After our short but productive stay, we left Hay-on-Wye with bags of books loaded into the trunk of our car. We arrived in Stratford-upon-Avon -- Shakespeare's birthplace -- in the middle of a balmy day.

Andy and I had argued on and off about the veracity of Shakespeare's claim to authorship of the work that bears his name. The debate is at least two hundred years old; and I stand firmly on the side of those who believe that Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford, was the true author of the Bard's work. Andy, on the other hand, is mildly swayed by those who believe in the Stratford 'imposter's' claims.

Precious little is known about the life of William Shakespeare. Born in Stratford in 1564, he got Anne Hathaway pregnant and married her when he was 18. They had three children before he left his family and went off to London to work as an actor. Much later, he became a shareholder in the Globe Theatre. By all accounts, he retired a rich man, returning in his 40s to Stratford where he bought a big house, dealt in real estate and grain for a while, and died on his 52nd birthday in 1616.

In his will, in which he famously left Anne his second-best bed, he made no mention of plays, poems, or even books for that matter. Where is the great writer's library -- that's what I want to know. How could a writer not be a reader? It defies the imagination. Examples of his handwriting exist: signatures variously spelt Shakspur or Shaksper. How can a published playwright not be able to spell consistently his own nom de plume? More to the point, how did this small-town boy with little education know enough about law and history, not to mention Latin and Greek, to fill his plays and poems with such exquisite and accurate detail drawn variously from the classics and from life at the Elizabethan court?

So, if not Shakespeare, who was the true author? Many great writers of the time, such as Sir Francis Bacon and Christopher Marlowe, have been put forward. Some even go as far as to suggest Queen Elizabeth I herself, which is patently ridiculous. But there is one person whose life and talent fit the bill exceedingly well.

As Earl of Oxford, Edward De Vere was a familiar face at the Elizabethan court. Intelligent (he graduated from Cambridge University at the age of 14) and well-versed in the classics (his uncle is credited with the translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, a book widely recognised as having a major influence on the Shakespearean plays), he was a favourite of Queen Elizabeth. He was nicknamed 'Spear-shaker' thanks to his ability at tournaments and because his family coat of arms featured a lion brandishing a spear. He lived in the same area as Shakespeare, his Bilton Hall home had the Avon River on one side and the Forest of Arden on another. So Ben Jonson's preface to the First Folio, in which he praised the 'sweet swan of Avon' could very well be referring, albeit obliquely, to De Vere.

De Vere was also known to have written and published poems in a style that resembles the Shakespearean sonnets and blank verse. So why did he bother with a nom de plume, especially when he had already published before in his own name? Not because it was beneath aristocracy to publish poetry at the time, as has been suggested, but because so much of what he wrote was potentially inflammatory, drawing as it did from life at the Elizabethan court. How else could he have avoided the wrath of and embarrassment to Queen Elizabeth herself (whose relationship to him was much closer than the purported one of guardian and ward) when he was, through his characters, portraying the queen herself in many of the plays and poems?

"Are you going to get on a soapbox?" Andy asked me, as we dodged groups of camera-toting tourists on the Stratford's prosperous-looking High Street.

I looked furtively around. "The good burghers would throw me out of town."

"Speaking of burgers..."

Andy is easily side-tracked. But we did eventually find our way to the various museums, including the 16th century half-timbered house where the imposter was born. But my heart just wasn't in it. There wasn't even a whisper of the authorship debate in Stratford, not even in the meticulous museum that documented every little-known aspect of William Shakespeare's life and 'his' works.

Were all these people living in denial? As Andy pointed out, much of their livelihood depended upon it. Looking around, I could not help but agree. Stratford-upon-Avon may be historically a market-town, but it takes no leap of the imagination to guess that its prosperity today stems in no small part from the visitors and tourists who flock there because of its ties with the alleged author of the plays so beloved by generations of theatre-goers. Let's face it, William Shakespeare, the local boy-done-good, is the poster boy for Stratford-upon-Avon, and has been for centuries.

We had bought a pass for the five houses associated with the life of William Shakspur. We had already visited his birthplace and the museum. Anne Hathaway's cottage was very pretty. Nearby is the house where William's mother Mary Arden lived and Palmers' Farm where she grew up. For historical interest alone, this is certainly worth a visit. There's also Hall's Croft, home of Shakespeare's daughter Susanna and her husband. Again, this is of historical note in and of itself. Nash's House belonged to Shakespeare’s granddaughter and the adjoining New Place is where Shakespeare died.

We had tickets to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre that evening, and watched a rousing performance of The Taming of the Shrew. Our row E seats were so close to the stage that we could see the performers' spit as they emoted. Happily, we were not close enough to be sprayed. But hey, it was spit from denizens of the Royal Shakespeare Company. Next time round, we might catch a play at one of the other two theatres in town: The Swan (a theatre in the round) or The Other Place (a studio setting for more experimental productions). At the RST, there was more than a sprinkling of tourists. We'd been affected ourselves by the Shakespeare factor. When we first tried to book accommodation, we discovered that Stratford B&Bs book up months ahead.

We spent the night at The Crofts Farm B&B, a charming and hospitable place just out of town. Over breakfast the next morning, we engaged another couple in the authorship debate, once our lovely host was busy. Most people (from outside Stratford anyway) seem to agree that there is at least a debate to be had. But let's not push it with the good burghers of Stratford-upon-Avon. By all accounts, they've done very well indeed not addressing the question at all.