stratford is small, and, if it's most famous son had been born down the road in Worcester or Henley, it would be even smaller as it's economy is based on tourism and theatre, unless there's some great tire factory I've not seen.

I left my beloved London to take a sales rep job with a phenomenal publishing house. I was torn about leaving as the seven months I'd lived in London brought me many new experiences and lots of fun. I didn't want to leave, but I wanted the job, so I packed up my company car on a Friday afternoon and made my way almost two hours north to Stratford Upon Avon. Two hours isn't much of a drive in Canada, but in England, it's a long haul.

I was moving to an area called the Midlands, and I was scared. People in London think it's the only place in the UK to live. I was one of them, although I'd never really seen any other part of the country. But before I could be too upset about leaving my housemates and friends behind, I had to learn how to drive on the left (wrong!) side of the road.

Not trusting myself with that and driving a standard as well, I got an automatic car. I drive a Sebring, and it's the biggest car on the road, as everyone drives zippy little manuals. I felt like Arnold Schwazenegger cruising along in his hummer as all these tiny, Jetson-inspired cars whizzed by.

I made it along the highway (called a dual carriageway here) not quite sure of which was the slow lane and which the fast, took all the right turns, and was feeling quite pleased with myself when I hit my first roundabout. I panicked as traffic came to a halt and I incurred dirty looks from a few of the local inhabitants. By the time I parked at my new home, I was thinking I might not ever drive again.

So, even though I've had my license for longer than half my life, I took a driving lesson. I told my instructor I needed only to focus on roundabouts but he had other ideas. 'How often do you check your mirrors?' he asked, and then stated, 'I've never seen anyone hold the steering wheel that way' which I discovered was British driving instructor speak for, 'You're going to get us killed.'

I wasn't looking forward to my first sales trip, but I gritted my teeth, programmed my GPS, and only cried a little bit each time the lovely mechanical voice said, 'In seven/four/two miles, enter roundabout.' After my 40th roundabout I got the hang of them. Now I sail through them. It's amazing the things you can do when you simply must. But I still refused to drive in the town centre, home of the roundabout that earned me withering looks and one obscenity. I walked in almost everyday, but I didn't drive, even thought Stratford is significantly smaller than Moncton, where driving is a breeze.

I'd lived in Stratford for all of two weeks when the bank holiday weekend of May 26 rolled around. On the Saturday afternoon my housemate and I strolled into town only to be greeted by more people than attended the Rolling Stone's concert in Moncton. The main street in the village, which features Shakespeare's birth home and the Shakespeare Centre, was so full of people you'd think the Cannes Film Festival had moved here and Brad and Angie where about.

I stopped dead in my tracks, looked at the crowd and said, 'tourists!' Did you catch that I myself had called the town home for two weeks and if not for my GPS could get lost backing out of my own driveway, but suddenly was thinking of tourists as interlopers?

It's staggering how quickly I've come to consider myself a local, since I drive thinking, 'am I in the correct lane?' and, 'Is that a castle or a church in the distance?' I've only been to one pub as it's close to my house and features a patio which is the only place in Britain where my housemate, who is currently my entire social circle, can light up. My friend is Croatian and has been in the UK far longer than me, but still considers Croatia his home. Me, I'm not so sure. At the local pub the waiter is Canadian and told me when he recognized my TD Visa that he has not been home in six years. "I love everything about England" he told me, adding, "mostly how close it's to Spain."

I miss London, but Stratford is growing on me. It's part of the UK and the UK feels like home and has since I landed.

But I'll let you know how I feel about it after the summer. On the bank holiday I drove into town in the driving rain to buy ingredients for a Sunday roast. I managed all the twists and turns but have discovered I've conquered roundabout only to find the tourists causing traffic nightmares.

But I promise I'll do Canada proud and smile when someone who is used to four way stops cuts me off.

Well, I promise to try.

Marina McCarron is a New Brunswicker working and writing her way around England. You can follow her adventures on her website www.dreamwritelive.com and in [here] monthly.