Sunday: The Great Golf Match

After two days of performing Sunday is a day off and I would normally take this opportunity to flop. There will be no relaxation today however, for it is the day of The Great Golf Match.

JD and I are due to go head to head this afternoon and my concentration needs to be tip top.  Over the past couple of days JD and I have been playing a psychological war, which mainly involves getting our own excuses for terrible golf into the mix.

The pressure is mounting: for two nights I have slept soundly, despite the fact that I have had performances looming.  No nightmares of walking onto stage naked, or discovering that I’m in a completely different show to that which I’d planned for.  However last night I writhed, tossed, turned in my bed, dreaming of swinging hopelessly at a golf ball which remains resolutely in place.  On the few occasions that the club does touch it the ball moves either a matter of inches or flies off in completely the wrong direction.  Oh, this is bad!

During the morning JD heads off to the gym (an underhand bit of training, I call it) and Liz and I head back into Kilkenny.  We walk around the castle grounds and have a coffee but most of the businesses in town are closed.

After a relaxing time we go back to the house to make final preparations.  JD comes back from the gym looking fit and buoyant. 

We load my clubs into the car and we all set off (Liz is coming with us, for the walk and to ensure fair play!)

The venue for the match is Mount Juliet, a magnificent golf course designed by Jack Nicklaus that has hosted the Irish Open and other PGA events.  It is a money-no-object facility the like of which I have never played on before.

As soon as we arrive JD heads off to the pro-shop and I dash after him, as I’m determined to pay for something during this trip.  The generosity of Nicky and her sons is unbelievable. 

Fortunately on this occasion I manage to get there before him and not only get our rounds paid for but also buy a Mount Juliet cap, a course guide and a few extra balls, which may well be necessary.

At precisely two o’clock, Liz, JD and I walk to the first tee.

JD has the honour and as he warms up I can see that he has an elegant, powerful looking swing.  He stands over the ball, waggles the club, pauses and then the match is on.  His first tee shot flies long but right into an area of rough.

And now it is my turn:  forget about those bad dreams, concentrate.  I try to keep the swing short and slow and am rewarded with the sight of the ball soaring into the sky in a dead straight line, landing just to the right of the fairway.

JD doesn’t find his ball and has to drop but I put my second into a greenside bunker.  We halve in six.

The second we halve in six too, and move onto Mount Juliet’s signature hole.

When Jack Nicklaus got his hands on the patch of land near Kilkenny he spotted a short valley which was a perfect par 3 length.  Having dug a lake, he put the tee at one end of it and the green 170 yards away at the other.

JD still has the honour and hits a shot onto the green.  Now I begin to self destruct.  First shot: plop! into the water.  Second shot: plop! into the water.  Somehow the third gets across but I’m now one hole down.

My demons follow me to the next and I’m soon two holes down.  At the fifth I go three down.  This is shaping up to be a rout.

The one great hope for me is JD’s putting which is fragile at the moment.  He is playing beautifully from tee to green (assisted by his seemingly magical rescue club) but once there he is struggling to finish the job.

From the sixth I start playing again.  My drives are long and the approach shots decent.  While JD still can’t find form on the greens I pull myself back to level as we reach the ninth.

At the ninth tee there is another example of the luxury of Mount Juliet, a little telephone in a box with a menu attached.  You simply place an order for a burger, wraps, drinks and snacks and by the time you have navigated your way to the green the food is waiting for you to collect on the way to the tenth.

Our match swings back and forward.  For a while it looks as if I am in complete control but, as I had done earlier in the round, JD fights back to level again.

All square as we start the seventeenth.  We halve. 

All square and everything to play for at the last.

The sun is setting and the shadows are long as we look down the eighteenth fairway.  JD slices his ball and is placed in short rough on some hillocks.  I hit my best drive of the round into the middle of the fairway and when JD fluffs his second, only advancing a short distance, I am definitely the favourite.

The lie is good and I take a 3 wood to clip the ball off the immaculate turf and send it towards the hole.  The swing is good, the contact is clean and the ball climbs into the sky with plenty of power behind it.  I am almost celebrating until I realise that it is arcing away to the left and what runs up the whole left side of the fairway?  Water.

For a moment I hope that I may just clear the water hazard and reach the bunker beyond.  However it is only a fleeting hope and frustratingly once more my ball plops into the lake, a fountain of silver briefly marking its landing point.

JD, now back on the fairway, is in charge once more. 

It soon becomes apparent however that neither of us seems ready to win this match, for JD’s ball follows mine into the lake.

Throughout the round JD’s composure and sense of calm has been remarkable.  He has played a superb game, getting out of trouble with that rescue club of his and scoring consistently.  But now, half way up the eighteenth fairway it all collapses.

As we walk to the point where his ball has gone into the lake his trolley and bag start to roll down the bank towards the water.  We all make a leap to save them but in his haste JD knocks over one of the red stakes marking the edge of the hazard.  For a moment it looks as if he may follow the balls into the lake but although he saves himself his composure is lost.

He drops a ball but the tempo of the swing is hurried and it flies into a bunker.  He swipes at the ball angrily, taking three to get out of the sand, but his next shot, a magnificent long putt, almost rescues his day.  Sadly for him the ball pulls up a few inches short.

In the meantime I have played a scrappy shot to the front of the green followed by several nervous putts to the hole.

After four hours, 6554 yards, some great shots from both us and some frankly embarrassing ones, it has all come down to this final green and I crawl over the line first, taking the match by a single hole.

It has been such a fun round (I would say that, wouldn’t I?)  JD has been great company throughout and it has been fabulous to have Liz with us. 

We pose on the green for pictures and make our way to the clubhouse where we pore over the scorecards and they reveal a perfectly democratic result, for while I won the matchplay game by that single, final hole, JD triumphed on strokes by 3.  We both won!

JD has let Nicky know that we are finished so she and Una drive out and join us in the clubhouse.

For all of Mount Juliet’s superb qualities the service in the bar isn’t brilliant and we have a bit of a wait before a) we can order and b) we get served our plates of fish and chips, chicken and a bowl of soup.

I am seriously beginning to flop now and the various conversations carry on around me as I subside deeper into the large leather chair.

When we have all finished, we take a little bit of time to walk through the grounds of the magnificent 5 star hotel which is attached to the golf course.

JD wants to show us the hotel’s putting course, and our walk takes through the extraordinary walled garden.  It is a complete dream in there, helped with the golden evening light.  The beds are extravagantly planted with riotous colours and set off with dream-like, whispy grasses blowing in the breeze.  It is like an oasis of flowers.  We could be anywhere right now, the location is completely forgotten.

We leave the garden and return to the real world and there JD shows us the putting green.  It is a complete miniature replica of the main golf course, complete with bunkers and those dreaded lakes.  I scowl at the third hole and we walk back to the cars.

Back at the house it is time to pack the car.  Our adventure in Ireland is almost at an end and tomorrow morning we have to leave at 5.45 to pick the ferry up in Dublin.

For once the evening does not extend as far towards midnight and we say our ‘good nights’ early and head for our various beds.

 

 

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Saturday: The Signalman, The Nore and More

Morning

Once again the rigours of the evening before (and I’m not really referring to the performance), take their toll and it is another slow, pottery start to the day.  We go through the same routine of coffee, tea and toast.

This morning Una is the first to appear from the rest of the house.  We all sit round the table and have a most remarkable conversation.  Una and JD are about to head off on what can only be described as the trip of a lifetime.

Una is a primary school teacher and JD, of course, works in the hotel industry.  They both went straight into their respective professions as soon as they graduated and therefore missed out on the gap year enjoyed by so many students.

Thanks partly to a piece of legislation in Ireland which allows teachers to take a break from work, yet guarantees them a job when they return, JD and Una have decided to travel the world.  They will be flying to Russia and from there will spend a year and maybe more exploring the eastern hemisphere. 

They will be taking a train across Russia, hiking through Mongolia, exploring Tibet and hoping to trek through the foothills of the Himalayas to Everest Base Camp.  Malaysia, Thailand, Vietnam, China, Singapore, Hong Kong all feature in their itinerary.  However, they will not be calling in favours from JD’s contacts in the luxury hotel industry as their homes will be packed up in their rucksacks each night.

Quite apart from the sheer physical scale of the adventure, there is also the logistical side of the trip to be worked on.  Visas for everywhere have to be applied for: some online, some at embassies.  Some countries will let you in and back out, but only if you haven’t travelled from a hostile neighbouring territory.  In some cases the political situation may well have changed between the planning and the arrival so everything is up in the air.

It sounds an amazing trip and Una’s excitement of the months to come is infectious.  Hopefully they will write a blog of their adventures, I can’t wait to follow them.

As we chat JD’s brother Niall appears.  Niall is the only one of Nicky’s three sons not working in the hotel industry, preferring the more regular hours of a career in marketing.  He drove down from Dublin last night and arrived during my show.  Nicky soon joins us too.

In past years Saturday has been a day of recovery but not so this year as for the first time I am doing a second show at Kyteler’s: The Signalman.

When we discussed my trip earlier in the year Nicky suggested that we staged a daytime, more intimate show to again coincide with the Arts Week crowds.  If we don’t ever become part of the official festival remember that this is where the Kilkenny Fringe started.

Niall heads into town first, and Nicky goes later.  Liz and I arrange to meet her at Kyteler’s for an early lunch before the two o’clock show.  Fortunately for us JD and Una are about so there is no pressure for Liz and me to set the house alarm.

 

Kyteler’s Inn

In Kyteler’s we are shown to a small table and order Irish Stew – well, you have to, don’t you?  As we sit and watch we are reminded (not that we have ever been in any doubt), what an amazing establishment Kyteler’s Inn is.  It is Saturday lunchtime and it is busy.  There are locals, there are tourists, there are Arts Week visitors and throughout all three floors are waitresses taking orders, serving dishes, clearing tables.  Guests are taking photographs of the decor, getting in the way of the staff as they do but there is never any issue and the whole building has a sense of relaxed efficiency.

A table near us has been reserved and when the party arrive the reserved sign is put on an adjoining table.  A second reserved table is occupied and the sign for that one is also put aside next to the first.

  Now a group of American’s arrive and they head towards what looks like a large empty table but they are disappointed when they see the two reserved tabs. A waitress bustles past and realising that the group are looking for a table says: ‘You can sit there if you like’.  ‘But it says reserved’ ‘Ah, don’t worry about that, that’s grand!’ She whisks away the two reserved signs and the group are beaming as if the Maitre D’ of a Michelin Starred restaurant has just freed up the most sort after table especially for them.  It is a tiny thing but that group will have loved their visit to Kyteler’s Inn and, by association, to Kilkenny.

Our Irish Stew and soda bread arrives and it is delicious.

And now the time is approaching to get back to work.

 

The Signalman

The Signalman is a ghost story written by Charles Dickens in 1866.  It is set in a deep, dark, damp railway cutting, at the mouth of a long tunnel and is packed with atmosphere.  The story is told by an unnamed gentleman who befriends the signalman and spends long hours talking to him in his lonely box.  The poor railway worker tells a tale of ghostly sightings and terrible happenings.

For this show I am performing it as a reading but will be introducing it as a fully fledged part of my repertoire soon.  To allow the brilliant narrative to be the centre of attention I have cleared the stage of all my paraphernalia with the exception of a small rustic stool. 

We are not expecting a huge crowd today but there are plenty of people returning after last night (presumably with the requisite ‘S’ marked on the back of their tickets) and a group of ladies who just happened to hear about the event have turned up on spec.

Just as we are about to start one of the groups order teas and Nicky’s family goes into action giving  a further illustration of the professional attitude that pervades at Kyteler’s: Nicky goes to the main bar to sort out the order, asking Niall to fetch milk and sugar for the table. Niall, remember doesn’t work in the hotel industry (although he has been brought up in it and knows how it works).  He is dressed in jeans and a casual shirt and calls JD, who is dressed in jacket and tie, over.  Both know that it would be bad form to serve guests inappropriately dressed, so Niall passes the tray to JD.  Nicky comes back with the tea, JD serves the milk and sugar, and another set of guests are spoiled without realising it.

And it is time to start.  Being a reading the whole atmosphere is much more relaxed than the theatrical events of last night and it’s a rather nice feeling, almost getting back to my roots.

I begin the show by telling the story of Charles Dickens’ narrow escape in a terrible train disaster just a year before he wrote The Signalman.  From that date he felt haunted and terrorised by the horrors of the railway and the story seems to be an exorcism of those fears.

The show goes well and I am very pleased with the way its debut has been received.  The next time I perform it will be in my home town of Abingdon as a double bill with Doctor Marigold (Friday September 19 at the Unicorn Theatre, if you must know. Tickets available directly from me).

Again the audience hang around in the bar and chat about both shows.  Many of them are going to get in touch with the festival organisers and push for our inclusion next year.

After doing a brief television interview up in the roof of the bar, I am able to get changed and Nicky, Liz and I take all of my furniture and props down to the car.

Before we leave Kyteler’s Nicky is anxious to show us her new pride and joy.  Throughout the first part of this year she has had an entire new kitchen area built which has entailed complicated planning applications, negotiations with neighbours, architectural meetings about how to fit a modern, purpose-built, mass-catering kitchen into a limited space enclosed by a 14^th Century witch’s house.

The results are spectacular and it is so lovely to hear Nicky bubbling with enthusiasm as she shows us round.  She is, justifiably, very proud of what she is achieving here.

 

A Walk by The Nore

We all get back to the house at about the same time.  Niall is going to go to the gym and Nicky had suggested that a walk would be fun.  It sounds like a great idea, especially as all of my shows in Ireland are now finished and I can free my mind of them.

Liz and I are a bit intimidated as JD, Una and Nicky all appear in very sporty looking gear, whilst we are in wellies and sweaters.  The walk takes us initially along the road and then across some fields to the banks of the River Nore.  It is quickly apparent that JD and Una are in serious training for the trek to the foothills of Everest – they are gone! Striding out ahead at a great pace.

The walk along the Nore from Kilkenny to Bennet’s Bridge is beautiful.  The river itself is dark and peaty, occasionally the strong currents created frothy white crests and then it looks like a freshly pulled pint of Kilkenny Ale.  It is a river of many characters, sometimes it flows slowly and peacefully and at other times there are sections of rapids that would not be out of place in the Grand Canyon.

The path follows the river’s meandering course, through meadows, fields and deep dark woodlands.  It is here, in the woods, that the most amazing structures arise before us.  Covered in creeping ivy and sinuous branches is a lost industrial community.  Huge mill buildings, factories, wharfs, stand long forgotten.  Here was a noisy bustling river bank, these skeletons of buildings were filled with labourers shouting, swearing, sweating.  Barges took loads up the river.  Fortunes were made and presumably lost meaning that industry moved on leaving this ghost town in the heart of the forest.  All very Brothers Grimm.

As we walk on we admire magnificent houses on each bank.  Una tells us to look out for a shrine visible briefly through the trees and when we see it, it is frankly terrifying.  Framed in a V in the woodland, a large white figure of Christ hangs against a black background, seemingly suspended in mid air.

We approach the end of our walk and the river path passes under a huge flyover carrying the M9 motorway towards Waterford.  Here, as business men roar past over our heads, as lorry drivers belch diesel into the atmosphere, as holiday makers and taxi drivers motor on blissfully unaware, wrapped up only in their respective worlds; here we are given to a rare wildlife treat.

Our first excitement is a heron perched on a rock in the river.  He is a noble bird taking off with slow, languid beats of his wings into the setting sun which refelcts brightly against the river.  And then Una squeals with excitement: in the middle of the river is an otter.  Coming to the surface, searching, fishing, inquisitive before diving again.  For a few minutes we stand searching for him, never quite knowing in which part of the river his head will reappear.  It is a beautiful end to the walk.

Back at Nicky’s car we all pile in and JD phones ahead to a Chinese restaurant in Kilkenny.  As we drive across each railway crossing Nicky takes her hands and feet from the controls of the car, at the same time shouting out ‘Win the Lotto, win the Lotto, win the Lotto!’ Apparently this is a good-luck ritual introduced to her by our sister-in-law Ann.  I might have thought keeping control of a high -powered vehicle in a rural lane might bring better results of self preservation.  However, if Nicky wins the jackpot this weekend I am willing to be convinced.

Back at the house JD and Una go to fetch the Chinese and the rest of us settle down to watch another episode of ‘The Shelbourne’ television programme.  Niall is excited about this episode as he is responsible for one of the advertisements shown at half time.  The ad in question is for a foot fungal treatment. He says it is a perfect bit of advertising, as all of the staff at the hotel (including his brother, JD) are on their feet all day and always on the move so may well suffer from foot fungus.  We’re certainly looking forward to our Chinese now!

We all tuck in to the various dishes and it is delicious.  As usual we chat and laugh.  Nicky’s home is so welcoming and she is a generous host.  We talk about our walk, the television show, the performances.  We talk about board games that we used to play as kids.  We share silly old jokes such as: ‘why is there only one Monopoly’s Commission? Why is there only one word for thesaurus? Why is dyslexia so difficult to spell?’ and others.

We play a card game and then decide to have an early night.

It’s after midnight and tomorrow I have a major golf match to play.

 

Friday: A Day of Great Expectations

Continuing the tale of our trip to Ireland:

After the long day’s travel yesterday we, not surprisingly, sleep well but are still awake before anyone else.

We potter in the kitchen making coffee for me, tea for Liz, some eggs and toast for us both. Nicky appears and has some toast too as we all sit around the table and chat. We chat about home, about the show later today, about our holiday in Scotland last year when we all met up in Cromarty, Scotland, to celebrate my 50th birthday. We try to decide on a timetable for the day.

From my perspective I cannot afford to be very sociable today. I am due to perform Great Expectations tonight and haven’t done it for a while now, so I really need to spend a good deal of time this morning going over the lines, accents and moves. We decide between us that after showers etc, I shall head outside to my perfect rehearsal space, while Liz and Nicky spend the morning mooching.

Nicky’s house is a sprawling bungalow (with a couple of bedrooms and a bathroom built into the roof space), set in a large plot of land. A few years ago she created a hedged-off area with a gazebo, a rockery, a pond, some decking. In the summer it is a perfect place for a barbeque and a glass of chilled something or other. It is also a perfect place to run through lines uninterrupted. I discovered its suitability last year when I was busy preparing Doctor Marigold.

‘HOLD YOUR NOISE! KEEP STILL YOU LITTLE DEVIL OR I’LL CUT YOUR THROAT!!!’ I bellow. Hopefully there aren’t neighbours anywhere near or the Garda will be arriving at the door before we know it. I’ve been working on Great Ex for the last few days at home, so this is really just to tweak any little moments that are causing trouble and to consider how best to stage it in Kytelers Inn later this evening.

The lines seem to be well in place and the characters are working well, which is a good omen for the show, and I spend a little over two hours working away at them during which time I am treated to mercifully kind weather.

Back in the kitchen we three meet again and decide to go into town, which is only a ten minute drive. Nicky will go into Kyteler’s while Liz and I walk around Kilkenny and maybe have a bite of lunch before all reuniting at the bar to talk about lighting and staging.

Prior to our departures we are issued with strict instructions on how to open the automatic gate at the end of the drive and how to disable the house alarm. It is simple: the gate has a telephone number, call that and the gate will swing open. If that doesn’t work, then there is a separate keypad for which Nicky sends me a text with the number on it. Now, the house alarm – unlock the door using the key and simply type a different code-number into a keypad to disable the alarm. Easy.

Kilkenny is busy today. There are plenty of tourists ambling about, taking selfies on the bridge over the River Nore which flows beneath the soaring walls of the splendid castle. The main car park is in the heart of the town, right next to Kyteler’s Inn, so we say good bye to Nicky and head into town.

It is Arts Week. The Kilkenny Festival is a city-wide event embracing theatre, music, sculpture, strange inflatable installations and much more. There are lots of venues spread around and large posters listing all of the various events.

Frustratingly at the moment Kyteler’s Inn is not an official festival venue, so is not included in the festival marketing. It seems odd: Kyteler’s is in a wonderfully central spot and has a spectacular performance space. The various bars host musicians all the year round as well as a Bodhran ‘experience’ during which guests learn how to play the traditional Irish drum.

As far as theatre is concerned, I have successfully performed ‘Mr Dickens is Coming’, ‘Nicholas Nickleby’, ‘A Christmas Carol’ and ‘Doctor Marigold’ there, so the venue’s credentials as a theatrical space are proven. Earlier in the year Nicky had tried to apply to the festival committee to be included but without success. Hopefully, next year….

Liz and I amble up to The Kilkenny Design Centre, which is made up from the old stable blocks of the castle, surrounding a small quad. It comprises artists’ studios, shops and restaurants. In the quad at the moment is the set for an open air production of Much Ado About Nothing.

We decide to have a bite of lunch there and tuck into sandwiches and cake. Unfortunately I am becoming ever more uncommunicative as the day moves on. This is always the way on the day of a performance, and I don’t make sparkling company.

Inside my head I am thinking of ways of saying a certain line, or trying this move or that; calling on previous experiences at Kyteler’s to decide where to say the opening line; where to base Joe Gargery’s forge; where to put Satis House and whist my mind is thus whirring, I am not talking.

Once lunch is finished we walk back into the main road which separates the castle from the Design Centre. The road has a large promenade to one side which features exhibitions of paintings, the inevitable ‘human statue’ and a great many ambling people.

One bonus of the festival atmosphere is that the huge variety of arts encourages others to join in. Sat on a low wall are four teenagers: jeans, hoodies, bored sullen looks. They are like any teenagers in any town in the world, except for the fact that one has a euphonium, another a set of bongos and the other two a trombone and clarinet respectively. As we walk past, the ‘euphoniumist’ puts the mouthpiece to his lips. There is no sense of performance about him, it’s just as if he’s going to puff into it with a sense of curiosity. But now we hear the sound, low and rich and resonant, as he starts with the opening bars of Ben E King’s ‘Stand By Me’.

Just take a moment, think about it, imagine it, hear it.

As the Euphonium completes the opening riff and goes into a repeat so the bongos join in, adding a little texture and when they both complete the riff again, the trombone player and clarinettist put their instruments to their lips and take up the melody.

Are you thinking about it? Can you hear it?

Somehow the insouciance of the whole scene adds to the beauty of the music.

I have to get back to Kyteler’s now to look at the stage and lighting, so Liz takes the opportunity to look around some of Kilkenny’s shops while I’m doing my tech runs.

The ‘theatre’ at Kyteler’s Inn is the top bar, which is a marvellous medieval room, complete with stone walls, arched windows of stained glass and suits of armour. At one end there is a high platform which becomes a decent sized stage with plenty of room for my small set (a wooden stool, a hat stand draped with white material, a chair and a table).

There are three theatrical lights, which actually are there for dancing and musical gigs, but they will work well if we can stop one slowly changing from red to yellow to blue constantly. Liz comes back and looks at the stage from various audience seats and we tweak until we are satisfied that the lighting is as good as we can get it.

JD (star of TV’s ‘The Shelbourne’) is going to act as master of ceremonies tonight and that role includes operating my CD voiceovers, so we spend a bit more time making sure that the sound levels are correct and that the tracks are cued up properly.

When we are satisfied, Liz and I head back to the house for a bit of a rest before the evening’s events

As we drive up to the security gates we phone ahead but they don’t work (I later discover that my phone is adding +44 to the Irish number, thereby rendering it unrecognisable to the security system). Liz gets out of the car and puts the number that Nicky gave us earlier into the keypad, thereby activating the electric motors and swinging the gates open.

At the front door I put the key in and the alarm sets up its warning ‘beep, beep, beep, beep’. I get my phone out and look at the number that Nicky texted me earlier today. Press the four digits. ‘beep beep beep beep’. For some reason the alarm doesn’t deactivate and there is a message flashing: ‘incorrect number. System not disarmed’. Damn! I must have hit a wrong number. Try again.

Meanwhile Liz is saying ‘That’s the wrong number’. Helpful. I know. Press the keypad again. Definitely correct this time. ‘Beep beep beep beep. Incorrect number. System not disarmed.’

‘Darling, that’s the wrong number.’

‘Yes, yes, I know!’ I am beginning to sound like my own father as he got impatient with my mother.

Stabbing at the keys this time.

‘Beep beep beep beep. Incorrect number. System not disarmed.’

‘It’s not right!’

And now all hell breaks loose as the beeping stops and a piercing high pitched wail takes its place.

‘That’s the wrong number!!!!’

‘I put it in properly, and this is the text Nicky sent. It IS right, the system is broken.’

Grrrrrrrrrrrr. Grrrrrr. Grr. Gr. Oh.

Gradually the realisation dawns on me that the texted number was for the gate. The alarm number was the other number.

Liz recognises the fact that I have worked out the problem, but to her great credit does not say ‘I told you so.’ She even manages not to look smug. Well, not too smug.

‘I, um, I got the numbers mixed up.’

‘Yes’

I put the correct number in and amazingly the wailing alarm is silenced. At the same time I have a message from Nicky, who has been called by the security company and probably by the police as well.

At the scene of the crime we fully expect an armoured car to screech up, disgorging gun-toting officers yelling at us to ‘Spread ‘em!’

Fortunately for us nobody arrives, so we go in to the kitchen and have a cup of tea.

Actually there isn’t that much time until we have to go back into town and get ready for the show. Kyteler’s Inn is busy this evening and the various bar areas are noisy and lively.

The top bar/theatre is now laid out for our show, with seats in rows. Liz is going to man the ticket table at the door and runs through the pricing arrangements with Nicky. This may sound easy but it is made more complicated by the fact that we are offering a discount for anyone who comes to both of my events.

So, a ticket for tonight costs €15. A ticket for tomorrow’s show is €10. Some people have bought tickets for both at a cost of €20 and their ticket will be marked with a G and an S. If people who have only bought a ticket for tonight (just a G on the ticket) but decide that they would like to come tomorrow as well, then tomorrow’s ticket will only cost them €5 and Liz must add an S to the already purchased G. Some people have paid in advance but need to collect their tickets. Some people need to collect their tickets AND pay for their tickets.

Everything is ready with 30 minutes to go and the first customers arrive. Immediately Liz realises that the preparations were not quite completed. There are no tickets.

Nicky runs back to the main bar and comes back with the envelope containing all of the tickets.

The gentleman would like to know if there is a different price for senior citizens. Haven’t discussed it. Call Nicky again. No.

The gentleman would like to pay with a credit card. Liz looks at the box of cash. Nicky comes to the rescue once more and takes him to the bar and uses the card machine there.

I take the opportunity to go upstairs to the old flat, which is now a store room, in order to change surrounded by bottles of booze of all kinds.

As the 7.30 start time approaches I head back down to the room and wait with Liz at the back until we are all ready to start.

JD gets the signal from Nicky (these events are great family affairs) and makes his way up to the stage. I may be imagining it but I’m sure there is a gasp as people recognise him as JD from televison’s ‘The Shelbourne’. He makes a typically impressive introduction, the voiceover plays at the correct moment and I make my entrance from the rear of the room.

‘HOLD YOUR NOISE! KEEP STILL YOU LITTLE DEVIL, OR I’LL CUT YOUR THROAT!!!’ has the required effect and there are sharp intakes of breath as Magwitch makes his appearance from behind the audience.

The first act goes very well and the audience clap appreciatively at the interval. As they refill their glasses at the bar I go back to the flat/store room to cool off a bit, towel down and get a fresh shirt on for the second act.

Great Expectations is quite a dark, intense show but the beginning of the second act has one of the necessary comic moments as Wemmick takes Pip to meet his Aged Parent. It is a part of the show I love and the audience responds to it.
Pip’s adventures take him on. He learns who his benefactor is, he is spurned by Estella, tries to save Miss Havisham, is attacked by Orlick, loses Magwitch, becomes reunited with Joe, works for Herbert, returns to Satis House and walks away from the story, hand-in-hand with Estella once more.

I am exhausted but so pleased with the way the show has worked, and Nicky, standing at the back clapping, is delighted too. I think we have proved once more that the top bar at Kyteler’s Inn is a genuine theatre space and fully deserves to be included as a festival venue.

Many of the audience stay in the bar to chat and it is quite late before I am able to change. JD is there with Una, Nicky is chatting with everyone, Liz and I get a glass of wine and join the group.

Eventually people start to leave and we all go back to the house.

I don’t do the alarm

.
Nicky has brought platters of food from the kitchens at Kyteler’s and it is perfect post-show food: lots of things just to pick on such as cocktail-sausages, sandwiches and samosas. We all sit round the table once more, chatting and laughing.
Tomorrow I have another show and this time it is a new one and it is at lunchtime, so I really must have an early night.

Well after midnight, then, we say our goodnights.

Feast Or Famine

I used to know an actor who, whenever you asked him if he was busy, always answered the same way:  ‘You know this business: feast or famine, dear boy, feast or famine!’

In which case, to keep the analogy going, I have enjoyed a veritable banquet over the last week or so.

For the past four years I have been travelling to Kilkenny in Ireland to perform during the City’s Arts Week.  Not FOR Arts Week, but DURING Arts Week.  More of that later.

The connection with a town in the middle of Ireland may not be obvious until I declare a family interest.  My sister Nicky owns and runs Kyteler’s Inn right in the heart of the City.  The wonderful stone house was once the home of Dame Alice Kyteler, a notorious witch who worked her way through four husbands.  Eventually the relatives of each of the deceased spouses began to suspect something was up and accused Alice of witchcraft.  Alice fled, possibly to England, and left her poor maid to be tortured, flogged and eventually burned at the stake.

Kyteler’s is now is a bustling, lively, musical pub in the middle of a bustling, lively, musical city.  In a guidebook to Kilkenny I once read that it boasts ‘over 52 licensed premises’.  Over 52?  Why not ‘over 50’, or ‘54’ or whatever the official number may be.  I have a theory that the inspector passed out after 52, so just used the last legible notes in his book for the official guide.

Four years ago Nicky suggested that I came over to perform in Kyteler’s and the evening was hugely successful and I have been back each summer and one winter since.

This year we decided that it would be fun to add to the usual Friday evening show and perform a more intimate programme during Saturday afternoon, thereby lengthening my stay which is always a good thing

Liz was able to come with me, so the whole adventure, which would also encompass 2 days in Wales, became a mini holiday break for us both.  Over the next few days I will tell you the story, starting with:

 

Thursday: The Journey

The car is loaded as if we are going away for months rather than days but during the next week I will be performing Great Expectations, The Signalman, Mr Dickens is Coming and Doctor Marigold so props and costumes for all of those are in. I will be playing golf with my nephew so golf clubs have to be in, and we have packed clothes, shoes, coats, umbrellas and so forth.

At last, at 8am, we set off for Holyhead on the Isle of Anglesey.  The journey takes us north to Liverpool and then west along the north coast of Wales.  The drive is fairly easy and the weather is good so we arrive at the port of Holyhead in good time and join the queue of cars waiting to board the ferry.

Before leaving this morning we had made some sandwiches and now seems the perfect time to unwrap them and tuck in.  How middle aged.

Lunch finished and we are of the opinion that we are now ready to board.  Unfortunately the representatives of Stena Line do not share the same thoughts and meander around the dock in their Hi-Vis jackets.

We continue to sit in a line of cars.  Watch the line of cars on our left board the ship.  Watch the line of cars on our right board the ship.  Watch a line of lorries board the ship.  Watch some coaches board the ship.  Eventually and somewhat reluctantly our line is waved on board.

We make our way up from the car decks to the public decks and try to find somewhere comfortable to sit, as does everyone else.  We find some chairs but they seem to have springs instead of legs and wobble all over the place: great fun but not for 3 hours maybe.

We decide on a table near to a coffee bar and settle in for the long haul, getting out kindles and magazines.  All around us are noisy families with loud electronic toys and high decibel voices…we must be getting old, I think.

The ferry eases away from Wales and points itself towards Ireland.

As the journey chugs on we fill the time gradually.  We delay the excitement of a walk around the shop for as long as possible and enjoy it all the more for that.  We are able to savour the leprechaun bottle openers and the Guinness tea towels.  We can linger at the perfume counter and admire the high tech, budget headphones and colourful zany iphone covers.  All of this retail excitement takes up maybe ten minutes of the trip.

Sigh. Back to the table.

Aha!  There is an arcade, we can play car racing game against one another, except one side of the game isn’t working, so we have to take it in turns, which isn’t so exciting.  Another five minutes passed.

Now what?

Let’s go outside and have a bracing walk around the deck.  The good news is that this takes up much more of our time.  The bad news is that’s because there is one tiny, miniscule, petite square of deck accessible to the passengers and it is not shown on any notice anywhere, so we are walking from door to door, bulkhead to bulkhead until, almost accidentally we find the way out.

Actually the time in the open is lovely and we can see Ireland looming large which is exciting.

We return to our base camp with a greater sense of anticipation now.  An announcement comes over the ships tannoy.  It is the cheery voice of a children’s entertainer:  ‘Hey everyone!  Why not come to the main restaurant to see our great Kids Show! We’re putting on Oliver Twist!’  Would you believe it?

We decide not to avail ourselves of the opportunity but a little later, as we are walking back towards the staircase which will take us to the car deck, the children in the restaurant are singing ‘The Wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round.  The wheels on the bus go round and round all day long’.  Hmmmm, must re read Oliver Twist, I obviously don’t know it as well as I should.

Another announcement on the tannoy asks all car passengers NOT to block the staircases by trying to get to the car decks until the ship has berthed.  This is the cue for everyone to rush for the staircases.  Eventually the doors are opened and we all get into our cars. 

We watch the line of cars on our left leave the ship.  We watch the line of cars on our right leave the ship.  We watch a line of lorries leave the ship.  We watch some coaches leave the ship.  Eventually and somewhat reluctantly our line is waved away.

The cars, lorries and coaches wind in a long snake through the Dublin docks and at each mini roundabout or junction we lose a few more.  Unfortunately our SatNav (called Sean in honour of his Irish accent) chooses the moment we arrive at a major intersection to have a crisis and wavers between the city centre or the toll tunnel.  We take matters into our own hands and chose the wrong route.

The toll tunnel would have been the good choice, beneath the city and out to join the main motorway circling Dublin.  It would have been dull but fast.  As it is we have interesting, lovely, and very slow.

Our route takes us past the hugely impressive Landsdowne Road Stadium where Ireland play their home Rugby matches, and then follows the line of the Grand Canal.  We never knew Dublin had such a thing but it is a wonderful part of the city.  The tow path is well used by walkers, runners and cyclists and stunning Georgian architecture abounds, with the elegant doors and fan lights which are such a feature of Dublin.

There is a positively Mediterranean feel as pubs and coffee bars (OK, just pubs), spill out onto the pavement and in the low light of a Friday evening the chairs are filled with people enjoying the craic.

The traffic crawls on.

OK, that’s enough loveliness. We want to get a move on now.

The traffic crawls on.

Georgian elegance turns into Victorian functionality which turns into post-war drab, which turns into 70s industrial. Still there is no let up in the traffic.

The crawl continues until we finally meet the intersection with the M50 ring road, where ‘major improvement’ is going on.  All I can say is that there is a bit of work to do yet.

Finally released from the shackles of Dublin the journey is a real pleasure once more.  The scenery is soft and gentle, the sun is low and there is drama in the dark rain clouds in the distance.  The roads are empty now and we make great progress to Naas where, like the ship we travelled on, we make a slow turn to port and set off on a new heading taking us towards the medieval city of Kilkenny.

On this stretch of road Sean has another breakdown.  It’s obviously been a few years since he was home and the impressive dual carriageway doesn’t feature in his memory bank.  The screen tells us that we are rather unfortunately bounding across fields and, as far as Sean is concerned, have left tarmac far behind us.

Fortunately Sean’s lack of local knowledge is more than compensated for by my memories of previous journeys and even without his help we are soon turning into Nicky’s driveway and pulling up outside the door. There to welcome us is Nicky all hugs and smiles, her eldest son John David (JD) and his girlfriend Una.

We are bustled into the house while JD takes our bags from the car and puts them in our room:  Wow, this is 5-star service, most impressive.

The kitchen table is already laid and a bottle of chilled sparkling rosé is popped and poured. Ahhhhhh, lovely.  Home from home.

But before we can eat supper it seems that there is an important programme to watch on television so we all settle down on the huge L-shaped sofa to watch RTE’s ‘The Shelbourne’.

You may think that this is a strange way to welcome guests but there is a good reason.  JD has been working as the Guest Relations Manager at The Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin, which is an elegant 5-star establishment.  RTE, the Irish national broadcasting service, has made a fly-on-the-wall documentary about life at the hotel.  JD features strongly in every episode and we are all immensely proud of him.  He not only comes across as a consummate professional in the hotel industry but also as a natural on the small screen.

In this week’s episode he is helping a guest who is staging the most lavish marriage proposal you can imagine. The man has booked a suite which is to be filled with white roses.  There has to be a vase visible from every angle in the room.  The bed is strewn with white rose petals. Nothing is too much trouble for the staff and JD is there liaising with the guest, making sure the final touches are just so, until the moment when the lady arrives…….

Thankfully she said ‘Yes’.

As soon as the show is over JD and Una’s phones are alive with tweets and retweets about the show, including one from the proposer thanking JD again for a spectacular job well done.

Dinner tonight is a gorgeous spaghetti bolognaise and we all sit at the table chatting, laughing, eating and drinking until suddenly it is after midnight.  This always happens in Ireland.  The phrase ‘let’s just have a quiet, early night’ doesn’t seem to exist.

Liz and I say our goodnights, another hug with Nicky and up we go to bed where after a long day, we quickly fall asleep.