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Ghostly Encounter!

31/10/2013

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PictureTerry Jackson, Robert Blythe, Terry Mortimer (me levitating!)
As it's Halloween, I thought I'd relate a personal incident I've always looked upon as a ghostly encounter. It was certainly a strange experience and one I've always found hard to completely rationalise. I'm not trying to sell you a ghost story here; perhaps it was simply a string of coincidences, along with a nightmare engendered by conversations that evening. Who knows? I'm simply going to state how it came about, and let you make up your own minds as to the rest. The 'event', for want of a better term, happened to me over thirty years ago and if there are inaccuracies in my account (there quite possibly are!) I apologise; these are simply down to the baleful effect that time has on memory and aren't a deliberate attempt to mislead.

I left drama school in 1976, picked-up an Equity ticket doing TIE (Theatre in Education), and in the Autumn of 1977 began working for the Welsh Drama Company. The company was the impoverished sister of the established and highly successful Welsh Opera Company. Both companies worked from a large customised warehouse  in an otherwise largely derelict area of Cardiff. The Welsh Drama Company's fortunes were actually in the doldrums (sadly never to recover!), their funding having been greatly reduced by the Arts Council. The company, once quite ambitious in its scope, was by now little more than a community theatre company. We toured Wales, playing mostly single nights at small venues, community centres, church and miners halls etc. In larger towns we'd play for a few days at a time. The stuff we performed was specially written by Phil Woods, and our first play was called 'Ghost Stories', directed by Gruffudd Jones. It was a comic piece, 'a sealed house drama' where six characters are brought together and one by one relate a 'ghostly tale'. As the evening develops, they realise that they are unwittingly all caught up in a ghost story together. The whole thing was basically just good-natured fun. I played a comically sinister character called Gregory Hammond who had Satanic inclinations, and in one scene, I not only hypnotised everyone else on stage, but started to actually levitate, then tossed off a quick incantation and conjured up a demon - all in the best possible taste! People always wanted to know how the levitation was done. It was visually quite convincing. All I'd admit to enquiring members of the public was that it took a lot of practice. This wasn't actually true; it was in fact, an incredibly simple trick. However, not one person, though they eagerly advanced imaginative theories, usually involving wires or mirrors, actually figured out how it was done. And guess what? I'm still not telling!

One of our venues was a place called Clyro Court. The village of Clyro is right on the Welsh border, about a mile from its now famous neighbour Hay-on Wye. Clyro Court was a stately home that had been converted into a luxury hotel. When one of our party first saw the large house as they came along the drive, they were heard to remark that it looked like Baskerville Hall from the Sherlock Holmes tales. This was a remarkably perceptive observation, because Clyro Court was indeed the home of the real Baskerville family. Apparently Conan Doyle had often visited his Baskerville friends at Clyro, and with their permission used their name, which he put together with a local legend about a large dog, but for discretion's sake set the tale in Dartmoor. Back in 1977 it was owned and managed by a chap whose first name I recall was Colin - the surname I forget.

You can imagine our delight, all young actors, invariably strapped for cash, not only getting to play a tasty venue like Clyro but having our accommodation there too! It was a big treat, as we were generally only in the market for the cheapest 'digs' in town. Something I should tell you about the hotel, Clyro Court, back in those days, was that it didn't have any room numbers - but every room had been awarded the name of a country. I discovered myself in 'India' - a smallish room with exotic wallpaper and a four poster bed. It was very comfortable. I soon discovered, however, that a number of my colleagues had done far better than me. Some of them were in rooms that seemed to my youthful eyes to be as broad as football stadiums, bearing untold luxuries - like water-beds et al (I hadn't got out much by this time!). I recall visiting our stage manager, Sean, who was giving public audiences from a sunken bathtub, reclining amongst hillocks of bubble bath with a glass of champagne and a large cigar stuffed into a corner of his mouth! His room was 'USA', I suppose the red and white stripes of the wallpaper and the blue paintwork were meant to suggest the US flag. The weekend at Clyro seemed like the perfect opportunity to invite my girlfriend (later my wife), who I already shared a flat with in London, down to stay. She arrived on Saturday afternoon. We'd already played one performance at the venue on Friday evening - so I'd slept one night in 'India' by the time she got to us!

After the second evening's performance we all congregated, as we generally did, in the bar. I recall our table was near a stone plaque, laid by Thomas Baskerville when the house was new. We were all sitting at a table with Colin, Clyro Court's owner. He had an interest in all things to do with the occult and possessed an object he referred to as a 'gnome stone'. Yes, our tongues were firmly fixed in our cheeks too, gentle reader! This stone, rectangular in shape, approximately eight inches by twelve, looked to me like an undistinguished slab of sandstone. Anyway, Colin said he was able to 'read' this stone and that it could be asked questions concerning the future. We were each allowed to ask it something, for this we had to focus our minds on our question - the response would come via the 'Gnome Stone's' medium, Colin. Actually the answer I got to mine turned out to be fairly accurate, but then it was also rather generalised. At midnight, Judith and I left the assembled company and turned in for the night.

I felt remarkably tired and fell asleep quite soon - this is almost reversed behaviour for us, as I was ever a poor sleeper, while Judith has always been swift off the mark to run into the arms of Morpheus. However, she told me later that she'd had a really strong conviction that it would be unwise for her to fall asleep. She couldn't have rationally explained it, because she felt completely safe herself but just couldn't shake off the notion that I was in some kind of personal danger. She was convinced that she must remain awake - and watch over me as I slept!

Two hours later, at 2 am (the time is relevant!), whilst laying asleep on my back, I began to groan, then I started thrashing from side to side. It was, Judith described later, like watching someone trying to turn over or get up but who is being held by invisible bonds and therefore immobilised. In fact, this describes exactly what I was experiencing in my nightmare, or whatever it was. I was actually 'seeing' it all too: observing myself (though fast asleep you understand!) in bed, fully aware that I was in the room 'India', I could even see Judith lying troubled and awake beside me. The reason why I couldn't rise or turn was because a youngish woman, dressed in the kind of embroidered lace nightdress worn by ladies in the nineteenth-century, was actually standing on my torso, and although I sensed no weight bearing down, she had me literally pinned to the spot. Her arms were reaching out towards me, and I knew that she was calling me to come to her. My willpower to resist seemed to be diminishing fast, as the energy was leeched out of my sleeping form and drawn up into her.

I don't know, and don't really want to know what the 'spectres' intended outcome was. Fortunately, Judith shook me quite firmly until I was wide awake!

I told her I'd had a nightmare and explained the gist of what I'd experienced. Nightmares have never really concerned me too much, so I went straight back off to sleep. Judith didn't tell me until the next day that she hadn't felt it safe for her to fall asleep earlier -  I suspect getting back off to sleep again might have been less easy if she had! However, once this 'event' had occured, she felt with a conviction as unshakeable as she had known before, that I was no longer in any danger, and allowed herself to settle down and sleep too.

In the morning, over breakfast, my friends in the company said they wished they'd left and gone to bed at the same time as us. They explained that after we'd gone off, things had got a little weird and rather freakish down in the bar. Colin, our host, had brought out a ouija board and had suggested they hold a seance. Those who were present described an uncomfortable rather stifling presence in the room during this seance. Colin announced to all that a female ghost had materialised before them; the name Elizabeth was spelt out on the ouija board; then, without any warning, setting everyone's nerves firmly on edge, there was suddenly a great crash - a window had blown out on the ground floor of the building! My actor chums found the experience all a bit too much to take, they said they were suddenly very tired and quickly beat a retreat.

"What time did all this happen?" Judith asked.

Someone said they'd glanced up at the wall clock when the woman's name was being spelt out on the board and that it was 2 am. It was only at this point that Judith explained how she had sensed I was in danger and had resisted sleep herself.

Whilst with the Welsh Drama Company, I happily performed and stayed at Clyro Court once again. Nothing untoward happened, however, on this subsequent visit we all stayed away from seances and ouija boards. I was relieved when arriving at the reception desk to be given a key for 'Greece'. My pal Terry Jackson had stayed in this room on the previous occasion and he assured me that I'd get nothing but a good night's sleep. He was right, I did. Nobody stayed in 'India' on this our final visit.

And there you have it. Was I actually haunted, or had our imaginations simply constructed something out of all the other-worldly stuff that was going on about us?

You decide.


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Hiraeth to Hamlet

23/10/2013

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We've had a busy few days recently and several late nights - but who cares? I no longer possess a complexion worth getting to sleep early to conserve!

Quite incredibly, it's been nearly a year since my mother passed away, and although my emotions aren't as raw as they were in the weeks immediately following her death, there remains a great sadness when I think of the almost constant loneliness she suffered during her final years. I have an old bureau that was originally purchased by my grandfather around the time of WW1 and which always held a prominent position in our family home. I associate it with my parents, and since I've inherited it, whenever one of its glass doors swings open unannounced (a matter of a worn-out locking mechanism, not ghosts!) my wife and I always greet it with a cheery, "Hallo Mam!"  Occasionally both doors open simultaneously and when this happens we welcome my Dad too. It's comforting to own a piece of furniture that connects me to family - its very presence brings to me an incontrovertible sense of belonging at least somewhere in this great big world! I can only imagine how devastating it must be for refugees fleeing from an oppressor, still an all too frequent reality, people running for their lives and forced to abandon all else.

PictureYes, Tommy Cooper was born in Caerphilly!
Because of my long adopted practice of visiting my mother for several days at a time every six weeks, I'd recently found myself experiencing the phenomenon we Welsh call 'hiraeth' - it translates into English as 'longing' but this doesn't nearly do it justice - the word conjures-up in us 'Taffs' an umbilical link to hearth and homeland. Anyway. the opportunity to return home arrived by way of an invitation to a birthday party in Nailsworth, Gloucestershire - near enough to Wales to plan a long weekend! We left late on Thursday evening and stayed for two nights near the town of Caerphilly in south-east Wales. On Friday we explored the town and were both struck by the friendliness of its people. In the afternoon we visited Caerphilly's impressive, moated Norman castle, built by the immensely powerful Gilbert de Clare in 1268. We agreed that the quite extensively restored areas enhanced the experience positively, as too did some highly imaginative audio/visual presentations. It was well worth the visit and comes highly recommended. Later on that afternoon we got ourselves pretty much lost on top of a mountain whilst trying to navigate our way to Pontypridd. The mountain sheep eyed us with disinterest, a hill runner gave us a cheerful wave as we drove by, and the only car we passed stopped for a humorous exchange in true 'valleys' fashion.

On Saturday we drove the twelve miles into Cardiff, enjoyed its marvellous shopping precinct and met up with some friends for a chat. We were very lucky with weather, and just as it began to rain with a not unprecedented ferocity for Wales, we were fortunate enough to be heading east along the M4 towards our new accommodation in Wiltshire for Saturday night. We were given impeccable directions by our hotel receptionist to the birthday party's location, which turned out to be a terrific evening. The entertainment was provided by a really accomplished local band called The Dubious Brothers. They must've known I was coming because they covered just about every one of my favourite songs from the last four or five decades! We drove home on Sunday morning and after picking up the week's shopping, didn't overtax ourselves for the rest of the day.

Yesterday we had another late night as we'd booked to see 'Hamlet', an NT Live encore production to mark the National Theatre's fiftieth anniversary. We were told that the showing marked exactly fifty years since Peter O'Toole's performance as the Dane in the National's very first production of the play, then staged at the Old Vic and directed by Laurence Olivier. The central role in our version was comfortably inhabited by Rory Kinnear, Patrick Malahide brought the corrupt Claudius to sleazy life, James Laurenson was a powerfully moving ghost and David Calder brought much warmth and humour to Polonius. I shan't go on with listing, it was directed by Nicholas Hytner with crystal clarity, and for this reason might have been especially worth seeing for anyone coming to the play for the first time. I for one found myself totally engaged throughout the entire performance.  


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Innsbruck and Emperor Maximilian's Tomb

16/10/2013

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PictureStreet performers taking a rest in Innsbruck
This summer we opted for two weeks, mainly walking, in the Tyrol. The only real variation in this plan was a daytrip to Innsbruck by bus and train for a day of 'culture cramming'. This was the second time we've visited Innsbruck, and hopefully not the last, as we still have more to see. We spent the morning at the Ferdinandeum Art Gallery/Museum where they have a collection that is well worth viewing, notably a Rembrandt and a charming painting by Peter Brueghel the Younger. We also particularly enjoyed the paintings of Austrian artist Albin Egger-Lienz.

After a break for lunch we revisited the Hofkirche, to be once again awed by the magnificence and artistry of the Tomb of the Emperor Maximilian 1. The tomb, as its intended to do, dominates the central nave of the church. However, the Emperor himself is actually buried elsewhere and had already been dead for many years by the time this monument to the greatness and the might of the Holy Roman Empire was completed. The work has understandably and deservedly been hailed as the finest example of German Renaissance sculpture. At the centre of the monument is a massive black marble sarcophagus (presumably empty). Sited at the top of this structure is a bronze statue of the Emperor Maximillian, proudly kneeling in humble supplication before God. It is a truly marvellous piece of propaganda!

The skill of the many master craftsmen who produced this incredible work of art has to be seen to be believed. To produce such a masterpiece, the Habsburgs employed many of the finest artists and craftspeople at work in the sixteenth century. The intricacies of the wrought iron screen around the tomb were achieved by a Prague master craftsman called Schmiedhammer, and the bronze statue of the Emperor himself and the 24 (quite stunning) marble reliefs around the tomb, depicting scenes from Maximilian's life, were mostly the work of Alexander Colin. However, there is still more to see: surrounding the tomb, standing  in a kind of homage, are 28 larger-than-life-size statues of Maximillian's ancestors and contemporaries, with a few mythical characters like King Arthur of England thrown in for good measure. This particular statue and several others were designed by the artist Albrecht Dürer, and it is widely regarded as the finest depiction of a knight found anywhere in Renaissance Art.

The bronze statues have acquired an austere dark patina over time. But I have to admit to taking a little profane delight when I saw the shining bright codpiece sported by Rudolph 1 - irresistibly prominent and within easy reach, Rudolph's lucky charms, polished to a fine sheen by countless touching fingers over the centuries. What an ignominy!

The following images which concentrate on the workmanship and detail rather than the overall majesty of the tomb, which no photograph could ever really capture, were taken by Tom Johnson and are presented here with his kind permission.


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Dunvant

9/10/2013

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PictureA Child is Born - Dunvant Male Choir
The weekly blog! Sometimes, just like Raymond Briggs' wonderful creation Fungus the Bogeyman out on his nightly duties of scaring people, engendering boils etc, I catch myself wondering if there's any point in it all or whether it's really worth the effort. This doesn't take the form of a constant melancholic soliloquising, as in poor Fungus' case - more often than not, it's simply just me throwing my rattle out of the pram - railing against the (self-imposed) discipline of producing something (hopefully) readable and interesting every week. Actually, I genuinely love my blog and such displays of pique are infrequent.

Occasionally though, the blog has done far more than was ever expected of it. I have been contacted on numerous occasions via my website by long lost friends and relatives, who found my blog after searching a common area of interest. This outcome always brings me great joy! However, sometimes I'm approached too by unknown people who have found my site through making a general search on behalf of a hobby or interest. This was how Robert Evans, who resides now in California, was able to get in touch. He, like me, was once a Gowerton Boys' Grammar School boy, though in a different era, but we both performed in the school Dramatic Society and were taught English by the marvellous Gilbert Bennett. I recently responded to his charming email, and somehow the world feels a little cosier to know there's a Gowerton boy out there somewhere in Northern California!

Actually, his email was quite synchronistic, as only a day or two before I'd received another email from Dewi Morgan of Dunvant Male Choir (near Swansea, South Wales). About a year ago, I forget exactly how it came about, Dewi contacted me to ask for my permission to reprint my Gilbert Bennett post in their annual magazine - GB had been a Vice President. I happily consented of course, but assumed there must have been a change of plan, since I hadn't heard any more about it and the promised magazine didn't materialise. All was explained in Dewi's email - the printing had suffered long delays - a copy was on its way to me.

I received the magazine in the post this afternoon together with the kind gift of a Dunvant Male Choir CD - A Child is Born - A Celebration of Christmas Music - featuring Bryn Terfel - and (I suppose more topically) with narration by Gilbert Bennett. I was delighted and I can't wait to sit down and listen to it. Many thanks to Dewi and Dunvant Male Choir!


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Othello - N T Live

2/10/2013

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Picture
Last week we saw Othello in the NT Live Season at our local cinema. Quite incredible to think that when it was first performed during the reign of James 1, the number of bodies the theatre could physically hold (at a guess perhaps 500 - possibly 1000?) were all who could have experienced it. Last Thursday however, because of some incredible technology, it was broadcast right around the globe (no pun intended!) and played in just one evening to something like 100,000 souls.

It was good to see a large number of teenagers at the showing. I often wonder at NT Live performances why they are so badly attended by people under the age of thirty (at our cinema anyhow), especially as Drama is such a popular subject in schools. When I was a teenager I know that my friends and I would have sold our devoted Mums into slavery for the opportunity to see world-class theatre for little more than the price of a cinema seat (Oh, the callousness of youth!). Presumably the increased attendance last week was because the play is a text for some examwork? It certainly was when I was at school, I recall studying it for my A Levels. However, I didn't get an opportunity to actually see the play performed until last Thursday evening - so, for me, it was a first! And it was, I am pleased to say, definitely worth waiting for. The play's message rings out with crystal clarity across the four hundred years dividing us from Shakespeare's life and times. The writing is truly wondrous - sometimes it seems a bit unfair on the rest of us just how brilliant he was. My wife pointed out how many book/play titles and sayings we take for granted and are accepted as part of our English tongue, which have been simply lifted from 'the Bard'. He seems to understand and explain the human condition like no other playwright. Unfortunately, four hundred years hasn't seen much alter in the way of human nature. The play's themes of suspicion, jealousy and hate are sadly as relevant today as they were when the ink for Othello was still wet on the page.

The roles of Othello and Iago were superbly portrayed and brought to life in this excellent National Theatre production, directed by Nicholas Hytner, by Adrian Lester and Rory Kinnear respectively. The leading actors are supported by a very good cast,and the passage of time hasn't by any means diminished the play's power to shock and move us. It remains a thoroughly disturbing experience to watch a good man being fed lies, until his mind has been utterly poisoned against his faithful and adoring wife, culminating in the most appalling tragedy. The character of Iago has always intrigued me, in particular his lack of a really solid motive for his malevolence. At times during the play he soliloquises and gives us different reasons for his hatred of the Moor. Yet, they are never completely convincing: Cassio was preferred for a recent promotion over him; he says he has heard a rumour that Othello may have slept with his own wife, Emilia; at one time he tells us that he himself is besotted with Desdemona. However, these pronouncements lack much weight and conviction it seems to me: I suspect Iago's true motive is simply hate.

I put a quote from the final scene of Othello at the beginning of my novel Roadrage, a psychological thriller that is itself concerned with the corrosive power of hate and intolerance. I chose it too (without giving anything away) because my 'baddie' has quite a lot in common with Shakespeare's great malcontent. The words are as chilling today as they doubtless were when first spoken by an actor back in 1604:

Othello:
Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil,
Why he hath thus ensnared my soul and body?

Iago:
Demand me nothing: What you know, you know:
From this time forth I never will speak word.


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