In which we enter the realm of the ridiculous

Could it be true? Could this be the very last post of the great Stratford adventure of 2009?

We end where we began, in the garden at Anne Hathaway's Cottage. The King Lear sculpture may have taken my breath away, but many of the others just seemed to call for us to mock them.

Amidst the lush green grass and tall flowers, we found Titania and Bottom having quite a splendid time. I cannot look at this work without Queen's Fat Bottomed Girls wailing in my head.

This statue of Brutus was obviously supposed to be sad and cause us to reflect on the state of humanity, but instead we behaved like idiots:

Then we found a labyrinth made of hedges, so we walked all the way to the centre. Here I am blending in with my surroundings. Can you find me?
Not immediately able to find our way back, I decided I would try to escape. Here I am making my "oh dear, these needles are poking me quite a lot" face.
So that's it. Thanks for following along. We will now return to our regular programming. Whatever that is.

King Lear by Eve Pomerantz

The garden at Anne Hathway's Cottage includes a number of sculptures that relate to Shakespeare plays. This was the one I couldn't tear my eyes from. I kept wanting to go back to it.

I haven't read King Lear in years, so couldn't grasp the signs recounting the play, but even if I didn't know the name of the piece, I could make up an entire mythology based on the stories that are crawling over each other.

The scorpion piercing through his ribcage, and the small, tortured creature gripping her throat at the foot of the sculpture, are the most startling images for me. It all just feels so...alive. Like at any moment they will all start to breathe and their bodies to writhe. Then they will get up and continue the drama. I know it cannot end well.

I will be good to thee

If I do live, I will be good to thee.

Marcus Brutus speaks softly to his servant Lucius, and asks him to play some music awhile. Lucius plays and sings quietly, until he falls asleep from exhaustion. Now there are tears brimming in Brutus’ eyes, which are fixed in a broken, far-off stare. This is his moment of realization, when the weight of the world has settled upon his shoulders. The death of his wife, the mounting defeat of his army, and the loss of the city he loves.

He had meant well. He had loved Caesar but truly believed that killing him was the only way to save Caesar from all the ways that power would deform his spirit. To save Rome from the grasping tentacles of greed and corruption.

But it had come to this. In a darkened tent, Lucius asleep over his instrument, Brutus stares like a man who can feel his body breaking away from life, even as he still breathes.

If I remember nothing else from this play, I want to remember this scene. I was so shocked by the look on his face - that terrible, stricken look of dark acceptance and helplessness. Should Sam Troughton’s career as an actor continue to grow (and something tells me it most certainly will), then I have still seen his finest moment, because it cannot get any more real than the performance we saw him give.

A handful of other highlights: Greg Hicks as a pompous yet naive Caesar, and Darrell D’Silva (left) as the boisterous, bellowing Mark Antony, whose heartbreak over Caesar’s death is so swiftly translated into the deep rage that he uses to stir the thoughts of the people against Brutus and his gang. Lucius, played by young Tunji Kasim, who can also turn his long body into that of a cat, his top lip quivering to reveal human teeth, which we still believe to be deadly fangs. And the remarkable Oliver Ryan as the most exquisite, snake-like, smooth talking Casca.

We were in the front row of a very violent play. A few times we instinctively leaned back as the soldiers thundered towards us in battle, their shields and spears clanging wildly. And the blood. Caesar stumbling from his podium, red gurgling from his mouth, his robes sticking to his stomach and chest. Scarlet smeared on his killers’ hands, up to the elbows. The wretched, writhing death of Cinna the Poet, a case of mistaken identity brought to a quick and terrible end. Cassius pressing his face into the shoulder of his friend, guiding him to stab him to death so that he may not be captured. And dear Brutus, running at the sword held by the still bloody ghost of Caesar, before collapsing into a heap.

But it always comes back to Brutus. Underneath all the clamour, there is this moment when all of the violence of the world melts away. He is so tender to Lucius, taking his instrument from him and helping him to bed. Good boy, good night. For all the great speeches and desire to earn the favour of the masses, this is for me the most noble scene.

Oh, Royal Shakespeare Company, I adore thee. You make me fall in love with language over and over again. Sit me in one of your seats for a few hours and suddenly I am transformed into the dreamer I have always wanted to be.

(Nearly done with Stratford. Just some photos of a sculpture I loved, and some comic relief madness left to go)

My kind of clutter: The Falstaff Experience

Forgive the length of this post. On a positive note, it is mostly photos, so you can skim through at knuckle-breaking speed!

Perhaps this post is fitting for the time, as Harry Potter fever is upon us again. I am currently at the very beginning of the saga, listening to The Philosopher’s Stone as read by the glorious Stephen Fry. Hopefully there are those among you who are in the mood for a little history, magic and mystery.

The Falstaff Experience is located on one of Stratford’s oldest streets, where the cobbles are the same ones on which Shakespeare would have walked (and he may have done - there was once a popular pub down this street. Who knows - perhaps it was once a lane for other…entertainments)
The house is 500 years old and visitors can wander the rooms through scenes depicting life and death in Tudor England. The first thing that greets you, after a large wooden door with a painted red X and a sign reading “Lord have mercy on our souls,” is a shadowy view of Death hovering over a plague cart.
And so it begins, through disease and old medicine, when doctors wore long-nosed masks packed with bouquets of herbs thought to offer protection from sickness. Past the Tudor dentist, where one could get a tooth pulled or a leg amputated in an afternoon.

Through the sounds of the busy market and into the quiet solace of John Dee’s study and then into an old witch’s living room. I took several photos of a gorgeous glass ball, through which the pale light reflected the upturned world of crows in cages and skulls on thick dusty books. Downstairs I found myself as I would have looked had I been a wench in a 1500s booze hall.










I loved this place. Sure, it was dusty and a bit tacky, but it held an atmosphere that I am predictably weak for. Old machines, wooden medicine boxes, jars with questionable contents, posies of flowers or herbs, mysterious tonics said to cure any ill. A combination of science and superstition, draped beneath long cloaks and studied by candlelight.

I still have so many photos I want to share, and I haven't even written about the play. It's hard to believe we were only there for two days.

Wishing you a magical weekend...

The Wishing Tree

The Wishing Tree was something we stumbled on in Stratford as we wandered the park near the river. I loved that some of the cards had been stained with raindrops and fluttered in the breeze like they were trying to escape, to fly. There is a seating area that winds around the base of the tree, where people can rest and look up into the sunlight streaming through the branches and wishes.

The wishes range from children wanting to be motorbike riders, to expressions of loss and heartbreaking gratitude. The top contender for humour was someone's wish that Jeremy Clarkson be locked in their cupboard. To which another person added "Naked." Then a third person scrawled at the bottom "with an axe in his head, he's a prat."

England in the Summer

Home from Stratford. What a splendid time. I took more than 200 photos. We didn't make it to Warwick Castle, but I am not disappointed because we managed to take in Anne Hathaway's Cottage. I'll be posting many photos over the next couple of days and writing a bit about the play, which was spectacular. To start off, here are a few photos from around the cottage.

Words, words, words - oh, yes please

My hardcover copy of the collected works of Shakespeare lies open next to me. I am trying to use it to draw up the feeling that I carried when we returned from England yesterday. But one day back at work has almost beaten my beautiful memories into submission, and it is with great effort that I attempt to describe one of the most fantastic experiences of my life.

I suppose I shall start at the beginning, since I am less liable to become confused. We left in the middle of the night, despite numerous flood warnings cropping up around England. JP prefers to drive when most people are asleep, and I can understand this since this is a small island with a ridiculous number of cars packed onto it. Still the drive down was less than enjoyable, as there were still plenty of lorries (trucks) to deal with and every bit of light was reflected by the rain, threatening us with sudden blindness.

We arrived in Stratford just before 8am, with the whole day ahead of us for wandering and exploring. I took an inordinate number of photos of old buildings with skewed timbers that seemed to be barely holding the structures together. Some of the best examples of these were the house thought to have been Shakespeare’s birthplace, and another house down the same street which stands beside a vacant lot where once stood another of Shakespeare’s homes from later in his life.

Roaming through some of the tourist attractions we quickly learned how little is known about the man himself, about his beginnings and his early life, or the lives of his family members. There are more maybes and informed presumptions than there are facts. But this does not stop the shops from cashing in on “Will Power”- everything from First Folio Towels and Shakespearean magnetic “swearing kits” to pop up cards and William’s chocolate head on a stick.

We took a short walk along the River Avon, through the graveyard to the church to visit the famous bard’s grave. It is an intensely strange experience to take photos of someone’s grave, to idolize a person so much that you feel the need to visit the place where their bones are held. Or perhaps humans come with an inbuilt capacity for the morbid and macabre. From public hangings to ghost stories, we are often drawn to the things that remind us how close we are to oblivion.

Later that afternoon we visited a small garden which harboured (I say “harboured” rather than “boasted” for good reason) a collection of modern sculptures meant to be the creative shavings inspired by each of Shakespeare’s plays. “You may have to read the plaques,” advised the monotone guide before we headed out.

It was then that JP’s ability to deal with my love of eccentric strangers was dearly tested. On the other side of the lawn we spied an old woman dressed in a stunning dark hat and a long coat, onto which was pinned a traditional poppy (as it was Remembrance Day). She wore white gloves and was clutching a small bundle of what looked like red flowers. She moved slowly from her place on the park bench and with great care leaned her back up against the sunny side of a large tree.

At that moment the wind plucked several items from her hand and tossed them to the ground. We watched her as she used her cane to drag them closer to her and then struggled to bend down to pick them up. After one successful attempt and several subsequent failures, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I bounded across the grass with a cheery “hello” and bent down to pick up the leaves (they weren‘t flowers after all) before she lost her balance completely.

And that is how I met Lucy.
“Oh, THANK YOU my dear,” she cooed in her Lancashire accent. Thus began nearly 40 minutes of me smiling deliriously while she talked about everything from Edinburgh (“isn’t it maaarrrrvellous…It’s been 11 years since I visited and I would love to go back. Perhaps in January - that’s when the National Gallery - I’m on their mailing list, you know- that’s when they haul their Turners out of the basement. Have you seen them?”) to the Black Watch (“My uncle was in the Black Watch, and when he was captured they tortured him by plunging a bayonet through his funny bone. Can you imagine?”) and Remembrance Day (“I wanted to attend the ceremony today but I wasn’t fast enough and I missed the eleven o’clock observance. So I thought I would come here instead. Isn’t it funny - when I got up this morning I had it in my mind that to honour the day I was going to spend it entirely in silence!”).

Lucy is 84 years old, and explained to me that she is also a “tree hugger.”
“I don’t believe in the NHS (National Health Service). You see the sun shines against the bark and what I do is lean my spine up against it and let the warmth soak into me. Oh, it’s wonderful.”
She was kind enough to let me take her photo and even arranged her “poise” of leaves and fallen flowers.

All this time, JP sat patiently reading on the other side of the park, and when I finally said goodbye to Lucy, he calmly spent the next hour listening to me rattle on about this gloriously unconventional creature. She was one of the highlights of my visit to Stratford and I can only hope she manages to make it to Edinburgh and that she pops into the office to see me. I have already decided where I’m taking her - to the Sheraton for high tea.

With several hours to relax before the play, we checked into our hotel, The Mercure. (Our first hotel stay! Fantastic water pressure! Huge bed! Use your imagination!).

But the play’s the thing…A game of light, lunacy and language.
A blank stage, with a series of tall, mirrored doors at the end (no photos allowed but JP was sneaky and snapped one before things got underway). JP and I have been to see many plays now and have become completely addicted to live theatre. But we agree that this production of Hamlet causes many of the other plays we have seen to pale in comparison.

I am glad that I knew the story of Hamlet and had read the play (albeit some years ago) before going in. This allowed me to take additional enjoyment from the use of language. I am so in love with Shakespeare now. This man who can still make actors convulse in agony or ecstasy, as they speak the words that pound or skip from their mouths, creating ripples in the air that reach our ears and make us shudder in pleasure. I’m telling you it gets into your bones.

What, what an ass am I! This is most brave,
That I, the son of a dear father murder’d,
Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,
Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words,
And fall a-cursing like a very drab,
A scullion! Fie upon’t! foh!

There was also a real sense of intimacy because along with the traditional options of exiting stage left or right (and in this case, through the glass doors), there were two paths from the stage through the crowd to backstage. And so Patrick Stewart, dressed for battle as the ghost of Hamlet’s slain father, stood next to us and beckoned the bewildered Hamlet, played by David Tennant, to follow him. And as Hamlet descended into madness and Ophelia, too, each in turn ran past us, their eyes wild with fear and rage.

Hamlet is Shakespeare’s longest play and the production lasted more than three hours. However despite the uncomfortable seats that made our backs ache, we didn’t want it to end. All I wanted to do was go back, turn everything back so I could see it again. It was wondrous and shocking and heavy and furiously beautiful.
In July we are travelling down again, this time to see Julius Ceaser. I cannot wait.

So, you five (actually I think we may be up to seven!), do one thing for me today. Read something, even if it is one sentence, which moves you. Words that when spun together, stir something in your belly that is akin to arousal. Let yourselves become a little flustered. Then read it again, slower. And again.

Nay, do not think I flatter;
For what advancement may I hope from thee,
That no revenue hast but thy good spirits
To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter’d?
No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp,
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee
Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear?
Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice
And could of men distinguish her election,
Sh’hath seal’d thee for herself; for thou hast been
As one, in suff’ring all, that suffers nothing;
A man that Fortune’s buffets and rewards
Hast at’en with equal thanks; and blest are those
Whose blood and judgment are so well comeddled
That they are not a pipe for Fortune’s finger
To sound what stop she please. Give me that man
That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him
In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee…