Winchester

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

After the exotic hurly burly of Romania and Malta, the return to yet another beautiful stately home (yet another!) has a peculiar effect on us. Civilized society has lost its sheen. But here we are in Avington Park. Which is just lovely.

Our stage is laid on the painstakingly manicured grounds of the house’s flank. This is a wide, flat space, spiked with ornate fountains and gooseberry bushes. Woodland animals poke their noses out from every tangle of shrubbery.

Our green-room walls are adorned with rifles, swords and an African spear, which, according to the slightly sinister information plaque, was used in a ‘local murder’. I think they mean in Africa, not Winchester. Bookshelves stuffed with dusty almanacs ladder up to the ceilings.

Benvolio gets a scolding from the owner of the home for venturing into their private kitchen to fill up the kettle. I have a feeling that keeping a house such as this is not as blissful an affair as you might think. Nevertheless, we channel some of this healthy resentment of the landed classes into an inventive warm-up.

The audiences could not be more dissimilar from Europe. The dark masses of huddled bodies that were so tangibly involved on the continent treat here in England treat Shakespeare as a simple, eccentric, everyday occurrence of genius — picnic and champagne and a giggle and it’s done. There is of course nothing wrong with this approach. But we try to spice up the performance with some imported Romany Gipsy flair.

Peacocks and peahens populate the grounds. During the party scene, when Tybalt first notices the infiltrating Romeo, a Peacock perches on the tip of the balustrades behind our camper-van, and for a bizarre moment it seems like I’m reproaching this squawking avian for intruding, rather than the Montague.

Actually, some very exciting news that I’m forgetting — during our European rumpus, Tybalt’s party mask (a decidedly feline affair) has been tragically put to sleep. My replacement mask arrives today, and the Prince Of Cats is very happy — it even has paintbrush whiskers, mimicking my own moustache beneath the visor. Lady Capulet gets a tickled cheek during the slow-dance, but that aside it’s very popular.

Other mishaps include what could have been a semi-disastrous costume malfunction — as Paris bids farewell to Juliet and Friar Lawrence, high on the smacker he’s just received (probably the first kiss of his life), he makes his clumsy exit. Except that he can’t. His jacket’s snagged on the Friar’s beads. Cue an embarrassed, improvised scene where we try to free ourselves from each-other — Paris still smiling fondly at Juliet, Friar becoming increasingly enraged. I begin to strip my jacket off, but the tenacious priest breaks his beads and I’m free to go find my ukulele. Smooth, as ever, Sir Paris.

The space, corralled by high, thick trees, is incredibly calm, and our voices carry crisply. Our thorough warm-ups are executed opposite a ha-ha (remember those?) in whose paddock a cluster of excitable horses frolic. As we blow out our lips (actor lingo but try it, you’ll see) the horses gallop over and watch us, fascinated. What strange creatures they must think we are.

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