The door creaks as I push it open and step into the shadows of the church. The vaulted ceiling looms above, dark and imposing, yet shafts of golden light cascade through the upper windows, illuminating intricate stone carvings and ancient tombs. It’s an atmosphere ripe for a ghost hunt. As I take a few hesitant steps, the door clicks shut behind me, startling me. Just the wind, I remind myself.
There’s a unique joy in exploring old English churches. Their serene stillness offers a space for reflection, and a chance to stumble upon historical marvels: a centuries-old oak figure, a grim tomb, or an inscription commemorating a forgotten hero. Each location presents a mini detective puzzle, often accompanied by a helpful leaflet near the entrance. As dust motes dance in the shafts of light, I find myself in Weobley, Herefordshire, in search of a particular spirit.
It’s often noted in works about William Shakespeare that little is concretely known about the playwright, yet each fragment of information sparks a cascade of academic intrigue, novels, and films. The latest cinematic interpretation is *Hamnet*, based on Maggie O’Farrell’s acclaimed 2020 novel, featuring Jessie Buckley and Paul Mescal. This story breathes life into Shakespeare’s world, focusing on his wife, Agnes (known as Anne), during a harrowing time as plague descends upon their Stratford home. In 1596, their young son, Hamnet, passes away, a tragedy that seemingly ignites a wave of creativity in his father. To adapt O’Farrell’s potent narrative, the filmmakers scouted remarkable locations, ultimately landing in the charming Welsh borders and Weobley.
As I meander through the town, it’s easy to grasp why it was selected to represent Stratford-upon-Avon: an enchanting landscape of timber-framed buildings, many of which stood long before Shakespeare graced the world. During his time, chimney stacks were considered modern innovations, and you can still spot their distinctive joins. I pass by two pubs, the Unicorn and Ye Olde Salutation Inn, establishments that seem to echo the laughter of Sir John Falstaff, the character who might describe them as “a candle, the better half burnt out.”
Further down the hill, amidst the charming array of leaning lintels and old, pot-bellied windows, I discover a delightful small museum, curated by the knowledgeable Sue. While the space is rich in history, the sole Elizabethan relic on display is a silver sixpence, unearthed by a metal detectorist. Following Sue’s enthusiastic recommendation, I head toward St. Peter & St. Paul Church. As I approach, the grandeur of Weobley’s 185-foot tower, with its flying buttresses dating back to the 14th century, becomes apparent, revealing that this town once held notable prominence. The autumn foliage envelopes the churchyard, abundant with mushrooms and acorns, but what of Shakespeare’s connections? Stepping inside, I stroll slowly up the nave and spot a knight’s stone figure resting on a plinth, inscribed with the name Devereux.
A shiver runs down my spine. The name resonates: every Elizabethan would have known it, a name intertwined with the Bard’s life, nearly leading to calamity. In 1601, Shakespeare’s company, the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, was approached with a lucrative offer from supporters of Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex, to perform *Richard II*, a play depicting the overthrow of a monarch. After the performance at the Globe Theatre, the earl rode into London with 300 armed followers, intent on toppling Elizabeth I. The coup failed, resulting in Essex’s execution—and the grim fate of several audience members. It was a perilous time for all connected to the play.
I lean closer to the tomb, intricately carved with the initials of past choirboys. Here lies Walter Devereux, who died in 1402. A quick online search reveals that Walter was a direct ancestor of the rebellious Essex, having fought alongside Richard II in Scotland. He famously switched loyalties to support Henry Bolingbroke, later Henry IV, ultimately perishing at the Battle of Bryn Glas—one of the “men of Herefordshire” slain by Owain Glyndŵr’s forces. While this knight is absent from Shakespeare’s *Henry IV* plays, he undoubtedly crossed paths with the many figures who are, barring the fictional Falstaff, of course.
Leaving Weobley, I stroll two miles through fruitful orchards toward Dilwyn, where another splendid church awaits, accompanied by the welcoming Crown pub. Continuing my journey along tranquil country lanes leads me to Eardisland, an equally picturesque town, rich in half-timber charm. As I make my way west toward Pembridge—my lodging for the night—I encounter a hiccup. A fallen tree blocks the path alongside the River Arrow, prompting me to remove my boots and wade through the gentle stream. Halfway across, a kingfisher darts by, a flash of brilliant color that brings me to a standstill.
If any town can compete with Weobley for the title of “Most Shakespearean,” it must be Pembridge. Here, two pubs perch above the road like old friends “fat-witted with drinking,” surrounded by a charming ancient market square, a church marked by Civil War bullet holes, and delightful shops filled with local goods. Not far off is the Cider Barn restaurant, where visitors are welcomed with a refreshing glass of local Black Fox cider, served in a car park littered with fallen walnuts.
That evening, as I sit by the crackling log fire in Pembridge’s New Inn (which, by the way, was already there in Shakespeare’s era), I delve into the history of Falstaff. I learn that Shakespeare’s beloved comic character was inspired by Sir John Oldcastle, born in nearby Almeley—just five miles west of Weobley and a contemporary of the Walter Devereux I encountered earlier. It’s conceivable they crossed paths, possibly even fought side by side, before Oldcastle turned heretic and met his untimely end. My enthusiasm almost bursts forth—a thrill of discovery—but I restrain myself, mindful of the delicate shelves behind the bar.
The next day, I venture westward, pausing at the charmingly eclectic Westonbury Mill Water Gardens (complete with a delightful café), the creation of late hydrogeologist Richard Pim, whose inspiration stemmed from his experiences in the Middle East and North Africa. I then journey through Kington to Hergest Croft Gardens (another welcoming café) and resume my walking adventure. Hergest Ridge, part of the Offa’s Dyke Path, offers a classic route with breathtaking views over the surrounding landscape, including the site of Bryn Glas. Below the ridge lies a maze of quaint lanes, ancient woodlands, and meadows where film scouts unearthed Cwmmau, a nearly untouched 16th-century farmhouse that subs for Hewlands Farm, the childhood home of Agnes. The original, now better known as Anne Hathaway’s cottage, is situated just outside Stratford. Funds from the film location have aided in vital conservation efforts on the farmhouse, now managed by the National Trust and set to reopen as a holiday cottage this December.
And thus, my Shakespearean journey comes to an end—though I’ve overlooked visiting Sir John Oldcastle’s birthplace and sleuthing in the church at Almeley. With no choice but to retrace my steps into this bygone era, a sense of contentment washes over me. I have to admit, I relish being here.
Accommodation at the Old Bakehouse in Pembridge was provided by Sick Cottages; from £513 for 7 nights, sleeps 4. For further information, visit visitherefordshire.co.uk/through-tudor-landscapes. The film is in UK cinemas from 9 January 2026.
