Dumfries

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In fair Verona where we lay our scene…

... or, in this case, Dumfries. Our location is the small Scottish town of Dumfries: possibly the prettiest yet, although I’m sure that crown will change hands as we advance. It’s primarily daunting because of our gargantuan backdrop — the lowlands of the east. For some reason the sky always seems so much bigger in Scotland. I’m sure there’s a scientific reason for this. Friar Lawrence explains to me, in that wonderful way that only he can, that cities make people more introverted and less imaginative because there is always something blocking our sight-lines. That’s not the case here, and I think we all feel much healthier for it.

A towering red-stone church resides to the side of the stage. It’s a deep tan and maroon colour and catches the sunlight regally. The grass is a verdant green, although the cause of such lusciousness (the rain) seems to be toying with us tonight. Give it to us straight, doc…

The hospitality here far outdoes anything we’ve met with before. They lay on a champagne reception with a small feast afterwards. This is just about the best thing you can offer to a starving actor who’s just stood in the damp bellowing for two hours traffic on a skiddy stage.

The people of Dumfries seem to stare a little, though politely. I think it’s my facial hair. I don’t blame them. Both nights are the biggest audiences the Globe touring has ever seen, almost 500. The weather is hospitable, and although we contend against the strident wind, there is a happy bubble of peace here by the church and we let our voices treat the space more gently.

Our green rooms are in the sanctity of the church, which is gracious and spacious. Doing a warm-up here makes you feel like you could take on the world with a whisper. This beauty (and a wedding rehearsal taking place there too) is somewhat shattered by poor Mercutio having his trousers mischievously yanked down pre-show, revealing his ‘fiddlestick’ to all.

Am thinking about making this diary a self-pitying catalogue of my injuries as well as our adventures. Have managed to lose my sword-fighting nail, buckled my hip, and today received a tasty rake across the face. They’ll be scars to tell the grandchildren about, that’s for sure. And others have worse in the show, methinks.

Mercutio rips his shirt into pieces at one point, and my cat mask for the dance is taking quite the beating (it now has two floppy ears, although our SM’s faithfully fix it — there should be awards for the work they’re putting in, I tell thee).

The evening performance gets one of the best reactions we’ve ever had, and afterwards, at the sponsor's dinner, everyone is incredibly generous about the show. I meet a roofer who tells me he wasn’t sure when his wife booked the tickets, but he enjoyed it, and, he confides, thinks this Shakespeare fellow is going to be big one day.

Indeed, he may well be…

Perri Snowdon

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