Herstmonceux

In Fair Verona Where We Lay Our Scene… Or, in this case: HERSTMONCEUX

As we drive through the lolling hills that take us to the heart of Herstmonceux castle, we’re struck by the observatories that make this into one of Canada’s finest international study centres. It’s a curious collaboration, history and science, and Herstmonceux executes it beautifully. We pull up at the castle itself and a sudden patriotism springs into my throat. Majesty was a word created for sights like these. The foremost tower of the castle rises up like a Sphinx’s head, and the achingly long drawbridge that teeters over the moat spills out like a great dragon’s tongue. Our green room is an intricate wooden box with a ceiling of cream and yellow diamond-drips. On it’s wall is stamped a lengthy chart of the kings and queens of England. Our warm-up area is a courtyard filled with ruptures of dizzying flower-beds. And we are told that they will be feeding us. The food, as we discover exactly two minutes later, is very good. This is what you might call a reception.

Our accommodation is in the student dorms and, walking through the woods and past the observatories, eerie rabbits hop out in front of us, criss-crossing our path. Spooky? Yes. But it suits the mood of the play.

The camper-van is set in front of the moat, and the drawbridge promises what may be our most impressive entrance yet. Our first argument is over to whom within the play does the castle belong to. Those pesky Montagues try to lay claim to it, as does the Prince, but it’s quite clearly Capulet architecture. This fact Old Capulet emphasizes by gesturing to it when talking about Juliet: ‘She is the hopeful lady of my earth’.

The audiences are small at first, but by our last night here they are prolific and rowdy as Europe. The stage is incredibly bouncy and the acoustic is brilliant, our best yet. Bellowers need not apply.

The final performance here will go down in the tour log as The Night Of The Acting Dead. It begins in the fight warm-up when I’m accidentally clonked in the temple by the hilt of a dagger. Next, Old Capulet manages to scrape his head along the door of the camper-van, scalping himself. He is fine — but everybody else feels faint upon examining his grisly wound. Then Juliet slips through the sun-roof and smacks her cheek, eliciting an ‘oooooh!’ from the audience, as if they were at a football match. Finally, in the Mercutio/Tybalt fight, I faux-punch my opponent. But a combination of dizziness from the previous blow to the temple and his missing contact lenses leads to a punch too close for comfort. My rage-filled face turns comically to concern for what feels like a broken nose on the end of my fist, before twisting back into Capulet ferociousness. Poor Mercutio is stunned, but somehow he finishes the fight. I watch his death speech from behind the audience, terrified that he might pass out before he plagues both our houses. He acquits himself bravely, and Romeo’s line ‘Mercutio’s soul is but a little way above our heads’ pangs me with guilt beyond anything Tybalt’s felt before. Backstage during the interval, I run to check on my victim, who is already developing a purple eye. But everyone is crowding around Romeo. In his death-speech, dazed and in pain, Mercutio has clawed Romeo’s neck and our lover now displays a weeping gash. The cycle of violence continues. ‘All are punish-ed…’

Thankfully Herstmonceux is beautiful and secluded enough to offer us all respite from our battle-wounds. Behind the Tudor castle are a plethora of gardens: Shakespeare Garden, Herb Garden, Butterfly Garden, Lovers’ Garden — and behind these a forest walk up to ‘Wood-Henge’, a circle of trees carved with runes. I make friends with a little yellow frog (who I, in retrospect, fondly hope is not poisonous) and practice that Mercutio punch over and over again. It’s a wonderful play, but not worth killing someone over.

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