Cambridge and Hawkedon

Tuesday 25th June,
Day off, Cambridge

After over two weeks without a day off, Tuesday had been anticipated with great relish. In recent years I had found an eager tendency over Wimbledon week to stay cosied up watching the tennis and not a lot else. However this year I was determined that fun would be had something achieved. So after a degree of badgering some of the company, we left in a van and a car to the heady intellectualism of Cambridge.

The forward party travelling in the luxury of the car, arrived in splendid time and acquainted themselves with some lunch. The vanguard of Hogben, Donnelly and van were left driving around the town centre looking for parking, eventually abandoning Cambridge's well proportioned streets for the safety and higher height limit of the rail station car park. Meanwhile Hackney, Gilbert and Wilks hit the joke shop, after a good deal of school boy sniggering at the comedy breasts, Hackney stumbled on a very utopia in the shape of 'a dirty old man's walking stick' which featured a niftily placed mirror to enable to holder to peer up the skirts of trousers of the unsuspecting public. Superficially it was then brought under the auspices of it being a present for a beleaguered Donnelly, we of course the knew its true owner and it was duly 'tested' on the streets of Cambridge to Hackney's mischievous mirth and sneaky inane grin

Donnelly arrived with Hogben in tow and was presented by a begrudging Hackney with said stick, Donnelly showed some delight and promised to use it on tour. Hogben was presented with a quintet of Elizabethan plays smapled by Hackney and myself in the chairty shop-to his great delight. So with the the team reunited, we mooched in bohemian fashion down to the punting station and observed the splashing sensation of a water-fish-man who had decided to take a cooling dip in the river Camb and then share the sodden experience with the tourists in their punts. We laughed contentedly safe on the river side as he splashed the japanese man and his camera, the ladies who lunch, the drunken students and foreign tourists without prejudice and without restraint. His inhibition and fish like mannerisms were simply fascintaing to behold. So it was with fear and trepidation that we set about boarding our punt.

It was a delicate fit, so I gracefully volunteered to man the oar and steer us with skill and dexterity down the river, aside from a few teething troubles, a few walls and exaggerated squeals emanating from Hackney as a faint bit of water landed delicately on his waxy head- my time at the oar was marked by its steady line and graceful cutting through the river's undulating water. However such concentration took its toll and the oar was passed to an eager Donnelly, his curly hair prickling with anticipation. Sadly his time at the helm thrust our unfortunate boat intro a dangerous succession of crashes, smashes and screams from passing punts that experienced the brunt of Donnelly’s oarsman ship. Matters were not improved by the advent of Hackney at the helm, steering us with an equal ineptitude. Time soon turned against us, and our hour on the boat was nearing its end, a race against time followed that set all of the boat desperately working together against the setting sun and ticking clock. Some solid pushing off the various walls by Hogben, some splendid oaring from myself and some good paddling and screeching from assorted others gave us the edge to avoid the penalty overtime changes and thanking collective and assorted deities, foreign farm yard and woodland creatures we arrived back at the mooring in the nick of time. The river had been tamed, Donnelly's hair had not.

A BBQ awaited us on our return, and so on full and in some cases bubbling stomachs we retired bed bound to dreams of the river bank.

Wednesday 26th June
The Queen’s Head, Hawkedon

One of the original and abiding aims of the company has always been to take our shows to as wide and broad a range of theatre spaces, both traditional and unconventional. To this end we have performed all over the UK in schools, gardens, stately homes, band stands, shopping villages and pubs… one of these includes one of our favorite venues- The Queen’s Head in the middle of Suffolk’s rolling countryside. For the past three years we have performed here to a growing and expanding audience base, remote as it is, the pub serves a bastion for everything a local community pub should be. A public house since the 16th century, it is steeped in history and its age sits well on its timbered joints, the plaster, the beams and the daub blend seamlessly with the meadows the sit behind it, the village green and the church just down the lane and the windy road that runs betweens the towns of Sudbury and Bury St Edmunds. Thirsty travelers have thus for centuries used the Queen’s Head as a place for refreshment and invigoration. I like to think it even played host to one of the Elizabethan travelling company of players, although there is no evidence yet found to support it. The ale is locally sourced and the food simple, honest and all home cooked. As I said a bastion against the wave of soulless chain pubs littering the country. Character, charm and good company are a staple diet of those who drink here, and now a yearly theatre event is provided in the courtyard by a motley touring troupe of 21st century players with 16th century emulations.

The company arrived to sun and wind and set about the get-in with gusto. We perform on a concrete plinth enclosed on two sides by the rear walls of the pub , a meadow on the left and the garden in front where our audience assemble. It is picturesque, remote and barring the poor acoustics a perfect outdoor performance space… except if you have to fall on it, which Donnelly does with increasing commmitment and seeming relish. He is henceforth nicknamed 'dangerous', for he is a bit.

We reworked the first Nurse’s scene, which Donnelly had been struggling with, it is a complex scene held together with a long unwieldy comic speech filled with Elizabethan innuendo. We got Gilbert and Hackney on their feet giving Donnelly something to work with and react to, and put in some comic ‘business’ which had us in stitches at the time. It was certainly better but it remained a source of worry. Its clearly been included by Joe (the adapter) for a reason, but I’m still groping with how to clarify the relationship between Donnelly’s student character ‘Neville’ and that of the Nurse and how this scene furthers it. I’m sure it will come out in time.

The evening’s show was marked by an enthusiastic audience who grew with the actors into the piece as it progressed, the second half in particular held them rapt, moreover we were plagued by the ancient electric system in the pub which kept shorting at odd intervals. On such an occasion that the power went, our lights failed, the sound went and Gemma and I had to await patiently for the electricity supply to resume, when it did come back we had a further nerve jangling wait before the sound system rebooted. Miraculously we never missed a cue as the Theatre Gods smiled on us from the cloudy skies, the audience never knew, but again my back stage experience is still far from sedate. I am still finding the adjustment to this outdoor stage difficult for the play, without lighting the beginning seems shoddy and lacking in focus. It is not the fault of the actors, not even dare I suggest it my direction, perhaps the thought dawned on me that this play was not suited to the outdoor stage. The subtle nuance is lost in favour of a bolder presentation which loses the bulk of the students relationship. Thus what we are currently is more like a quirky retelling of Romeo and Juliet as opposed to it being a play distinct in its own right. I think we all crave the opportunity to get lights and intimacy back, but we have 10 performances left, and I still hold true that the play can be made to work. But I fear more compromises will have to be made to enhance the basic story telling.

A long get out with poor Hogben camped in the van piling the furniture in to ensure the necessary snug fit is followed by a welcome round of the pubs best ale. The discussion inevitably falls onto the play, the performances, the road ahead. It’s the best bit this, not the bows, not the adulation, but the quiet shared reflection that can only be understood by those in the footlights, and although the director and stage manager sit outside this inner sanctum unable to share first hand the missed cues, bungled lines and comedy falls, the bouquets and the brickbats-we remain a tightly formed team and we I think everyone enjoys the satisfaction of a drink and ponitification of a job well done. Still the ale is good and the conversation gentle and thanks to Hackney…coarse and unpredictable.