I remember that I always found magic fascinating ever since I was a little girl. I’m not talking about stage magic and creating perfect illusions via distractions and skill, but actual magic, the conjuring something out of nothing, the transformation of matter and energy in order to achieve a change in the fabric of the universe. I would devour books about nearly anything that was remotely related to magic, be it Greek mythology, ghost stories, Wiccan spellbooks or stories of cursed tombs of ancient Egyptian pharaohs.
Fantasy was always my favoured genre though: fire-breathing dragons, magi who could throw lightning and manipulate the mind, elven druids with their nature magic and I could go on. Ever since I grew up and reality seeped into my childhood imaginary universe, I had to learn to see the magic again. Once you learn how to look for it though, it’s not that hard to find. Granted, the time of fire-breathing dragons might be over, but magic is always in the littlest things or just around the corner to catch you unawares.
This unplanned opportunity sneaked up on me on the streets of Stratford-upon-Avon, William Shakespeare’s birthplace, as I came across this tiny stage of a street performer when he decided to take a break.