. In the old paths: memories of literary pilgrimages . ing his path led me through Waddesdon Manor park,dominated by the great French chateau of one of themany Rothschilds. Joining the Aylesbury road atWaddesdon village, I turned westwards, for I hadlearned that some miles off there stands an ancientfarmhouse called Shakespeare House, which in oldentimes was known as The Olde Shipe Inne. Why aninn in Buckinghamshire should be called The OldeShipe is a Shakespearian problem to be classed with 94 NOVEMBER DAYS the exploits of the mariner in The Winters Tale, whoseship had touched upon t
. In the old paths: memories of literary pilgrimages . ing his path led me through Waddesdon Manor park,dominated by the great French chateau of one of themany Rothschilds. Joining the Aylesbury road atWaddesdon village, I turned westwards, for I hadlearned that some miles off there stands an ancientfarmhouse called Shakespeare House, which in oldentimes was known as The Olde Shipe Inne. Why aninn in Buckinghamshire should be called The OldeShipe is a Shakespearian problem to be classed with 94 NOVEMBER DAYS the exploits of the mariner in The Winters Tale, whoseship had touched upon the deserts o£ Bohemia. Thehouse is situated in the village of Grendon Under-wood, just off the great highway leading from Londonthrough Aylesbury, Bicester, and Banbury to Strat-ford-on-Avon, and the local tradition is that at thishostelry Shakespeare, like old Falstaif, used to take hisease at his inn. Fully a mile beyond Waddesdon I observed a sign-board on my left bearing the interesting inscription, The Hay Binders Arms. I stopped involuntarily,. THE HAY BINDERS ARMS. for there was no house to be seen, but leaning overthe gateway that breaks the hedge I discovered at somedistance an old farmhouse surrounded by pollardedwillows and backed by tall elms. It formed an ideal NOVEMBER DAYS 95 picture for an artist. Blue smoke was curling lazilyupwards behind the willows, a horse was nibbling ata thorn hedge, and the path through the gateway waslost in the grass of the meadow. It seemed doubtfulwhether any thirsty wayfarer ever passed through thatgateway. Rum place for a public, aint it, sir ? said a cheery voice behind me. Some descendant ofChristopher Sly on the tramp seemed to think thathe had divined my thoughts. Walking silently alongthe grassy margin of the highway, he had come uponme unawares. We chatted pleasantly, with that fellow-ship which is part of the charm of the road ; and, aswe were going different ways, I gathered that Christo-pher intended to drink my health in
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