Going off the rails

I returned from my brief American trip on the morning of Wednesday October 7 and had the remainder of that day and Thursday to rest a little, before heading off, on my birthday, for two days in Wales. Here is the story of that event:

Friday October 9

The Journey

The journey to the heart of Snowdonia is a long one, so I need to leave plenty of time to allow me drive, eat, arrive and rest before the evening’s events. The shows that I will be performing (A Child’s Journey With Dickens and The Signalman) do not require any furniture or set, so I pack my costume, an old railwayman’s oil lamp and a red flag, before setting forth at around 11am.

A couple of years ago Liz and I were driving to Cromarty, in the Highlands of Scotland and developed a game to help pass the 9 hour journey and it is a game that I often use on the road these days: ‘Road Bingo’.

The game (no, I will refer to it as a sport, for I wish to create a World governing body and be responsible for the setting of the rules) is really very simple. The object is to spot a car representing each letter of the alphabet, in order. The letter may be the initial letter of either the make or model of the car; for example, a Toyota Corolla may be used for T or C.

I head out from Abingdon, onto the A34 and from there onto the M40 towards Birmingham and so the game begins: the start is easy and I am quickly through to D with an Audi, BMW, Cheverolet and a Land Rover Discovery. There is a bit of a pause as I scan the roads for something to give me my E, but there is nothing. I am looking for Lotus Elises, Mitsubishi Evos and Land Rover Evoques. It is the latter that gets the game back on track.

The morning is beautiful and the sky is bright blue, casting a perfect backdrop for the golden trees as they begin to welcome autumn.

A Ford Transit van and Volkswagen Golf overtake me and then a Hyundai IX35. Unfortunately, under my rules, I am not allowed to use the same car for 2 concurrent letters, I have to widen my search for an I.

On the opposite carriageway a rumbling diesel lorry made by Iveco passes me by.

I am now nearing Birmingham and taking the M5 to the West. It is a terrible stretch of road and is always slow but bad traffic equals lots of cars: I am rewarded with a Jaguar, a Ford Ka a Land Rover Defender, a Mazda and a Nissan.

The traffic trawls slowly passed the Ikea at Darlaston and I leave Birmingham behind me, heading towards Shrewsbury. The traffic is thinner here and my successful game hits a barrier as I can not find an O. The Favoured car is a Skoda Octavia, but none seem to driving into Shropshire today. I think I spot lots on the other carriageway, but I am not confident enough to know for sure whether they are the correct model.

It is lunchtime and I decide to stop at the next Motorway service station, which is at Shifnal. This is a rather nice coincidence because Shifnal is the village where Little Nell and her Grandfather ended up in The Old Curiosity Shop. In the Churchyard there is even a real grave stone to her memory, erected in the 1920s by an entrepreneurial clergyman, keen to make an extra buck.

I finish my lunch and get back on the road, and almost immediately I am rewarded by an Octavia, and another and another and a fourth. I appear to have become caught up in a Skoda Octavia Owner’s Club meeting.

The road takes me on and the traffic is thinning out now but I am rewarded with a Fiat Panda, Nissan Quashquai, Range Rover and yet another Skoda Octavia! This stretch of road is very profitable as a Nissan Terrano overtakes me.

I have now left Ironbridge and the birthplace of the Industrial Revolution behind me. The houses are ancient, black and white timbered now, and soon I will be climbing slowly into the mountains of North Wales.

My opportunities for Car Bingo are becoming more limited, but that is fine because the scenery demands my attention. The hills in North Wales are a remarkable mixture of heathland, with whipsy grass, fern and heather framing the slate shale fields.

I get a bonus of a VW Up! and a Vauxhall, but here the game comes to an end for a while. W is always a nightmare – the only real choices that I am aware of are the Jeep Wrangler, and the Renault Wind, both of which are rare in the UK. Perhaps there will be a few Jeeps up in the mountains!

The Snowdonia National Park is looking magnificent as I follow the sinuous single track roads winding ever upwards. The road signs are in Welsh and English, and the place names are ever more unpronounceable to an Englishman’s tongue.

Soon I am approaching the grey town of Blaenau FFestiniog, where I am to stay. Blaenau is set high in the hills: not exactly a valley, but surrounded on all sides by a slate bowl. Indirectly it is the slate that has brought me here today.

In its heyday this part of Wales exported slate all around the globe (I believe that New York City Hall has a Welsh slate roof). There was a plentiful supply of the mineral in the mountains and excellent sea port facilities in the town of Porthmadog, but the problem was how to get the one to the other.

A narrow gauge rail line was built, winding into the hills. Originally long trains of slate wagons were hauled up to the mines by ponies. The wagons were filled, the ponies were tethered into the rear carts and the whole thing rushed back down to the port, powered only by gravity.

Eventually steam locomotives were built to take the strain, and it is the 150^th anniversary of the introduction of passenger wagons that the railway is celebrating throughout this weekend.

I check into the Isalt Guest House, which is built on a perch overlooking the Blaenau Ffestiniog rail station. It is owned by Richard and Barbara Hope and I chat with Richard as he shows me to my room, which has a spectacular view. He explains how the coffee machine works and brings up a brushed stainless steel vacuum flask with fresh milk and a Kilner bottle of pure water. It is the little details that make such a difference.

Isalt Guest House

A Childs Journey With Dickens and The Signalman

I rest in my room for a couple of hours, before getting into costume and driving to the Tan y Bwlch station, half way down the line, where I am to perform in the café.

There to meet me are members of the company that oversee the running and preservation of the railway system. I am greeted by Clare, with whom I have been emailing for the past few months, and who is responsible for the festival. In turn I am introduced to Geoff, who will be introducing me, and Sam who is the resident historical expert and who has created a wonderful ‘set’ as a backdrop to The Signalman, using items drawn from the museum’s collection. Actually all of the items that she has found would look fabulous wherever I do The Signlaman (especially the bell signalling system), and I am trying to devise ways of sneaking them into my car later.

We all spend some time chatting and making sure everything is ready for the audience, who are due to arrive by train at 7.50. As the time approaches the train whistle can be heard echoing around the hills and the plume of steam announces her arrival.

The audience arrives

Many of the audience have entered into the spirit if the event and arrived in Victorian costume, and it is a lovely atmosphere as we all gather in the small room. The only space to move is on my ‘stage’ area.

Geoff introduces me and I go into the first half of my show, which features my retelling of the charming little story ‘A Child’s Journey With Dickens’. In 1868 Charles Dickens was riding on a train from Portland Maine to Boston. During the journey a ten year old girl named Kate sat herself down next to him (as bold as brass) and began to talk. She was a huge fan and had read as many of his novels that she could get her hands on.

In 1912, to commemorate the centenary of Dickens’ birth, Kate recounted her memories of that memorable day to members of the New York Branch of the Dickens Fellowship.

It makes a lovely, gentle start to an evening that will become so much darker.

During the break the audience fetch their plates of cheese and salad, re-charge their glasses and resume their seats ready for The Signalman.

Those of you who have been following these posts will know that I have been struggling slightly with The Signalman in recent weeks and those doubts are playing on my mind as I get ready to begin again. I give myself a bit of a motivational talk: if I cant get it right here, on a dark October night just yards from the railway lines, then I may as well pack up and go home.

It works like magic! The audience are wrapped up in the atmosphere of the little signal box, the haunting cry of the telegraph wires, the fear of the signalman and the rush of steam and the scream of brakes as the story comes to it’s inevitable yet tragic end.

As they come to terms with what they have witnessed, it suddenly dawns on the crowd that they now have to board a steam train and head down the mountainside into the night: the dark, sombre night.

As the locomotive gets up steam and blows its whistle, I wave everyone off with a green lamp (not the red danger light) and head back into the station. A wonderful plate of lasagne and salad is waiting for me and I gently come back into the real world, from performing land.

I pack up all of my props and costume (reluctantly leaving the signalling memorabilia) , say goodbye to everyone and drive into the night, back to Blaenau, and bed.

Saturday October 10

I wake good and early, throw back the curtains and am greeted by a beautiful sunrise over the surrounding hills. Breakfast at the Isalt is a perfect full English (Welsh), accompanied by fruit juices which have been decanted into more Kilner Bottles. The breakfast room looks most elegant.

Today I have to join the millions of poor souls who have to commute by train to work. I get into my work suit (frock coat, waistcoat, cravat and top hat), say goodbye to Richard and Barbara and head for the station.

The Commuter

My duties for the day involve roaming around at Porthmadog station, talking to visitors and performing some ‘cameos’ as the brochure says. Parking will be limited in town, due to the festival, so I have decided to make use of the Blaenau Ffestiniog rail line.

Having purchased my ticket, I wait on the platform until the little locomotive hauls its rolling stock into the station.   Prince is on duty today: he was built in 1863 and is one of the oldest locomotives in service. The train is made up of a variety of coaches and carriages – there are smart first class coaches, and fairly comfortable looking third class compartments, but I decide to ride with ‘the workers’ in a quarry workmen’s carriage. It is basic in the extreme with no springs, and no comforts. It is little more than a wagon with a roof.

Prince

I am joined by a few rail enthusiasts who have come to town for the festival, one of whom makes a ribald comment about ear plugs. The guard locks the door, Prince whistles and we are off. I immediately understand the ear plug comment for it is a noisy, rattling, jolting ride. I even begin to feel a little sea sick as the little truck sways and bucks its way down the line.

The scenery outside the window is amazing, although the view is limited: a phrase written by Charles, when he rode on American trains, comes to mind: ‘There is a great deal of jolting, a great deal of noise, a great deal of wall, not much window’. Soon we arrive at Tan y Bwlch, where I performed last night. As we sit another train pulls in, this one drawn by David Lloyd George. The platform is full of enthusiasts and families, who just love being part of an event like this.

As I look at David Lloyd George at the platform I can quite understand why people become so attached to preserved steam railways. A locomotive is a thing of beauty, it is a piece of raw pure engineering: it is made up of carefully fabricated pieces of heavy metal, each of which has a definite purpose: this piston pushes that connecting rod, which via a crank turns that wheel. The steam seems to ooze and seep out of every riveted seam, waiting to be harnessed either to drive the engine forward, or to be diverted through the whistle to sound its shrill warning. Quite amazing.

We resume our way towards sea level and an hour and ten minutes after leaving Blaenau we arrive at the Porthmadog station. The festival is in full swing! Everywhere you look people are in costume, promenading on the platform. There are Hussars and police officers; there is an organ grinder; there are handsome Victorian Gents, with demure Victorian ladies on their arms.

Among the crowds are many people who were at the show last night and they offer their thanks and congratulations for the performance.

I am greeted by Sam, from the organising committee, who is dressed in a wonderful black, white and grey dress. Sam is the resident historian and fills me in a little on the history of the railway line, and that of the Victorian festival. Almost on a whim we she decides that we should all ride on the Carousel which is whirling around behind the station. Even the horses on the carousel have a history: Sam explains that in the days of the travelling fairs, if a member of the showman’s family died a horse was painted black out of respect. When a new baby was born into the family, one of the black horses was repainted white representing the moving on of the family.

After our fairground ride is over, we decide that I should do my ad hoc cameo on the platform, so Sam press gangs her costumed characters to spread the word among the public. The Chinese whispers works well, so much so that as I am wondering what to say and do in my presentation, a chap whispers to me: ‘there’s going to be a show here soon, you should stay and watch!’

A very good crowd gathers, and I decide to talk about Dickens’ childhood and upbringing. It is a well rehearsed and oft repeated routine, and is filled with gags and one-liners to keep everyone laughing. A Dickens scholar would hang his head in horror listening to it, but as a piece of entertainment it works beautifully!

As I continue, the crowd grows and the laughter floats away to sea on the breeze. After about half an hour, I have reached the point in the story where Dickens has published Pickwick to great acclaim, and is embarking on Oliver Twist. I am trying to work out how best to wind the story up, when the answer comes to me in cacophony of ringing bells. The platform is right next to the road and I am aware of the level crossing gates starting to close – this means that a train is imminent and I know that I cannot compete against a steaming locomotive. As I speak I watch the oncoming train out of the corner of my eye, measuring the distance until as it pulls in I can say: ‘and that is the life story of Charles Dickens and THAT is timing!’

Everyone laughs and applauds, which is very nice!

I spend a little more time on the platform, talking to lots of people, before getting myself some lunch in the station café. I find myself sitting with Geoff (he who introduced me last night), and two wonderful ladies, Ann and Evelyn.

The food takes a while to arrive, so I have to wolf it down rather, because the 13.30 train back to Blaenau is about depart. Fortunately I have reserved a seat (in a comfortable carriage this time) and when I get on I find that I am next to Ann and Evelyn, and Ann’s husband Dave, who is portraying the English Bobby. Dave is a natural entertainer, with a ready line for every occasion. When I first saw him on the platform he had a big, bushy false moustache fixed to his top lip. I passed him again as I got ready for my performance and the moustache had gone: ‘shaved?’ I had asked. ‘No,’ he replied as quick as anything, ‘sneezed!’

We have a wonderful journey back, and Dave regales the carriage with stories from his extraordinary life, which has involved spying on Russian helicopters during the cold war, driving coaches for tour groups and riding huge Harley Davidsons (on one of his rides a member of the gang had been asked by an elderly lady ‘are you Hell’s Angels?’ to which the reply was, ‘No, we are Jehovah’s Witnesses’. ‘Oh, that’s MUCH worse!’

The journey passes quickly and soon we are back at Blaenau Ffestiniog. I say good bye to my new friends and walk across the footbridge to my car. I have a long journey back, but I don’t change, just throw off my frock coat and waistcoat, then set the Sat Nav for home.

I leave the slate of Blaenau and am driving through the wilderness, when I suddenly aware of cars and motorcycles coming the other way gesturing to turn round. Sure enough I can see that there are flashing blue lights ahead and that the road is blocked, presumably by an accident.

I am very glad that I am not solely relying on the satnav and that I have a map in the car, so I can plot out an alternative route and soon I am on my way again. Eventually the satnav gives up trying to return me to my original route and becomes resigned to the fact that I am changing my plans; it tells me that I will be ten minutes later than it had originally imagined, and I know I would have waited at the accident for much longer than that, so all is good.

There is another benefit of my alternative route, too: there parked in a farm track is a Mitsubishi Warrior. I have my elusive W! I quickly see a Citroen Xsara, a Toyota Yaris and a Vauxhall Zafira and the game is complete.

The journey home is easy and traffic free and by 7 pm I am back at home, with Liz once more, and we settle down for a lovely relaxing evening together.

Getting the Wrong Signals

Monday October 5

Having fallen asleep quite early last night, I set a new record for early waking: when I turn over and peer at the clock I discover that it is 10.10pm!

The night continues in the same vein and I wake at 1, and 3 and finally at 4.15, when I finally give in. It’s very frustrating, as I haven’t had a show for three days and yet here I am exhausted.

I go through all of the morning routines and settle in to writing the blog, whilst sipping coffee and munching the last of some shortbread biscuits that I bought in Columbia. While I write I put the tv on and vaguely register that there is a commercial for a vacuum cleaner on. I keep writing for a while, sip some more coffee, look up at the television and realise that they are STILL selling the same vacuum cleaner. I switch off.

After writing for a while I get up and patter around the room ‘silently’ going through the lines of Doctor Marigold and The Signalman, which I will be performing later.

As the dark outside my window starts to ease, I realise that I can now avail myself of breakfast so I have a shower and dress before heading to the lobby.

The Hampton Inn, Lberty offers a simple buffet breakfast, as is the way of such establishments; but for whatever reason the little waffle maker here produces the best waffles in the USA (in my not so limited experience, that is). Of course I may find that standards have slipped over the past twelve months and that the management have started using a cheaper batter, or changed their old machines for something ‘more modern and state of the art.’

Fortunately they know when they are onto a good thing and the breakfast room is laid out just as I remember it. I don’t rush straight for the waffles, that would be unseemly: orange juice, a bowl of granola and some fresh fruit first, for I am a very healthy eater!

Then….fill the little paper cup: yes the batter is viscous (I’ve always wanted to use the word viscous in one of my posts), pour it into the heavy iron, clamp the lid shut, twist it through one hundred and eighty degrees, and the agonising wait has begun.

I try to look cool by fetching some coffee, and getting a knife and fork for my table, but every fibre is silently screaming at the timer ‘Now! Its had enough cooking time, NOW!’

And then ‘ping ping ping ping ping…’ Pavlov would have put me on a lead and taken me for a walk.

Breakfast was delicious.

Back in my room I gather all the bits and pieces necessary for my morning show – which includes two different costumes with attendant cufflinks, braces and shoes.

Kimberly is waiting for me at 9.15 and we head off for the drive to the Blue Springs North branch of the Mid Continent Library Service, where plenty of chairs are laid out ready for the show. The parking lot and the library itself however seem worryingly empty.

The librarians have set up a small stage and created a wonderfully spooky backdrop, showing a stretch of rail line, with a shadowy figure silhouetted, holding a lantern: perfect for The Signalman.

As the start time of 10am comes closer the seats begin to fill up, including a large group of 5^th Grade students from a local school. I hope that two hours of Dickens language wont prove too much for them, but they seem to be an incredibly well behaved and quiet group .

At 10 o’clock I begin and after a short preamble explaining the terrible circumstances surrounding the Staplehurst rail disaster of 1865, I begin The Signalman: ‘Halloa! Below There!’

The show is going well and the atmosphere is building nicely, but I make a complete hash of some of the lines – suddenly finding myself in a passage, realising that I have to say something else, which I have missed, to make sense of something else that comes later – such is the way the mind works on stage.

I am furious with myself. All of the time spent in hotel rooms (and airports) going over lines and I go and make a stupid error like this. As far as the actual show is concerned, it is fine. I get out of the hole I’d dug myself into and carry on. But it is the principle of the matter that counts and I am so angry.

The Signalman is actually a very short reading, but very intense and right from the start it has been a difficult one to commit to memory. Something like Great Expectations or Doctor Marigold certainly took a long time to learn, but they are well lodged now and require only a little ‘dusting off’ when I come to perform them. With The Signalman, on the other hand, it seems as if I am starting from scratch each time.

I get to the end of the story and there is a welcome applause and excited murmur, so things must have gone alright from the audience’s point of view. I dash back to the Librarian’s offices, where I quickly change into my Doctor Marigold costume and return to the ‘auditorium’ for the second half.

Marigold: I am totally home with Marigold. I love ‘being’ Marigold. Doctor Marigold was one of Charles Dickens’ most successful performances during his reading tours in the 1860s. It was a brave choice for him to perform in that it involved him taking on a single persona and talking directly to his audience for an hour, rather than acting as narrator and using multiple characters to tell the story.

The story is funny, moving and uplifting and because most of the audience have never heard of it, nobody knows what is going to happen at the end. I’m not going to tell you here, you must come and see it.

The effect is just what I want, and it is a very successful performance, producing plenty of tears by the end (tears of sadness or happiness? As I said, you must come and see it).

I have a little meet and greet session afterwards before changing back into my normal clothes and heading off to lunch.

Kimberly drives me to a branch of Panera Bread near to the hotel and we order our food, before settling down to a meeting. Very grown up, that: a lunch meeting.   For quite a while now Kimberly has been investigating the idea of putting together a tour group to explore ‘Dickens’ America’ and wants me on board as tour guide and consultant. She has been chasing me for ideas for about two years now, and at last this is our opportunity to discuss the project at greater length.

By the end of lunch our notebooks are filled with exciting ideas for cities, museums, hotels, canals, rivers and communities associated with Dickens’ two visits to America in 1842 and 1868. Now it is time to make some coherent sense of the material and see if the idea will work logistically.

After lunch I go back to the hotel and firstly go through The Signalman again, trying to work out what sent me off on the wrong track. I go through the relevant part of the script a few times and then lay on the bed for an afternoon nap, trying to catch up some of the sleep from last night.

I doze fitfully until the alarm goes off at 5pm. I get up, have a refreshing and energizing shower and get ready for the evening.

I will be performing the same programme at the Woodneath branch of the library, which is only five minutes away, so Kimberly picks me up at 5.45, for the 6.30 start. The Woodneath branch has been a constant part of my Kansas City visits for the last three years and Melissa, the librarian, has a background in theatre, so is very keep to stage lots of shows.

Whereas this morning’s event was held in a cleared out corner of the Library, Woodneath has a separate room dedicated to lectures and performances, which is packed with chairs. There is always a good turn out here.

I check the microphone system and as audience members are already gathering outside, I go to get changed. Even in my little ‘dressing room ‘ (storage closet), I am still going through The Signalman over and over. When I emerge, the room is almost full and I stand at the back with Kimberly and Melissa watching the people pour in.

As I said, Melissa has a theatre background and she tells me that she is running a series of workshops on stage fright and how to deal with it. My line lapse from this morning surges to the front of my brain. Maybe I’d better take one of her workshops!

When everyone is settled I take to the stage and begin. The Signalman goes much better this evening. Not perfect, for there are a couple of hesitations and minor inaccuracies, but I’m much happier with it. I love hearing a gasp of realisation at the end when the train driver tells the narrator what he called out to the doomed signalman, and tonight there is such a gasp. The applause is wonderful.

We have a fifteen minute break for people to stretch their legs and check their mobile phones (although quite a few of them were able to do that during the show), and for me to change costume again.

Melissa manages to round everyone up, and we are ready for act 2.

This particular crowd, on this particular evening are a perfect Marigold crowd. They buy into the whole style of the show and are laughing along with it until Dickens makes his U turn and takes them in a completely different direction, which they dutifully follow.

It is a lovely shared experience of a show and at the end there is a standing ovation, which I had not expected at all.

I chat for a while and sign a few things, until the room is empty once more. I get changed, say good bye to Melissa (I will be back here in November), and then load my things into Kimberly’s car.

We decide to dine at the Longhorn Steakhouse again, as it is very close to my hotel, and tonight I have thick juicy ribye with a baked potato, instead of my rather effete salad of last night. It is a nice way to sign off from this one week mini tour.

Kimberly drops me off at the Hampton Inn and in no time I am on the verge of sleep.

The Steamboat Arabia

Sunday, October 4

After my adventures yesterday I am confident that today will be just fine. I wake at around 5 and get up to make a cup of coffee, before committing my adventures to the blog.

I muse for a little as to why, in this modern digital world, hotels still slip the final bill under the door during a guest’s last night. Is it really still necessary for some poor night porter to prowl the corridors making sure the correct statement goes under the correct door, knowing full well that the majority of guests are then going to have breakfast, therefore rendering the bill entirely redundant?

Just a short muse.

I render my bill redundant with a delicious breakfast and then get ready to check out. The hotel is connected directly to the airport by a covered bridge, so in no time I am back in my favourite place.

My flight this morning departs from terminal A, which is about the only one I didn’t visit yesterday. It is like stepping back in time, as I have to check in with a real person at a real desk – no little terminals to make life quicker.

The airport is quiet on this Sunday morning, so the process is swift. Upstairs and through security. I stand in the Whoooshhhhie xray machine with my hands up, and the female security officer says: ‘you’re good to go’. However her male colleague pulls me to one side and there follows a conversation that proves I have yet to fully master the American language.

‘XYZ’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘XYZ’

This sounds like a code between spies, but I don’t understand what on earth he is saying to me.

‘Excuse me?’

‘XYZ’

‘Ummmm, nope….’

‘Your zipper…sir.’

Ah. OK. Log that one into the memory banks. Have a nice day!

Gate A2 is very close to the security screening and I am greeted by the most glorious message on the monitor that I could possibly imagine:

A Welcome Sign

On Time! Ahhhhhhhh. And sure enough, we board and the plane pushes back from the gate at precisely 9.15 and we scream down the runway, heading towards Kansas City, Mo.

The flight is quite a long one and I pass the time by finishing my current Kindle book – a biography of the great Victorian cricketer WG Grace, which has been a fascinating read.

I read the last page at the very moment that the Kindle’s battery runs down and I pass the rest of the flight looking down on the endless patchwork of fields, laid across the Midwest.  It is lovely to actually see the ground through the fluffy white clouds, after the incessant rain of the east coast.

We arrive in Kansas City early, and my bags are there on the carousel. In the baggage office there is a man remonstrating with the US Airways representative about some lost luggage. I send good vibes to the poor guy: ‘you’re doing a fine job!’

There to meet me is Kimberly Howard, from the Mid Continent Library Service, who have been bringing me to the Kansas City area for as many years as I have been touring. Kimberly is a good friend of longstanding, and as we drive away from the airport we catch up on our respective news.

Because of the change in my flight times, I have arrived much earlier than was planned, so we have some time to kill before I can get into my hotel. Kimberly asks me what I’d like to do. After a bit of ummm-ing and ahhh-ing, I chose the Steamboat Arabia museum in downtown Kansas City. I have visited the exhibit before, many years ago, and it is quite remarkable.

The Arabia was a huge steamer that plied its trade on the Missouri River, carrying heavy loads of supplies to the frontier communities. Kansas City marked the start of many of the trails west and the brave folk that set out on them needed everything: clothes, hardware, foodstuffs, crockery, glassware and the rest.

In 1856 she was loaded with almost 200 tons of goods and 130 passengers. Her huge paddles churned through the muddy Missouri pushing her inexorably forward. The river was shallow and fast flowing with huge broken tree trunks, or snags, carried along beneath the surface: a permanent threat to shipping.

In the late afternoon, with the low sun making visibility all but impossible, the Arabia struck one of these submerged spears and immediately began to go down. The passengers made their way to the upper hurricane deck to buy themselves time to be rescued which, incredibly, they all were. The only casualty was a mule that had been tethered on the deck.

The Arabia Goes Down

The Arabia went down quickly and soon was soon sinking not only into the water, but into the silt of the river’s bed too.

Days, weeks, months and years passed and the mighty Missouri gradually changed its course, leaving the wreck of the mighty steamboat beneath a farmer’s field.

And there it stayed until 1988, when an enthusiastic group of men began searching. Initially using metal detecting methods they pinpointed the massive iron boilers, and from that discovered the resting place of the hull. And then they began to dig, and dig, and dig. The Arabia lay forty five feet down, wonderfully preserved.

But it was not the ship that fascinated the team, it was her cargo. Little by little a snapshot of life on the frontier began to emerge from the mud.

The collection in the museum is quite extraordinary both in quantity and variety – as our tour guide said; it was like unearthing a Victorian Wal-Mart!  There are full services of Wedgewood crockery, silver cutlery sets, nails, bolts, saws, drill bits, bottled pickles and fruit, perfume, hats, coats, cardigans, shoes, door handles, locks, keys and so much more.

 

The museum holds particular resonance for me because my great great grandfather (no, not that one: the other one) took the Orgean Trail and headed west. The trail started in Kansas City and Herbert Hoxie Hoyt must have been using these very supplies as he started his new life.

The museum tour finishes and we are deposited into the gift shop which sells the usual array of tourist tat, and which has disappointingly little to do with the artefacts that we have just been admiring.

In a car park outside there is a flea market going on, so we look at some of the stalls and they tell their own historical story, albeit a slightly more recent one: Sony Walkman’s, Kodak Instamatic cameras and their funny little flash cubes, 16 mm film projectors and all sorts of other things from my childhood – frighteningly now becoming ‘history’.

As time is moving on we decide to have a bite of lunch in a Chinese restaurant, before driving to Liberty, Missouri where I can check into my hotel. We arrange when Kimberly will pick me up in the morning for tomorrow’s events and I get to my room on the second floor.

For the only time on this trip I can do some laundry – ah, how I’ve missed that; and while the machines are whirring I do some more rehearsing in my room for tomorrow’s shows: a double bill featuring The Signalman and Doctor Marigold.

The lines seem to be settling in nicely, so I go and retrieve my clothes and then watch a bit of television and catch up on the news from home.

It is early, but I decide to go and get a bite to eat. There is a Longhorn Steakhouse just a short walk away (that doesn’t require me to get a cab or take my life in my hands by crossing a six lane freeway), so I head there.

After a substantial Chinese lunch, I choose a salad for my dinner, which seems almost heretical in a steak house, decorated with cowboy boots, horse whips and general symbols of Frontier masculinity! However it is delicious and suits me just fine.

I walk back to the hotel muttering the lines to Doctor Marigold to myself: ‘I am a cheapjack. My own father’s name was Willum Marigold. It was, in his lifetime supposed by some that his name was William, but no, he always said it was Willum……’

As I walk I get a terrible sneezing fit: I hope I’m not coming down with a cold. I get back to the hotel and receive a cheery ‘Welcome back!’ from the girl on the front desk.

It is still relatively early, but I get into bed anyway and read until I begin to doze off.  Tomorrow is a working day, after all.

An All Time First

Saturday October 3

 

I knew it was too good to be true. After my long night’s sleep yesterday I am PING awake at 4.15 this morning. Oh well, coffee and blog fill my time until the alarm goes off at 6.

This morning I am driving to The Reagan National Airport in the heart of Washington DC and I want to leave myself plenty of time to deal with any delays (even though it is a Saturday, the Nation’s Capital is renowned for it for its heavy traffic).

The rain is still falling hard and more than once I hit deep puddles on the side of the road which send the car skittering away from the straight and narrow – there’s a lot of water on the ground

Actually the traffic isn’t at all heavy and in no time I am driving straight towards the Capitol Building, which is looking spectacular in its scaffolding shroud – rather like a Lego model of itself.

My GPS guides me through various tunnels and over various bridges and I’m soon pulling into the Alamo Car rental parking garage, which is where I will say goodbye to my black Ford Fusion, which has been a very good car. It has lots of gadgets, which I am always a sucker for – the best of which is the automatic seat that electrically slides into position as you turn the engine on and slides backwards again when you switch it off, giving you more room to get out. Very clever.

Even though it is still rainy and squally, I decide to walk to the terminal building, rather than waiting for the shuttle bus. As I leave one parking garage there is a covered walkway which leads to the next and it passes a – dare I say it – grassy knoll. I notice that there is an information board and as I have plenty of time in hand I go and read it.

Suddenly I am at home: the board reads

‘The land that Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport occupies today was once part of a plantation. This hill and the ruins on it are all that remains of the house that stood here for nearly 190 years.

Abingdon, as this tract of land on the Potomac River was called, witnessed sweeping historical changes.’

Abingdon! That’s my home town – Abingdon. How odd to find this little connection in the middle of a wet concrete jungle. It is one of those happy little moments on tour which just make me smile.

I leave Oxfordshire and return to Virginia, making my way into the terminal, where I check my bags, clear security and get myself some breakfast.

Everything is running smoothly.

My schedule for the day sees me flying from DC to Philadelphia, which is only a thirty five minute flight, a short layover and then down to Wilmington in North Carolina, where I will be met by a limousine, which will whisk me to Swansboro to perform Doctor Marigold for the Swansboro Development Foundation. It promises to be a lovely day, culminating in one of my favourite shows.

I spend a little time completing yesterday’s blog post and uploading the photographs accompanying it, before closing down all of my electronics ready to board flight US4483 bound for Philadelphia.

The plane is completely full and because it is such a short trip most people are travelling with just carry-on bags, the result being that all of the overhead bins are quickly filled. There is a delay as people have to check their bags at the front of the plane, but finally everyone sits down and buckles up.

We are ready to leave. But we don’t.

Nothing happens.

Nothing.

At all.

Eventually our cheery Captain comes over the intercom to tell us that Philadelphia airport has gone into ‘Ground Lock’. Apparently this means that no traffic can move in or out of the airport. The captain reassures us that because nothing is moving, it means that all of our connections will be delayed by an equal amount of time and everything will be tickety-boo (the American readers are now thinking ‘WHAT?’)

We sit on the runway for the best part of an hour until the intercom crackles into life again, telling us that the lock has been lifted and we can go. OK, I’ll be later getting into Wilmington than planned, and I hope that delay doesn’t cost my hosts more for the limo, but I have plenty of time in hand.

The short flight is bumpy and uncomfortable. Bumpy because we never rise above the clouds; uncomfortable because the man in the seat behind talks the whole time about his wife – who is an alcoholic, suffers from depression, wants to divorce him, lives on an allowance from him – a large allowance because he ‘doesn’t want her to feel that she is a kept woman’. He has two sons – 44 and 48, and a daughter. He has visited China, Singapore, Istanbul. He lives in Baltimore, is flying to San Francisco to attend his aunt’s funeral. She was well off and lived in a beautiful suburb. He is tax inspector, chasing the cheaters. He has written a book. He loves his daughter more than his wife…..and on and on and on. I am mightily relieved when the ground appears through the clouds and we land.

As we taxi to our gate I look at my watch. It is 11.30 am, the precise time that my connecting flight was due to leave and for the first time I realise that our Captain’s logic is flawed: the planes that were delayed at Philly would have taken off as soon as the ground lock was lifted – we were only allowed to leave DC at that time. The chances are that I have missed my plane.

In the terminal building my fears are realised: ‘Flight number US 3739, Dest. Wilmington DEPARTED 11.30′.

Deep breath, and find the US Airways customer service desk. ‘Everything is fine, Sir, we’ll get you sorted’. After much computer tapping I am booked on the next flight to Wilmington at 3.55, arriving at 5.30. The slight worry is that the flight is showing ‘full’ and I am on standby, but the agent is confident I’ll get a seat. If not, he also books me onto the next flight, leaving at 6.10, arriving at 7.40. OK, that is too late for showtime, but maybe the organisers can tweak their evening and I can perform later.

Anyway, I now have 4 ½ hours to kill in Philadelphia airport. I spend an hour or so pacing the corridors going through the lines of Doctor Marigold ready for my show tonight and then I have lunch.

It is now 2pm: 2 hours to wait – and more, because the flight has been delayed a little. I have been in touch with Bob and Pam Byers, and they have been in contact with the event organisers. Everyone is in the loop now.

4pm approaches and I go to gate F24, where there is a plane waiting. The screen says: Wilmington Dep. 4.14. But the announcements are saying that this plane is actually bound for Albany. The clerk doesn’t know what’s happening to the Wilmington flight, but her screen still shows a 4.14 departure.

Albany boards and departs. Bob calls and asks what is happening? Am I able to take this flight? Don’t know yet, am waiting to find out.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, for those of you waiting for the flight to Wilmington, I am sorry to say it has been cancelled due to bad weather. Please see the US Airways service desk to rebook your flight’

There is a rush to the desk, but I hold back. I’ve spoken to Bob and he is talking to Swansboro – is it even worth getting the later flight – which is now also showing as delayed?

As I get to the desk Bob comes back on the phone and says that it has been decided to cancel the show, so I need to try and cancel my Wilmington flight and rebook a direct flight to Kansas City, my next venue, tomorrow morning

This is a very sad moment, not only because I love performing Doctor Marigold, but mainly because this is the very first time in all of my years of touring, dating back to 1995, that I have had to miss a show. There have been a few narrow squeaks over the years, where I have been driven directly from the airport to the venue and onto stage, but never actually a show lost. I feel very empty.

The agent, Nida, tells me that if I want to change my flight from Wilmington to Kansas City, she will have to charge me $200, and also the extra cost of flying from Philly to Missouri. There is no point getting angry with her, it’s hardly her fault after all, but I patiently explain that it was because the US Air flight was delayed way back at 9.45 this morning, that I missed the connection, that put me on a flight that was cancelled, that made me have no reason to go to North Carolina.

At the same time this is going on, I am talking to Bob and Pam trying to arrange things for tomorrow.

Nida, bless her, manages to talk to her superior and after explaining what it is that I do, they decide it will be fine to alter my flights. I am booked on the 9.15 flight to Kansas City tomorrow morning.

I let Bob know and he offers to look for a hotel for me near to the airport, as I begin the next part of the difficult process: finding my bags, which are deep within the bowels of the airport, on some pre-ordained bar-coded journey.

Nida tells me that they will be sent to the carousel in terminal E, so I make my way from F, via a shuttle bus, to E where there are no bags.  The agent in Baggage Services looks them up and says they are booked to go to Kansas City. I patiently explain my situation again and he makes a few phone calls to get them retrieved and returned to me.

This takes an hour. The system is fantastic when everything is working smoothly, but the second something untoward occurs it creaks and groans and stutters. While I am in the office another man comes in asking for his bags, as his flight to Hartford had been cancelled. Tap, tap tap on the keyboard: ‘Sir, your bags have gone to Hartford. The poor man shouts (more in exasperation, rather than in real anger), ‘How come my BAGS are in Hartford, and I am NOT!’ Good question, seeing as his flight was cancelled.

More and more people arrive – bags mislaid, bags left on planes, flights changed. I feel sorry for the agents in this office as the only people they get to see in their working lives are angry, disappointed, upset, frightened people. They do a good, unsung job.

Still, it takes an hour!

At last the carousel trembles into life and my two bags appear – as do those of Hartford man: apparently they had not gone to Hartford after all. It is 6.30 and I have been in Philadelphia Airport for seven hours.

One of the nicest calls I have ever had came as I was waiting, from Bob, telling me that he has booked at a room at the Marriott Hotel, which is a short walk from the terminal – no shuttle bus, no taxi ride, but right there.

Within ten minutes I am in a large comfortable room, having a bath, washing the day away. I email the organisers in Swansboro to tell them all how sorry I am not to be with them and then go to the restaurant for some lovely Fish and Chips.

It has been an emotional and very very tiring day (amazing how tiring it is doing nothing!), and Im glad it is over.

To use the English vernacular (and apologies for any offence caused), it has been a bugger of a day.

The Word Farmer

Friday October 2

I wake up in the Sheraton, In Columbia, at a thoroughly reasonable 5.30 am.   It is usual, when I first arrive in America, to see 3.30, 4, 4.30, so this is a luxurious lie-in for me.

Today marks my first performances of this mini tour and I am looking forward to performing Great Expectations for the first time on American soil, even though the first show is at 10 o’clock, which is terribly early to get the voice going.

Yesterday was spent going over the lines for Great Ex in my hotel room. Fortunately the weather was terrible, with unremitting heavy rain from dawn until dusk (and I assume either side of those events), so being confined to my room was no great hardship.

I had driven over to Slyaton House during the afternoon to meet with the technical staff who would be overseeing my show. Fran, Sue, Steve and Dale couldn’t do enough for me. They ‘built’ Miss Havisham (a seven foot high wooden frame, draped with white fabric), and diligently focussed and plotted lights. Great Expectations is the only one of my shows that requires specific lighting, and I sat for an hour in the lighting box, working through the script as Fran and Sue tapped away at a keyboard to record all of the cues – and there are a great many.

Theatres are great places to explore, and backstage at the Slayton House Theatre I discovered an Aladdin’s cave of old pieces of furniture and props from long-forgotten productions.

Aladdin’s Cave

Oregon

It was while I was finishing up in the theatre that I heard about the latest college shooting in Oregon.

‘The latest’….how terrible are those two words?

How long must we wait, how many innocent lives will be lost, how many grieving parents must we be forced to watch on the news channels, how many bunches of flowers with candles flickering between them must we see, how many yearbook pictures, how many aerial shots of a campus with captions overlaid, how many photographs taken in a bedroom of a cock-sure lunatic brandishing a gun? How much longer can this slaughter continue before something is done?

The sad and terrible fact is that the wait will most likely go on and on and on. I’m sure that this will not be the last time that I write ‘the latest’.

Two years ago I met with Darren Wagner whose children attended Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut. – another community ripped apart by a lone gunman. At the time I was impressed by his positivity and energy to bring the community back together and fight for tighter gun control laws. Now there will be another Darren in Oregon battling with grief, desperate to get something done.

I am aware that a few ranting lines from me will have no effect on anything but, please America: take action – take the RIGHT action now.

Great Expectations

The world keeps turning and lives go on. For me I have to get up and ready for my shows. The theatre is only ten minutes away from my hotel, so I have plenty of time to breakfast, shower, iron (oh, how you have missed those words!) and pack my costumes.

Slayton House is open and being prepared for the ‘British Invasion’ festival, of which I am a part. In the lobby there is a full sized cardboard cut out of a British phone box, apparently sourced from the British Embassy in DC. Even the weather makes me feel at home. The director of the festival , Dave Simmons, is there bustling around – a man of energy and adrenaline!

The crew are ready to go and I set the stage, while Fran and Sue work through the lighting cues again to check that everything was saved correctly. They find a slight discrepancy towards the end of the show, and we go through the script again to re-plot those cues.

Back stage a very kindly lady is looking after the green room and lays out a magnificent spread of fruit, soda, coffee, cookies, muffins, chips (crisps) chocolate and more. She seems a bit put out when I say that plenty of water is all I need.

It does seem to be a huge amount of treats for little old me, but I soon realise that the festival has taken over the Slayton House Community Center and the day will be filled with multiple events.

Unfortunately the 10 o’clock show will be played to a very small audience. The original plan was to take the show into one of the local schools, but the date clashed with a major schools meeting and nothing could be done. The result is that we are expecting a meagre 22. However, each of them has invested not only their money, but their time too and therefore deserve as much energy and commitment as a full house does.

To be honest, I am quite nervous about Great Expectations: It is a much darker and more intense show than those that I regularly perform, and laughs are scarce, to be sure. It requires a great deal of commitment and concentration from the audience and runs the length of a Broadway show. In the UK I have discovered that those who come to see it tend to be fans of the novel and therefore bring a degree of passion and knowledge with them: will it be the same in America or will the audience be made up of curious festival goers who are keen to see the great novelist’s descendent. We shall see.

Miss Havisham looks on

As the start time approaches I pace the halls behind the stage, go into the wings and try to ‘feel’ the audience from their chat and conversation, of which there is very little. I return to my hall pacing.

Steve is the stage manager for the event and he comes to fetch me. We are ready to go.  The lights dim to black and the recorded voiceover, featuring the opening passages of the novel, plays into the darkened auditorium. And now it is time for my entrance…..

The show goes very well and the audience seem fully engaged. It is an intense silence of concentration, rather than a shuffling silence of boredom. I am very pleased. There is good applause at the end of the first act as Pip sets off to begin his new life in London.

The second act is darker still and yet more complicated to follow, but the audience are there with me every minute of the way. When the final black out enshrouds Pip and Estella as they walk into their uncertain future, the applause is remarkably generous for such a small gathering and as I return to the stage to take my bow there is whistling and whooping. Phew.

I return to my dressing room and am amazed to discover that it is not yet noon. I had completely forgotten that this was a morning performance, and fully expected the skies to be dark outside.

I pack up my things, as there is to be a rock band on stage now, and head back to the hotel, buying a salad for my lunch on the way.

The afternoon is spent resting, and going through the lines of Doctor Marigold, which I am due to perform tomorrow evening. As I am rehearsing I remember an actor friend of mine asking ‘how many hours do you have memorized?’ It’s a good question and I hope that pushing Marigold into my limited memory banks doesn’t drive Great Ex out before the evening show.

At around five-thirty I return to Slayton House and everything is busier. David is running here and there, as are other members of the organising group. There is a lecture taking place about the British explorer Ernest Shackleton and another band, who will be performing after me, has just finished their sound check on the stage.

I set up the stage again and sit in the quiet of the auditorium chatting to the crew, as they munch egg sandwiches, garnished with little Union Flags.

Proud to be British!

We chat and Dale philosophises that Charles Dickens planted his novels all those years ago and now I am nurturing them and spreading them: ‘Dude,’ he says, ‘you are truly a word farmer’ and nods profoundly.  And with that, it is time to farm.

The crew: l-r: Sue, Fran, Steve, Dale and David

This evening’s audience promises to be much larger than this morning’s and soon more seats are being laid out, which is a good sign. With thirty minutes to go I get into costume, check the stage one final time and commence my back-stage pacing once more.

Ready to Farm

The show is even more intense than this morning’s and I can feel myself pushing hard; trying to capture every emotion in every scene. Once again the audience are well involved in the story, and once again the applause is generous with accompanying whistles and cheers.

When I get back to my dressing room the band who are up next have already moved in, so I get changed and pack my things up quickly, leaving the evening to them.

In the lobby plenty of audience members are milling about chatting about the show. Among them are Bob and Pam Byers who have driven down from Philadelphia to see me, which is so generous of them. As we are all staying in the same hotel we say our goodbyes to as many of the folks from British Invasion as we can find and head back to the Sheraton in convoy

There is time for a drink in the bar and we have a lovely time chatting and catching up: they admire the wedding pictures and we discuss plans for future events and tours: venues are already seeking dates for the 2016 trip.

As time goes on the effort of two Great Expectations (two Great Expectationses?) begins to takes its toll and it is time for bed.

I can sleep soundly in the knowledge that Great Expectations has worked!

Back Online.

There is a moment during the film Apollo 13 when the character of Jack Swigert climbs into the frozen, crippled command module; he flicks a few switches and, after a suitably dramatic pause, lights start to flicker back into life. The capsule becomes a living being again

I am feeling much the same as I stare at the WordPress home page, ready to write for the first time in many months.

Once again, as Autumn begins to grip (which in England seems to mean a spell of fine weather far outstripping anything that we enjoyed in the Summer), my professional attentions turn to the United States of America and life back on the road.

2015 has been a wonderful year, with so much going on. Back in February I was in Minneapolis helping to create ‘To Begin With’ – a new play based on Charles Dickens’ short book ‘The Life of Our Lord’. The show was a great success, and to work with a close-knit team for a lengthy run in a single venue was something very exciting and new for me.

We are hoping to repeat the exercise and hopefully take the show on tour, maybe even to the UK but, as is ever the case, there is the slight hurdle of funding. At the moment everything is on hold until the producer, Dennis Babcock, can get investors on board. It is a frustrating time for all of us, but I’m sure that ‘something will turn up’, as Mr Micawber says.

THE event of this year, though, was our Wedding. In August Liz and I travelled up to Cromarty in the Highlands of Scotland , along with my son Cameron, and our brothers and sisters. The day was everything we could have dreamed of: the ceremony itself in the open air beneath azure skies and hot sun.

The Highlands being the Highlands, the weather changed completely within a couple of hours, and our Dolphin watching boat trip became a rain-lashed adventure, which certainly added to the fun of the day.

In a few weeks Liz and I head off for a belated honeymoon in Zanzibar, where we will lay on soft sand, snorkel, watch spectacular sunsets and let the woes of the world pass us by.

For now though we are both working: Liz as head of keyboards in the music department at St Helen and St Katharine’s School and me travelling to Maryland. The goodbyes seemed to be even more difficult this year, even though I’m only going to be away for a week.

In the midst of a busy working day Liz drove me to the bus station in Oxford, so that I could catch the superb coach service that links the city to Heathrow airport. We said our sorrowful goodbyes and I set off on my travels.

Actually there is very little of interest to report, as the journey was one of the easiest I have ever taken. The bus arrived at Heathrow on time and there were no queues at either check-in, or security. Everyone in the line ahead of me knew to take their belts off, laptops out and empty their pockets – so there were none of the usual bottle necks.

After a little routine shopping and a cup of coffee, the gate for my flight was called and when I arrived I could walk straight onboard, where I discovered that I had nobody sat beside, in front or behind me.

We pushed back from the gate on time and taxied towards the end of the runway. It was interesting to see all of the new bulbous Airbus A380 double decked planes, with their sensually curving wings. Suddenly the big 747s look very dated and somewhat ungainly.

We took off to the east and banked round directly over Windsor Castle and Eton school. The day was bright and clear and the view was amazing. Soon we flew over the remaining chimneys at Didcot Power Station. In clear view, a little to the north was our home town of Abingdon: the ring road, the roundabout marking the junction with the Oxford Road, the turn into our road – our house: all very visible! I waved and blew a kiss to Liz.

As the plane rushed to the west I watched a couple of films before discovering the first season of House of Cards and managed to watch three episodes before we made our descent into, appropriately, Washington DC.

The sunset above the clouds (Actually, I’m not sure if that is possible), was beautiful and seemed to make a solid surface on which we could actually land, but we gently passed through and touched down on American soil some twenty minutes early.

My seat was way back in the plane and by the time I got off I’d missed the first shuttle bus taking passengers to the main terminal. The next bus had a few straggling passengers, such as myself and the crew. By the time we eventually got to the immigration hall everybody else had gone and I could just walk straight up to a desk, have my finger prints taken and be sent cheerily on my way (yes, really: cheerily)

The final bags were coming onto the carousel as I arrived at the baggage hall and in no time I was walking into the chilly Virginian evening. Actually waiting for the courtesy bus from the Alamo Car rental office was the longest delay I experienced on the entire trip.

My first event on this mini tour is going to be at Columbia, Maryland, where I will be performing my version of Great Expectations as part of the ‘British Invasion’ Arts Festival (http://columbiafestival.org/). I spent much of the hour’s car journey to Columbia going through the lines of Great Ex and the miles passed quickly.

In no time I was pulling up at the Sheraton Hotel where I had a brief dinner of grilled chicken, before falling asleep on my bed.

On Friday I will be performing, and will report back then: the winter starts here….