Granddaughter Number Two treated me to breakfast this morning. From time to time she likes to organise some kind of grandmother-granddaughter event. She’s been trying to organise us a day out In York but the train service from here to York has been disrupted lately. So last night she phoned and proposed that I hop on the bus at the crossroads, the bus she would be travelling on from her house, and we could go to a local farm that has branched out into a cafe and a farm-shop. So that’s what we did.
She had a bacon sandwich, one of her favourite things, while I had a toasted fruit teacake. I had my usual coffee whereas she had a strange concoction with caramel and maple syrup, calling itself a latter! I tried it. It was quite tasty as hot drinks go but definitely should not be included in a list of “coffees”!
I bought local honey in the farm-shop and spotted items I must go back for as possible Christmas presents for various members of the family. Christmas fever has started earlier than ever this year. Pubs have notices reminding people to book for Christmas dinners and a travel agency in Uppermill has a big notice advertising a day trip to York to visit the Christmas markets. York gets crowded with tourists at the best of times so the prospect of Christmas markets as well is quite horrific.
As you can tell, I am not a great fan of christmas markets!
Here’s a story, from this article, which demonstrates how long-standing the problem of immigration has always been:
“On 30 April 1517, the eve of the annual May Day festival, an angry crowd of more than 1,000 people marched through London protesting at the city’s immigrant population. Xenophobia was rife in Tudor England. Although foreigners, known as “strangers”, made up just 6% of the city’s population, they were often considered a malign presence: “Libertynes, drunkards, murderers, thieves and Conspirators,” in the words of one chronicler.
As darkness fell, the mood turned ugly. Thomas More, under-sheriff of London, appealed to the crowd to turn back. But his entreaties went unheard. The mob surged through the streets sacking the shops and houses of French, Italian and Flemish merchants and craftsmen. Only after an army was called out, leading to scores of arrests and over a dozen executions, was order returned.
Evil May Day, as the riot came to be known, was not quickly forgotten.”
Shakespeare may have written about in a play called Sir Thomas More, a collaboratively written play that survives only in a single manuscript. The play is thought to have been written primarily by Anthony Munday, perhaps, some scholars think, aided by Henry Chettle, in the 1590s, with somewhat later contributions from Thomas Dekker, perhaps from William Shakespeare, and just possibly from Thomas Heywood.
Sir Isn McKellen Introduced a monologue from the play, a momologue cloed The Strangers’ Case, with these words:
“It’s all happening 400 years ago. In London, there’s a riot happening. There’s a mob out in the streets and they’re complaining about the the presence of strangers in London, by which they mean the recent immigrants who’ve arrived there. And they’re shouting the odds and complaining and saying that the immigrants should be sent back home wherever they came from. And the authorities send out this young lawyer, Thomas More, to put down the riot, which he does in two ways. One by saying that you can’t riot like this. It’s against the law. So, shut up, be quiet. And also, being by Shakespeare, with an appeal to their humanity.”
And now I’ve found the speech, I think:
Grant them removed, and grant that this your noise
Hath chid down all the majesty of England;
Imagine that you see the wretched strangers,
Their babies at their backs and their poor luggage,
Plodding to the ports and coasts for transportation,
And that you sit as kings in your desires,
Authority quite silent by your brawl,
And you in ruff of your opinions clothed;
What had you got? I’ll tell you: you had taught
How insolence and strong hand should prevail,
How order should be quelled; and by this pattern
Not one of you should live an agèd man,
For other ruffians, as their fancies wrought,
With self same hand, self reasons, and self right,
Would shark on you, and men like ravenous fishes
Would feed on one another.
[...]
Say now the king,
As he is clement if th’offender mourn,
Should so much come too short of your great trespass
As but to banish you, whither would you go?
What country, by the nature of your error,
Should give you harbor?
Go you to France or Flanders,
To any German province, to Spain or Portugal,
Nay, anywhere that not adheresto England,
Why, you must needs be strangers:
would you be pleased
To find a nation of such barbarous temper,
That, breaking out in hideous violence,
Would not afford you an abode on earth,
Whet their detested knives against your throats,
Spurn you like dogs, and like as if that God
Owed not nor made not you, nor that the elements
Were not all appropriate to your comforts,
But chartered unto them, what would you think
To be thus used?
This is the strangers’ case;
And this your mountainish inhumanity.
Maybe we need another Shakespeare to plead the case for a little more tolerance and humanity in the modern world.
Life goes on. Stay safe and well, everyone!












