Poland

In fair Verona where we lay our scene ...

...or in this case, Poland. For some strange reason we are booked on an early flight to Gdansk, and most of the company chooses to stay up till our 4am pick-up time rather than snatch a few hours sleep. We are ferried from our homes to Victoria, from Victoria to Luton, and from Luton we scoot to Gdansk, a little jewel of forestry on the south lip of the Baltic Sea.

Our hosts pick us up at the airport —myself and the AD are early, prompting us to pretend to festival that they’ve inadvertently booked in a one-man Romeo & Juliet, plus director— and then are driven fairly recklessly to the old town of Gdansk, which was levelled in WW II and has now been rebuilt in mock-medieval style.

We are all suffering from the lack of sleep, and have a dream-like dinner at a Russian restaurant before hitting the sack. I’m still of the opinion that Mother Courage was in fact our waitress. The spitting image, I tell thee.

The first thing that strikes you about this edge of Gdansk is the sheer amount of pharmaceutical shops. Beauty reigns supreme here. On the way back from the restaurant we notice figures in the alleyways of the street, beggars and homeless, overshadowed by the groaning buildings of H&M and MacDonalds. Our hotel receptionist gives me a crash course in Polish and I set off to explore the less commercialized areas, of which there are many tucked away.

Our camper-van is set in a beautiful little curve of woodland that stretches alongside the Baltic Sea. Benches made from rough-cut wood surround the stage and behind us is a steep incline down to the beach (which, remarkably, is practically Caribbean to look at). The heat is fairly oppressive, and wasps are present in ominous numbers. Our first audience is incredibly receptive — they laugh at moments that have thus far eluded popular mirth. As I appear with the ukulele and say to a Polish fellow the fateful line: ‘I’m getting married today!’ he bursts into hysterics, nodding and giggling in broken English ‘Yes, I know, I know!’. I hurry up my first Tybalt speech to Benvolio when I notice a wasp crawling menacingly on the side of his face. We do try to look after each other.

After this enthusiastic audience we’re on a high, so we collect massive fallen branches and skit down to the beach to swim and make a fire. Our producer provides us with pizza and crates of Polish beer, and we see in the sunset with bouts of rounders, wrestling, and a game of ‘Mafia’. We just can’t seem to stop playing. Occupational hazard, I suppose.

The second venue in Poland is astonishing, my favourite yet. Stumbling up a gravel track, cutting a route through ever-heightening pine trees, we come to a semi-canopied gully where our stage is set. Up in the audience ‘auditorium’ are scattered rings of fallen trees to sit on, and behind us a tawny hill rises helter-skelter style to a sunshine dappled peak. The acoustic is the richest we’ve heard since the Globe — there is much to be praised in an auditorium of wood.

I love playing Tybalt (especially today when, after Mercutio’s stabbing, a dog in the audience snarls at me and I get to hiss back), but the second half for the actor in me —as Paris— is much more pleasant. It’s practically all good news until Juliet’s fake death. In my giddiness to (finally!) give Juliet her flowers in the Friar Lawrence scene, I snatch and spin and slip up on the wet boards, my legs flying high up horizontally. Thankfully some sort of reflex kicks into place and as I fly through thin air I manage to toss the flowers to Juliet, which she expertly catches. Years of drama school at work, right there.

Mercutio has hurt his foot in the Baltic Sea but soldiers through his incredibly fluid performance. Doctor Theatre to the rescue again.

Our host is in tears as we leave (‘Not for you, you see, but for the end of the whole festival — I do it every year’) and we tumble on to Germany, and it’s infamous ‘mini-Globe’…

Perri Snowdon

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