Summer in Winterthur

My few days between performances were spent in a wonderful wilderness, courtesy of Bob and Pam Byers, who let me have the run of their amazing cabin.  Apart from the previously described trip to Watkins Glen, I explored, swam, cycled, played pool and generally relaxed, which was rather nice.

On one morning I drove to the Byers’ Choice headquarters and Visitor Center to record a few video clips that Byers’ can use in their marketing for this Christmas’ events.  I was working with Jeff Byers and we had great fun for an hour or so improvising a series of 20 second segments.

Filming finished we all –Bob, Jeff and Joyce Byers and myself – gathered round a computer and studied the first drafts of a very exciting development.  After twenty-three years of performing A Christmas Carol I am at last going to have a glossy, Broadway-style souvenir brochure on tour.  Thanks to the work that my brother Ian has put in, what started as an idea is moving quickly towards reality.

If all goes to plan each venue will have stocks of the brochure which will not only have lots of photographs, but also articles about the history of A Christmas Carol, about my show and about Charles Dickens’ relationship with America – we are very excited at the prospect!

 

Thursday 4 August

And so Thursday arrived, and it was time to leave the cabin and head to familiar climes, as I was due to perform at the Winterthur estate, which has become a firm favourite on my Christmas tours.

The drive took about two hours, and the day was bright and sunny.  Usually as I head to Winterthur – one of the many DuPont homes in the state of Delaware – there is snow on the fields, and the trees are bare, so it was lovely to see the countryside in all its glory.

Amazingly as I arrived at the Visitor Center, which is home when I appear here, all of the staff were outside and greeted me with smiles and hugs.  I was terribly impressed by the reception, until they explained that there had been a fire alarm and nobody was allowed inside.  Once we were given the all clear and we could all go back inside (or just inside, as far as I was concerned), it was as if I’d never been away.  Last December Liz was here with me and everyone asked after her and whether she was with me again.

Ellen is the manager here and she co-ordinates everything to do with my show, and I class her as one of many very good friends on tour.

The summer performance is a new departure for Winterthur, but they have attracted huge audiences for A Christmas Carol and the director, David Roselle, was very keen to try another performance.  I had been asked to perform ‘Mr Dickens is Coming’, which is a light-hearted look at Charles Dickens’ performing career, and ‘A Child’s Journey With Dickens’ – the charming true story of a ten year old girl who met Charles Dickens on a train ride from Portland, Maine, to Boston.

Ellen had arranged for various pieces of furniture to be provided, which would variously represent Charles’ reading desk, a chair in his study, a sofa in the same room and a bench seat in a New England railway carriage.

For the reading desk there was a large lecture podium (the Copland Hall was originally built as a lecture theatre), and I had brought a red cloth to disguise it as the little red table that Dickens used.  Really the podium was a little too big, so I looked around and found a few other props which may have worked.  One was a very small wooden podium, but that was too small (this is beginning to sound like Goldilocks and the three bears).  Next I found a blue plastic bin (a mini dumpster, I suppose would be the best American description), which was actually the correct size, but I couldn’t put anything on it (books, etc), without the fabric collapsing in and taking everything with it.  So I returned to the original podium, which of course was absolutely fine.

The other slight issue was the order of the shows.  I have always performed ‘Mr Dickens is Coming’ first, as it is not too taxing and is a good introduction, but Ellen was publicising ‘A Child’s Journey’ as the main piece and had put that as the first act in the programme.  We discussed it for a while and decided that we would do it my way, with Mr Dickens first, and David would announce the switch when he made his introductory remarks.

Time was marching on and the audience was beginning to arrive – a decent audience too, probably between 150 and 200.  Many of them, indeed most of them, had seen me perform A Christmas Carol and were excited to see the ‘new’ shows (new in inverted commas, in that I have been performing Mr Dickens is Coming since 1995)

The time came and David made his way to the stage, but unfortunately his microphone was not working.  David is quietly spoken, but commands respect, but unfortunately on this occasion his remarks were greeted by ‘WE CANT HEAR YOU’, and ‘ITS NOT WORKING!’  As there didn’t seem to be a technical solution David resorted to speaking very slowly, enunciating well, and cutting the intro short.

In any other venue I would have been worried, but the Copland Hall is an extraordinary piece of theatrical architecture and has the most remarkable acoustics, so I never use a microphone here:  it is old school at Winterthur.

Mr Dickens is Coming went well and everybody laughed at the right moments.  It is not a ‘WOW, that was AWSOME!’ sort of a show and never has been, but it is fun and tells the story without being too serious.  But the great success of the afternoon was ‘A Child’s Journey With Dickens’.

In 1912 Kate Douglas Wiggin gave a speech to the New York Branch of the Dickens Fellowship, in which she recounted the time that she had engaged her idol, Charles Dickens, in conversation.  The story is a told in her voice, with flashbacks to the actual event, so there are in fact three characters – old Kate, young Kate and Charles.

I am 52, getting portlier by the year and am bearded, and yet here I am playing a 10 year old girl from Maine – but somehow, it works!  People get completely wrapped up in the story and it is as if we are all travelling on the train.

At the end of the recital I tell the story about how I purchased a first edition of the book a few years ago, and when it arrived I discovered it that Kate had inscribed it.  I always feel it is rather lovely that I now own her signature, for it is as if the two families have become reunited.  On stage I usually  just say something like ‘and when I opened the book I discovered that Kate had signed the book…..’  But on this performance a new idea came to me and I said:

‘I opened the book and there, inscribed in a strong, confident hand the words…’ and for the final line I reverted to Kate’s voice as if she was on stage addressing the audience: ‘….I was the child, Kate Douglas Wiggin’.  That drew a gasp, followed by a standing ovation, it was an excellent way to finish the show.

After a short signing session, I got changed and drove the short distance to the Fairville Inn, the bed and breakfast where I always stay, and checked in.  I managed to get about an hour of rest before returning for the evening show which was due to start at 6.

The audience was slightly smaller, but there were some notable members of it, including Pam who brought same friends to watch, and my old friends David Keltz who performs Edgar Allen Poe, and his wife Teresa.

The reaction to each act was similar to the afternoon, and with the same gasp at the very end.  With less people in the audience, the signing was correspondingly shorter.  One family gathered for a picture and the young son asked ‘do you have any techniques for learning all those lines?’  I told him that is was just sheer repetition, going over and over and over, then starting again and discovering where you falter, and going over and over and over that part until it just comes naturally, by which time there will be another barrier which needs attention.  David Keltz was watching and nodded in agreement.  He told me later that the boy had looked crestfallen as if he’d been hoping for some magic tip that would make it easy.  I added that I have to be on the move when I learn lines – I have to pace up and down, and his sister nodded and said she did the same.  Obviously a theatrical family.

When everything was packed up David, Teresa and I drove to Buckley’s Tavern and enjoyed supper as we chatted and caught up on our respective news.  At Christmas Buckley’s is usually very crowded and noisy, but on this occasion it was quite quiet which made conversation a great deal easier.

After an hour or so it was time to go our separate ways – me just five minutes further along the Kennet Pike to the Fairville Inn, and them a longer drive to their hotel.

It was a very happy day, in beautiful surroundings, with good friends.

 

Friday 5 August

On Friday I was to fly home, but as my flight was not until 8.15pm, I had all day to kill.  I woke early and packed all of my things (making sure that I hadn’t left anything in the car or the room), before walking to the main house for breakfast and chatting to the owners Laura and Rick.

Although I didn’t have to be at JFK until 6pm Laura warned me that Friday night traffic around New York City could easily turn a three-hour drive into a five hour one, so I had better leave plenty of time.  I decided to visit nearby Longwood Gardens in the morning before getting on the road at lunchtime.

Back in my room I did one final sweep (I have an awful habit of leaving things scattered around the country in my wake), and then made the ten-minute journey to Longwood.

Longwood Gardens is an amazing garden on a huge scale.  I was among the small group of visitors waiting for the doors to open at 9.  Most of the others were there for exercise, there seemed to be a group of committed walkers who pound the paths each morning, and I would come across them repeatedly during my visit, sharing a cheery ‘hello!’ each time.

What a beautiful place, and how sad that Liz wasn’t with me, as she is the horticulturist in our household and would have adored the scale and variety of the planting.

There was a magnificent conservatory and palm house, there were lily ponds that would have had Monet needing to buy extra paint.  Woodland walks gave way to huge wild meadows which shimmered and trembled with butterflies and bees.

More formal gardens planted in strict colour themes: whites, yellows, reds and blues all bled into one another and each one seemed to have its own gardener assiduously working the beds – what a huge staff Longwood must have.

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I spent almost three hours strolling through this masterpiece tucked away in the Pennsylvanian countryside and it was a perfect way to spend my final morning in the USA.

Having sent a few pictures to Liz, in an effort to share my experience, I got into the car, set the SatNav system for JFK and off I went.

The journey ran smoothly until I neared New York City where, as predicted, the delays started to mount up, but I had so much time in hand that it really didn’t matter.  One slow snake of traffic made its way onto Statten Island and past the Snug Harbor Arts Center, where I performed for many years.

I drove on and was delighted to see that we were approaching the Verrazano Bridge which is a magnificent towering structure – a New York Golden Gate Bridge (except it isn’t gold).  The views across to Manhattan were breath-taking, The new World Trade Center dominates, but there was the dear old Empire State building still looking mightily impressive.  In the foreground Lady Liberty stood proudly holding her torch like the Ghost of Christmas Present.

On we drove, past the Coney Island fun fairs, and on towards the airport.  When I arrived I was two hours early.  I returned my little Nissan to Thrifty and took the monorail to Terminal Seven, where I checked in with all the other Business Class clientele.

One of the privileges of flying business is that you get to use the comfortable lounge and I was able to have a bite of supper in the restaurant there, before eventually boarding the plane, climbing the stairs and settling into seat 64A for the overnight flight home to Liz.

It has been a remarkably varied trip, which has been thoroughly enjoyable.  From the passionate collectors of Golden Glow, the ghosts of Watkins Glen to the joyful familiarity and friendship of Winterthur, I have had a wonderful time.

When I return in November it will be for the long six week haul of my annual Christmas tour and there will be many more adventures to write about, which I will enjoy sharing with you as they unfold.

 

 

 

 

 

A Pilgrimage to Watkins Glen

The Glen

 

Yesterday I made a pilgrimage.  A pilgrimage that took me back to my childhood and honoured a group of men who inspired me and who showed me that anything was possible, even if it appeared to be beyond the bounds of the natural physical world.

I have been resting between my two shows on this trip in a wonderful oasis of calm in wooded hills high above the Delaware river, and I decided on one of my free days to get in the car and head for Watkins Glen in upstate New York.  The drive would take me four hours, but the prize would be worth it, indeed.

For those who have regularly followed my blog you will know that I have always been a passionate follower of Grand Prix motor racing.  It is a passion that has been with me since the age of 6, when my brother and sister took me to the Brands Hatch racing circuit in Kent to watch the 1970 Race of Champions.  Brands Hatch was (and still is) a sinuous race track winding its way through woodland, rising and falling with natural contours of the surrounding countryside.  There is nothing artificial about Brands Hatch, and the drivers who tackle it are battling not only the limits of their cars, but also what nature has created for them.

In the 1970s the Grand Prix circus travelled the world, and although there were sixteen races each season, only a few circuits really stood out – The fourteen mile Nurburgring was terrifying in the extreme and had claimed many lives; Brands Hatch, of course was special because it was local; and then there was Watkins Glen which seemed to somehow stand apart from the rest.

The US Grand Prix had been held at The Glen since 1961 and always came at the very end of the season, as the fall colours were at their flame-red best.  The World Championship had invariably already been settled and there was inevitably an end-of-term, celebratory feel about the race.  The organisers ensured that the prize fund was the richest of the year and so a huge entry was guaranteed (these were the days that anyone with a suitable car could turn up and race, and it was not unusual for an official team to enter a third, even a fourth car.  So unlike the rigidly controlled two by two grids that we have today.)

My drive took me along the banks of the Delaware and through Pennsylvania.  Initially I was passing cities I know well from my tour, but as I travelled further north, through Pocono, Scranton and onwards, the names were all new to me.  I was amazed at the city of Binghampton, across the state line in New York.  I pride myself of having a pretty wide knowledge of American geography, but I have never heard of Binghampton, and yet it seemed to be a thriving, multi-cultural city, with tall spires mingling with shining, glinting mosques.

The hours passed slowly but the scenery was so beautiful, lush wooded hills surrounded me on all sides.  It has been rather nice to see America at its verdant best, as I am usually here in the depths of winter, when the trees are bare and the sky grey.

My route took me west into New York state, and as the arrival time came closer I began to reflect more on why I had felt the need to travel to Watkins Glen – it had almost been a compulsion.

I dredged my mind for race histories and I realised that my four great racing heroes had all excelled at The Glen.  Graham Hill, Ronnie Peterson, James Hunt and Gilles Villeneuve had all tamed Watkins Glenn and enjoyed amazing successes there

Graham Hill was a dashing moustachioed driver of the old school.  He drove hard and partied hard and had raced against some of the very greats, and beaten them.  In 1971 I had been at Brands Hatch, a shy little boy, watching the cars returning to the paddock after a practice session, with my pudding basin haircut, and probably my brown leather sandals.  I was standing against a chain-link wire fence and watched as these mechanical masterpieces burbled past me.  The drivers cocooned in their colourful crash helmets seemed remote and untouchable.  But then a white Brabham came into site, and its driver – Graham Hill – was bare headed, and as he drove past he caught sight of me, pointed and waved.  There were no large crowds, just me and he waved.  In that instant motor racing became less about cars and more about the men inside them, and I wanted Graham Hill to win!

Hill had triumphed for three years in a row at Watkins Glen, from 1963 to 1965, beating the likes of Jimmy Clark (who many regard as the greatest ever driver).  But however he might have tamed the Glen it almost took its revenge in 1969.  Hill was driving for the Lotus team and tyre wear problems resulted in his spinning off the track.  He had to undo his seatbelts, climb out of the car and push it back to the tarmac.  The tight confines of the cockpits meant that he couldn’t do his seatbelts back up again (they were somewhat of a novelty in F1 at that time anyway), and he drove on at racing speeds with his belts unfastened.  As he passed the pits he signalled to his team that he would be coming in for a tyre change on the next lap, so they should start preparing now.  He never made it.

As Graham Hill accelerated down the back straight his tyre exploded and sent the car into a huge, cartwheeling accident, going end over end destroying itself as it did so.  The centrifugal forces acting on the car pulled the helpless driver from his seat and ejected him high into the air, breaking both of his legs as he was flung out.  He said later that he never knew if it was a good or bad thing that he didn’t have his belts on, because if he had been restrained in the cockpit the result may have been much worse.

Graham Hill recovered and continued to drive in F1 for many more years, but he was never the driver he had been before that crash.

Whereas Graham Hill was a larger than life personality, Ronnie Peterson from Sweden was quiet and almost shy, but boy could he drive a racing car fast.  He seemed to have an innate ability to understand the forces at work and control them. His trademark blue and yellow helmet would be tilted forward and down, as if he were urging the car onward.  He would commit to a corner at apparently impossible speeds  and sure enough the car would begin to slide, the rear desperately trying to overtake the front, but did Ronne lift his foot?  Oh no, he simply counter-steered, tamed the beast and drifted around the bend in perfect control.

Ronnie’s first visit to the Glen was in 1970 driving for the unfancied and under financed March racing team.  Over the next few years he would put his stamp on the circuit however.  In 71, still with March he took an amazing and completely unexpected third place, and in 72 he was fourth.  In 1973, now with a major team at last – Lotus – he slid and drifted his way to a memorable victory.

In fact that 73 race saw the emergence of my next hero the rebellious child of the seventies, James Hunt.  Hunt had gained a reputation in junior formula for crashing, and had only found himself in Formula One thanks to the largesse of a young aristocrat, who seemed to have more money than sense.

Lord Alexander Hesketh decided that Formula One looked a fun place to party, so created his own team which appeared to be staffed by a group of hooray-Henrys more interested in Champagne than preparing the car.  But the outward frivolity of the team masked a steely core, and during 73 they started to challenge the major teams.  At Watkins Glen Hunt pushed Peterson (the recognised fastest driver, in the best car) all the way to the finish line, finishing just 0.7 of a second behind him.  Three years later, in his Championship year, Hunt drove one of his finest races to win and repeated that result in 77.

Gilles Villeneuve was a French Canadian who drove in the Ronnie Peterson mould, ignoring the rules of physics and pushing the car way beyond them.  In 1979 the Friday practice session was held in torrential rain, but as there was a possibility of the same on race day, all of the drivers went out and teetered through the puddles.  Most came back saying it was undrivable and dangerous, but Gilles pounded round and when the session was over he hap lapped 9 (NINE) seconds faster than his nearest rival!  Another driver simply laughed and muttered ‘he is on a different level to the rest of us’.  On Sunday Gilles won the race with ease.

So Watkins Glen had been the showground for a succession of my favourite drivers to display their ability, but Grand Prix racing in the 1970s was a truly gladiatorial sport and the slightest error could be fatal.  Today if a driver loses control the circuits are built in such a way as to contain the accident as safely as possible and that of course is a good thing, but there was something about watching Grand Prix cars in my era, knowing that these heroes were pushing themselves to the very limit in full knowledge of what the consequences of overstepping the mark would be.  Oh, yes, they knew because two or three drivers would perish at the wheel each year.

That race in 71 in which Ronnie stood on the podium was won by a dashing young Frenchman called Francois Cevert – he had the dark, brooding good looks of a film star, piercing blue eyes and as well as great ability in a racing car, played the piano to concert standard.  By 1973 Cevert was talked about as a future world champion.

During practice for the 1973 US Grand Prix he entered the swooping fast esses just after the start of the lap and made the slightest of errors in positioning the car, his front wheel clipped the inside barrier and from that moment he was out of control.  In an instant his Tyrrell shot across the track  and slammed into the barrier at unabated speed.  The steel was not sufficiently strong to contain the forces and it opened up, letting the car pass underneath.  Poor Cevert had no chance as the knife-like steel edge inflicted fatal injuries to him.

But the Glen had not finished yet, for in 1974 a young Austrian driver Helmut Koenig suffered a puncture as he approached the Toe turn, sending him headlong into the barrier, which parted just as had happened to Cevert the year before:  the result was tragically and gruesomely the same.

So, triumph and tragedy has coloured the Glen’s history.  Formula One racing stopped coming here in 1981, but the track still hosts major meetings throughout the year, and is largely unchanged since those heady days.

As I got closer I became extraordinarily emotional, and I couldn’t quite understand why.  The circuit is much higher in the hills than I had expected, and is remarkably like Brands Hatch in its setting and layout, making it feel very familiar.

I drove up to the gate, and another man was asking if it was possible to visit, and the answer was in the negative, the circuit was closed to all visitors today as the NASCAR circus was setting up for the weekend’s race.  Strangely I wasn’t disappointed, it was enough just to be there, in the hills.  I drove around some perimeter roads and found a camp site that had views of The Boot section of the track.

I said a silent thank you to my heroes, none of whom are still alive, and drove away.

Watkins Glen

 

An eight hour round drive seemed to be rather a long time, just to stand in a campsite and look at one corner of racetrack, so I decided to drive the short distance into the village of Watkins Glen itself.

Of course it was ready for the NACAR onslaught, and all of the lamp poles had US and chequered flags flying.  Watkins Glen is very proud of its racing heritage and the influence of the races are everywhere.  In the Chamber of Commerce building I was moved to see a huge mural, featuring Francois Cevert in the centre.

On leaving the Chamber I found that the pavements have stone tablets set into them, like the Holywood walk of fame, honouring those drivers who have triumphed here.

The first races were held on public roads, with the start and finish line being in the very centre of the village, opposite the town hall.  The stone tablet adjacent to the old start line (still marked across the street) pays homage to the winner of the first race in 1948: Frank Griswold (rather aptly the same surname as the character in National Lampoon’s Vacation who makes a pilgrimage to Wally World, only to find it closed).

But further exploration brought me to the Glen itself, cutting its way through a deep gorge and falling to sea level (or lake level to be pedantic) via a series of spectacular waterfalls.  The Watkins Glenn State Park have created a natural and unobtrusive walkway alongside the glen.  The narrow stone walk way winds its way through tunnels and over bridges and affords wonderful views of the 19 different waterfalls.

For an hour or so I joined many other camera-toting hikers as we made our way up and back down again, marvelling at nature.  I would imagine if anyone is studying geology in New York State, they only need to come here, walk up and walk down before being ready to take their final paper.

From the Glen itself I took the car to the very edge of Seneca Lake and found a small restaurant where I had a huge salad as I looked out at deep blue choppy waters, with the occasional slash of white as a yacht tacked this way or that.

Watkins Glen is a lovely town, in beautiful surroundings and I am glad that my childhood memories had lead me here.  A long journey home lay before me, but I was so happy that I came both to capture those heady years when childhood gave way to adolescence and to discover somewhere new and beautiful.

Hopefully Liz and I can return to the Glen together one day and explore properly, and if there just happens to be a race that weekend…….

[GD1]

A Golden Glow

Thursday, 28 July

My Christmas season always starts early, but this year is impressive even for me.  On 28 July, nearly a full five months before the great day, I was packing my bags and heading to Heathrow airport ready to perform A Christmas Carol for the first time in 2016.

This Summery celebration of the yuletide season was due to a group called Golden Glow, who were holding their summer convention in New York State.  Golden Glow is a huge organisation made up of people who collect Christmas memorabilia of all sorts – as I was to find out they are passionate and committed collectors indeed.

Every trip that I make provides me with new adventures and experiences and on this occasion I was rewarded with a realisation of a dream that was harboured in childhood:  to go upstairs on a Boeing 747 Jumbo Jet, for the very kind people at Golden Glow had offered to fly me Business Class, which is definitely not a stipulation of my contract, just a kind and generous thing.

Liz drove me to the airport and we tearfully said our goodbyes.  You would think after all these years of travelling we would have got used to this, but it never gets any easier, and I made my way through security and on towards gate B41, where BA flight 175 waited.

I have to say that I loved every second of the experience: being called up to board first and relishing the moment when the flight attendant said: ‘good morning, Mr Dickens, straight up the stairs, enjoy your flight.’

The little bubble atop the 747 fuselage almost becomes a private jet, so small is it.  I don’t know how many passengers were up there, maybe twenty, but we were served by two very attentive stewards.

 

Champagne to start (it was only 9am, but – hey – it was offered!), and then I settled into the huge reclining seat to peruse the lunch menu.  This was no ‘Chicken or beef – sorry, chicken’s run out.’

Oh, no:

Starters

Loch Fynne smoked salmon with red and white radish and wasabi crème fraiche

Garden of grilled baby vegetables on little gem lettuce with tabbouleh and carrot hummus

 

Salad

Fresh seasonal salad served with vinaigrette

 

Main courses 

Braised short rib of Herefordshire Beef with celeriac mousseline, buttered carrots, swede and thyme jus

Grilled prawns tossed in tomato basil butter served with saffron risotto and Tuscan style vegetables with olives

Pappardelle and courgette ribbons bound in truffle cream sauce, served with fresh green asparagus and slow-roast cherry tomatoes

Main course wakame salad featuring grilled breast of corn-fed chicken marinated in lemon with pickled cucumber and miso dressing.

 

Deserts

Mocha and Mascarpone mousse cake with strawberry puree

Warm apple raisin sponge pudding with toffee sauce

West Country Brie and Belton Farm Red Fox served with Bramley apple chutney

A selection of whole fresh fruit

Tea, coffee and chocolates

Ahhhhh.

At take off another advantage of being up here became apparent:  so far from the engines was I sat, that the noise and vibration was almost unnoticeable.

Of course the flight was relaxing and quiet and the cabin had plenty of room to walk and stretch my legs.  I watched a succession of films, starting with the brilliant Steve Jobs, and ending up with the ridiculous – but fun – Eddie the Eagle. And I slept for a while, stretched out on my full length reclining seat, wrapped in an eiderdown (not a thin blanket, you note, but a real eiderdown!)

Of course, as soon as the plane touched down all luxury and privilege went out of the window, and all 605 passengers stood in line waiting to be seen by a surly immigration official; and all 605 passengers gathered around the baggage carrousel; and all 605 passengers waited in another line to be checked by a surly customs official before being disgorged into the arrivals hall.

I quickly found my way to the rental car offices, collected my car and set off for Rye Brook, Westchester County, New York.

The drive was about an hour and as I made my way I caught ghostly glimpses of the New York City skyline through the hot, humid haze.

At one point I passed a very odd looking golf course, which seemed to be made of artificially coloured grass, with vivid greed fairways and sulphurous yellow rough – it didn’t sit comfortably within the surrounding landscape at all.  As I passed the main gate the garish sign proudly advertised it as The Trump Links.

I reached the Hilton Westchester and pulled my bags into the lobby (don’t BA send someone to do that for you, when you have flown business class?) and for a moment it seemed as if I was actually on my official Christmas tour.  The whole foyer (and I was soon to discover the whole hotel) was decked out for Christmas: trees, wreathes, coloured lights, giant Santas, nutcrackers and glass ornaments abounded.

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As I checked in I was welcomed by the hosts of Golden Glow 2016, Bill Steely and Michael Storrings who asked me if Id like to join them for a drink; and so the party began.

Bill gave me a quick tour of the hotel and the sheer scale of this event began to dawn on me for the first time.  Lectures were taking place in one ballroom, whilst another was being prepared for the evening banquet.  650 chairs around circular tables looks an awful lot, and even though my show was two days away I began to think how best to perform in this huge space.

More meeting rooms were given over to museum spaces, where the delegates displayed their treasured collections of Christmas memorabilia.  Some Victorian, some early twentieth century, some post war, all carefully researched and beautifully displayed.

But the strangest thing were the notes:  in every hallway, in every lift, on every table were little handwritten notes encouraging other delegates to go to room #418, or 139, or 624 or wherever to trade.  One read ‘Room 274.  Good Stuff!’  it seemed slightly suspicious to me…

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I got a little rest before joining the group for the evening’s banquet, which was to an Italian Theme.  The food was excellent, as was the company although I was beginning to fade fast as my body was convinced that it was 3am.

Following dinner there was a very entertaining cabaret act, and it was useful for me to watch the singer perform on the same stage that I would be treading in 48 hours.  I watched his movements, observed the light and tried to see how the audience reacted to him.

The show finished at around 9.15 and I headed straight to bed, leaving the members of Golden to Glow to participate in the final event of the day – Room Hopping…..

 

Friday 29 July

Day two was basically a free day for me and was a chance to relax and acclimate.

At breakfast I discovered that Golden Glow was not the only group staying in the hotel, for in the restaurant was scattered various members of The American Academy of Ballet.  There were young dances, presumably from the corps de ballet, and there were more imposing performers who must have been the principals.  There were older ladies with perfect poise who presumably were the choreographers and directors.  There were then less impressively formed characters piling bacon and eggs and bacon onto their plates, who made up the stage management and tech teams.

As I watched this company gather I reflected on what an amazing thing art is – here was a huge group who had come together to tell a story to an audience, and here was I, on my own, preparing to do the same thing:  live theatre – you can’t beat it for its massive scope and wide ranging appeal.

I spent the morning running through A Christmas Carol, which I hadn’t performed since December 27.  I looked at the blog posts from last year’s tour to remind myself of changes I had made to the show during that trip, and went over and over those passages just to fix them firmly in place.

With a couple of runs under my belt I then took myself off for a walk in the hot humid morning sun.  In the land behind the hotel there is a park with walking trails, so I headed for that, not using a map, just following my nose.  I admired the front gardens of the nearby houses, proudly laid open to the passer by, unlike the English who like to hide their gardens behind walls, fences and high hedges.

The walk in the park was beautiful and took me through grassed landscape, past carefully tended garden spaces and alongside a wildflower meadow.

At one point I came upon a huge cedar that had spilt and fallen, judging by the brightness of the wood and the sweet scent, probably the night before.

I continued my walk out of the park and through more neighbourhoods before returning to the hotel and a delicious lunch of Pear and Apple salad with grilled chicken.

In the afternoon there were to be a series of lectures and two in particular caught my eye: ‘A Victoria and Albert Christmas’ and ‘Dickens: The Real Man Behind A Christmas Carol’

I took a seat to one side and near the back, from where I could listen, incognito.

The first lecture was very interesting and described how Prince Albert’s influence changed the way that the British nation celebrated Christmas, by introducing lavish decorations and gift giving to the feast.

In describing the ancient pagan rituals our lecturer Kit, explained that ‘wearing of any ivy wreath was thought to prevent falling hair.’  Ivy wreathes for me then, although it may be too late already.

The second lecture was given by Gary Dean, who I had met at one of my tea performances in Hershey.  It was a fascinating talk about the financial trouble that Dickens was in during 1843 (Martin Chuzzlewit was not selling well and Charles was scared that his lavish lifestyle and continued financial imprudence of his father, may lead to severe problems.)

Under these circumstances Dickens came up with the idea of producing a highly popular book for Christmas, which would be sure to sell well, and he had the opportunity of tackling one of his biggest social concerns at the same time: the plight of the poor children in the big cities.

Dickens had been working with the Ragged School organisation for a while and encouraged many philanthropists, most especially Angela Burdett-Coutts, to support him.  By writing a wonderful, magical tale of Christmas, that also featured the worst of society, Charles could bring the plight of the poor to the very forefront of the public consciousness.

Gary spoke very well and didn’t allow himself to become side-tracked into overt sentimentality or hero-worship for his subject – he told it as it was.  He pointed out that many early adaptations left out the hideous, starving characters of Ignorance and Want, and I let out a gentle sigh of relief that they feature in MY show!

The banquet on Friday evening was Germanic (the overall theme for the convention being ‘All Round the World’), and on this occasion the entertainment was ‘Christmas Idol’ in which a few of the delegates performed on stage and were judged by Candy Cane – a Rockette from Radio City (played by Bill Steely’s wife Janine), Jack Frost portrayed by a young ballet dancer, and Vixen, the naughtiest of all Santa’s elves.

The performances ranged from superb, verging on professional, through exceedingly good, to charming, talented and all the way to tone deaf, but it was a fabulous evening and the audience were completely engaged, giving repeated standing ovations, and waving their smart phones in the air, to replicate the 60s and 70s tradition of lighters and candles at rock concerts.

The judges deliberated and were good-naturedly booed when they didn’t put the two cute kids through.  The decision was correct, however and the joint winners were by far the best singers. on the night.

After dinner I spent a little time with Bill, Janine and the other judges in the bar as they wound down from their evening’s efforts.

 

Saturday, 30 July

Saturday marked the day of my show, but as I wouldn’t be performing until 8pm, I had plenty of time to myself again.

After breakfast I made my way up to the grand ballroom to look at the stage, and as the room was deserted I placed a couple of pieces of furniture on it and started to rehearse.  It was a good exercise and very useful to get used to the very wide nature of the room.  It would be important to make sure that the show was spread out to all corners and not become too centred.

As I rehearsed I got more and more into the show, and a few of the delegates poked their heads in to see what was going on.  A hotel waiter took a seat at the back and watched the last twenty minutes or so, meaning that I had an audience to play to.  When I finished and walked out of the room he said ‘Yeah, good job, very good.  Very, very good.’  Never has an audience reaction meant more!

The rest of the day was quiet and relaxing, the main business of the convention being a massive auction that lasted most of the day.  Most of the conventioneers (as the hotel manager called them), would be leaving early the next morning, and the business of taking everything down began early.

As the afternoon moved on I began my preparation routine, with showering, ironing and making sure that I had all the props and music to hand, before going to the ballroom.

A chair and decorated table was on the stage, but there was no stool for Bob Cratchit:  I looked around and found a wooden piano stool that would do, if we couldn’t find anything else.

I did a sound check, and then the audience began to gather in the hall – all 650 of them.  All tired, all wanting to pack their goods, all ready to go home:  a pang of nervousness ran through me – could I do this?  Could I hold their attention?  Well, there was only one way to find out.

Dinner followed the same patter as previous nights (Great Britain being the theme this time).  I had a little salad and some Mutton Broth, but passed on the Roast Turkey and trimmings.  As dessert was served I left the table and prepared for the off, although I was a bit premature, in that I hadn’t counted on the raffles and auctions, and selling on of the tables centres, and the thanking of the volunteers, and the congratulating of the hotel, and all of the other business that is essential to an event of this sort.

Bill made a short introduction, and left the stage as my introductory music (the haunting opening bars of The Trans-Siberian Orchestra’s Carol of the Bells), brought a silence across the room.

‘Marley was dead, to begin with…..’  I felt completely at home.

It was an interesting performance, as the audience had an English feel to it, in that they were slow to warm up, but as the story moved on everyone became completely involved and I began to give more and more.  My voice suffered a little with the air con (as it always does when I first arrive in America), but all the little things that I’d worked on in my hotel room, and that morning on stage, worked well.  Even the piano stool did its job admirably.

The applause at the end was wonderful and everyone stood as I took my bows.  I was very relieved and very satisfied.

Everyone had been given a copy of A Christmas Carol at their table, so there was a fair bit of signing to be done.  I sat on the chair on stage and spent plenty of time chatting and posing and shaking hands.

One gentleman, dressed in a red shirt and wearing a large white beard waited until the very end then came to chat.  His name is Jim Morrison and he runs a museum of Christmas in Delaware.  Many years ago we met and he presented me with a set of glass Christmas tree ornaments in the shape of characters from A Christmas Carol, which I was delighted to tell him we still have.

When the signing was finished I retired to the bar and joined Bill, Michael, Janine and plenty of other new friends.  Meanwhile the great exodus had begun and luggage carts loaded high with plastic packing cases full of ornaments and cards were being pushed towards the parking lots.

Really, I was lucky that nobody left during the show (as usually happens, I was informed).

 

Sunday 31 July

As I hadn’t managed to sign all of the books on Saturday night, I had suggested to Bill that I would sit in the lobby to be available as people checked out, the result being that I had a very pleasant hour or two, chatting to people – including a mother and son who were attending the convention from Exeter in England.  I am actually hoping to perform in the town of Ashburton, not far from them, so hopefully we will meet up again in a couple of months.

I said good bye to Michael and Bill and all of the others before heading back to my room to gather my bags and leave.

The main desk in the hotel was long, and there were a few people standing there sorting out their bills.  One of the staff said to me ‘Mr Dickens, It’s been great to have you here.  Really exciting.  Have you enjoyed your time with us?’ and I replied that I had, before telling him my room number and handing over the keys.  We completed the formalities and as I went to leave the gentleman standing next to me at the counter said to the clerk: ‘are you free now?’  ‘Yes’ ‘Mmm, I thought you were free before, until that gentleman barged in…’

Suddenly all of the friendship and goodwill and cheerfulness evaporated in one moment.  My first reaction was ‘for goodness sake, did the story mean NOTHING to you?’  But then I realised that I has been flattered by the desk clerk’s attention, and had become all starry, I hadn’t even bothered to check if the gentleman was waiting (I assumed he was being served by someone else, I suppose), and had just taken over.  I mumbled an apology, which wasn’t received well, and made my way out of the hotel, with a dark cloud hanging over me.

The weather matched my mood, as it was dark and glowering and soon heavy rain began to fall.  I drove towards New York City and managed to successfully manoeuvre through the tortuous lane system onto the two story George Washington Bridge.

Soon I was on the New Jersey Turnpike and a good old dose of Simon and Garfunkel Karaoke began to clear my head and soon I was driving on in a much better frame of mind towards a few days of relaxation and friendship, before my next show on Thursday.

My time with The Golden Glow (it is always mentioned as a singular entity), was great fun.  I met some wonderful people who love what they do.  Hopefully more will come of these few days and I may be invited to further conventions in the future – and not just so that I can go upstairs on a 747.