Britain '02

BRITAIN, SPRING 2002

Tuesday, May 7, 2002
Did you hear the one about the guy who was cast as Herr Zeller in “The Sound of Music”? You see, it’s this musical by Rodgers and Hammerstein about a sadistic Nazi gauleiter who’s sent to a houseful of singing children with orders to make their father fly the Nazi flag…
My friend Peter Swingler had the madcap idea of inviting me over to Britain to play this part at the Gateway Theatre in Chester. It’s also a perfect excuse to visit with Peter and his partner David. I am to be here for four weeks: two of rehearsals, one of performance, and another week in London with Peter to see shows and immerse myself in the Valhalla – especially to Americans -- that is London.
My flight (via Detroit) was uneventful. I arrived at 9:30 this morning and immediately caught a train for Victoria Station, then the Underground to Euston. My train ticket, procured for me in advance by Peter, was for 2:00, giving me more than enough time to eat lunch in a pub. I lingered over my pint and ploughman’s lunch, then finally caught the train for Runcorn, where Peter was waiting to greet me.
David had come home early from work. It was comforting to be with these dear friends of seventeen years standing. After dinner (a chicken and mushroom dish over rice) Peter and I went to rehearsal. The spaces are in an unprepossessing area of warehouses and mechanic shops across the Welsh border, in Llay. Rehearsal was already in progress.
Quietly I was introduced to most of the company and got measured for my costume. It’s always a bit unnerving to come into a group of strangers with whom you’ll be working intimately. I immediately formed an attachment to Chris Dukes, who plays Frau Schmidt the housekeeper, partly because she reminds me of my friend Robin St. Pere and partly because she greeted me with a kiss. Steve Davies, our director, is a charming man with a long, inquisitive nose and dreamy blue eyes. He is very good-natured, easily amused, and sometimes seems to be savoring some private joke. He offered to drive me about during the day if I ever got bored (which seems unlikely). I’d hoped to impress my fellow actors by reading my lines perfectly, but there was a discrepancy between the playing and published versions of the libretto; it seems I have two more lines. The assistant director Chrissie Evans volunteered to type up my complete part and mail it to me.
I went to bed around eleven-thirty and because it had been a thirty-two hour day, easily went to sleep.

Wednesday, May 8
Today Peter took me around to several estate agents. He and Peter have put their house on the market and are looking for one more convenient to Wrexham. We had a coffee at the Arts Center in Wrexham, then stopped by Fred Evans’s house for a cup of tea in his front parlor. Peter had warned me that Fred would invite me over for a couple of nights, so I was prepared -- to let him down gently. Sadly, Fred was unable to accompany us for lunch, at Pant-yr-Ochain, a lovely old country inn in Gresford. We ate in a conservatory which looked out over fields of flowers and cattle grazing. At home, David had arrived, and we spent the rest of the day relaxing. I designed a couple of posters for Peter’s future productions, and after dinner (bangers and mash) we watched an episode of Mapp and Lucia.

Thursday, May 9
Peter left before I got up, so David took me into Chester for the day. This is my third time in Chester, a city that nobody visiting Britain should miss. Chester is an ancient walled city. In the central area the buildings are beautifully half-timbered, a Victorian reimagining of the original motifs. It’s the kind of echt Merrie England style that modern decorators strive to emulate, usually unsuccessfully.
A helpful man at an information booth directed me to the part of the city wall where a fondly-remembered second-hand bookstore was. It was not open yet so I stopped for a coffee and some shortbread at a Coffee Republic. This is an English equivalent of Starbucks, though now even Britain is disfigured by one Starbucks after another. On a corner in the center of town I came upon a handsome young man playing Gershwin’s “Summertime” on an electronic violin. His playing was very accomplished, expert and imaginative. Amid this setting of glorious old buildings, with the sun streaming down, I experienced one of those moments of pure pleasure that shoot through one like an electric current. The effect can last for hours, as it did today. I went to another bookstore and puttered contentedly through the shelves until it was time to meet Peter for lunch.
We ate sandwiches, pie and tea in the refectory of the grand old cathedral. When Peter returned to work I bought a box of recordable CDs, scoured the Oxfam shop for books, then set out to tour the city wall.
At my bookstore (on the wall) I somehow managed to resist the temptation to fill my arms with books. (Okay, I bought one.) From there I continued my tour. The weather was blissful and birds were singing in the trees with almost unseemly enthusiasm. The wall itself is a magnificent track for the devoted walker, and can be walked in an hour – if one lingers over it (a good idea). Chester is currently in the midst of a huge race meeting, and I stopped at the part of the wall looking down on the racetrack. People in the enclosure were milling around between races; an air of happy expectation crackled through the air. I moved on after being almost knocked down by three young lovelies in summer organdy who rushed by (“…it’s Felicity in the lead … Rosamund is coming up close. But wait! Pamela is taking the inside track…”).
Around the south corner of the wall, past the castle, I came into a stand of tall plane trees cacophonous with birdsong. One bird’s song in particular was all over the scale, a rapturous expression of the territorial imperative. Overlooking the river Dee I observed swans gliding along, and a man in a kayak trying unsuccessfully to go up over a cataract. He tumbled over time and again but persisted, a model of British tenacity.
I found a confectionery and walked in confident of finding something flavored in black currant, a leitmotif of every one of my visits to England. Oddly, they had nothing in that line. I bought a bag of something called cinder toffee instead. This, I imagine, is a particularly effective method of removing fillings. I chewed carefully. At Penhaligon’s I bought a bottle of Victorian Posy for Holly’s birthday and a bottle of Hammam Bouquet for myself. I met Peter at four and we drove back to Frodsham.
That evening David and I went out together to dinner at a large rambling country inn in Bunbury, the Dysart Arms. I had fine fish cakes, a couple of pints of bitter, and a chicken terrine studded with chunks of black pudding. David is stimulating, the best company imaginable, and it was a fine evening.

Friday, May 10
After running my lines in the morning I took my book and walked down into Frodsham, an easy mile and a half amble downhill. I arrived just before noon and the town was stirring into life. After lunch at the Frodsham Tea Room I stopped at a grocery and got the ingredients for a pasta and chicken dish. It seems I will have to prepare it some other time: Peter is eating with his friend John tonight and David doesn’t eat pasta.
I packed a bag for a single night in Manchester and Peter drove me to the rehearsal rooms in the evening. It was a rather abbreviated rehearsal, just a few of the adult cast and the children. The kids are divided into two teams, the Flibbertigibbits and Will-O-the-Wisps, and will perform on different evenings. At one point the children were chattering offstage. Steve stopped the rehearsal cold to give them the rough side of his tongue. I’m glad we have a director who is willing to crack the whip if necessary; I’ve had too many directors who could not or would not maintain the discipline required to get a show into proper shape.
Eventually my brief scenes came up; the lines Chrissie mailed to me are firm now, and everything went well. Phil Edwards came by to pick me up, for I’m staying with him tonight. Phil, a dear old friend, is also a former actor for Tip Top Productions. For some time he’s been working evenings, putting a temporary halt to his acting. (Soon he goes back to a day schedule.) Most of the people still at rehearsal knew him well. Eventually we left the cast, which I’ll meet again on Sunday afternoon.
Phil drove me back to Manchester with him. Since I last saw him he has moved to a small condo, brand spanking new and pretty, in a somewhat dodgy neighborhood. At home, he prepared spaghetti bolognese and we had a wonderful meal. Afterwards we poured a couple of snifters of Metaxa brandy (Phil is mad for all things Greek) and moved to the living room to talk. Phil is one of those friends with whom one can speak absolutely frankly on all matters; we chattered and laughed like loons till 2:15.

Saturday, May 11
We woke up fairly late and drove into Manchester proper to the Lowry theatre, a new performance center with exhibition rooms attached. There was a huge retrospective of the work of L.S. Lowry, a Mancunian realist painter (1900-1975). The work was not entirely to my taste, but still fascinating. He painted and drew very original landscapes and industrial scenes with a populist slant. Many of his large canvases are of gray city life, with faceless “matchstick” men stalking the streets, below skies choked with smoke. There were early, more realistic drawings, with many portrait drawing included. In the late drawings he pares away details, sometimes even expressing his figures as childlike blobs. These drawings were mildly disturbing, but one could see them as the almost inevitable result of a long refining process.
We drove then to “The Village,” a gay area of Manchester. Lunch was at a favorite place of Phil’s, TriBeCa. The sun was out in full splendor, so afterward we settled down at a table along the canal across from a bar, to drink coffee and watch the passing parade. In the city center I bought a shirt and a drawing pad. I wish I’d had the pad earlier, as sitting on a lively street affords a wide variety of interesting subjects to sketch. Eventually we hit another bar, the Spirit, which had a rooftop deck. With a pint of bitter at hand, I opened up the pad and furtively executed caricatures of our neighbors.
Peter came by Phil’s house later and we drove to Liverpool. Peter and Phil had tickets to see Petula Clark in concert. Peter likes her; Phil is an almost obsessive fan and has a large collection of her autographed programs. First we had dinner at a little basement Bistro, the Everyman, just below the Everyman Theatre. I recognized it at once as the same place David had taken Tootie and me on our visit four years before. I ordered the chicken and chorizo paella and a slice of nectarine and marzipan tart at the end. If the English aren’t very careful, they are going to lose their carefully cultivated reputation for inedible cuisine. The tart in particular was almost caramel-like, rich and thrilling.
Peter and Phil trotted down the block to Petula, leaving me at the Everyman to check the box office. This highly acclaimed production of Macbeth ended that night, a sell-out. Peter was convinced I’d be able to acquire a ticket but none were available. Against the possibility of having nothing to do for the two-plus hours my friends would be occupied with Pet Clark, I walked down to the center of Liverpool in search of entertainment. I saw no other theatres except the Neptune, which was dark. And all the shops were closed or closing. I stopped at a news agents and bought a Spectator, then trudged back up the hill to the Everyman. If I’d been unable to get in, I planned to settle down in a pub and read. Ten minutes before curtain my patience was rewarded – richly. A creamy young man stood in the center of the lobby and announced that a single ticket was for sale – did anyone want it? I did. F23 was a fine seat on the third row. Seconds after I settled in, the witches tumbled onto the stage in a blaze of orange light and we were in the highlands of ancient Scotland.
This was a most successful production, played in under two hours without intermission. The set was simple, a square of metal platforms with a ragged lawn of orange shag carpet in the middle. There was some overwrought music, obtrusive at first. But later it was just right.
All the actors were competent and many of them were markedly better. To a man, they had North of England accents, entirely appropriate for a play with a Scottish setting. I had difficulty with only one player: Lady Macbeth had a broad Lancashire accent that would have been impenetrable had I not known the lines well. However, she redeemed herself to a remarkable degree in the sleepwalking scene. The witches were superb, as were Banquo, McDuff, and Malcolm. Macbeth himself was excellent, savage ambition incarnate and bursting with testosterone.
The McDuff was so affecting in his grief when he heard of the murders of his wife and children that tears came to my own eyes. In the harrowing banquet scene, Banquo’s ghost was no pale shade, but a blood-drenched spirit of vengeance. In all, the play was a total success, done with complete simplicity and absolute trust in the text. American directors take note.
When I emerged from the theatre, Peter was outside waiting. We walked down to meet Phil, who was camped out at the stage door: Miss Clark was due to come and give out autographs. Peter and I stood off to the side having a bit of mordant fun at the expense of the press of fans. Phil himself was in the middle of them, the captive of another Pet Clark groupie, a dismal young Frenchman he’s encountered at other concerts. Eventually Miss Clark appeared, settled down at a desk and patiently signed programs. Peter and I agreed she was a model of what a star should be, one who gives her fans their due, without ego or refusal to sign autographs. Afterward we pulled Phil back to earth and walked back to the car. Phil walked behind, still unable to shake his new friend. When we drove back to Manchester, Phil had us in for a final glass of wine before Peter and I drove back to Frodsham.

Sunday, May 12
I got up, incredibly, at almost ten and did a bit of fine-tuning on the posters I’d designed for Peter. He dropped me off at rehearsal, to return later. First item on the agenda was a lightning-quick read-through. Then Steve staged, with great care, the curtain call. Last was a complete run-through with songs, my first. Steve has staged this show with a lively pace. We did it in two hours and a quarter, including a brief break. Pace is essential in a musical, and his notes afterward were perceptive and to the point. Peter came back in time to see my two brief scenes.

Monday, May 13
Lunch was at a pub, the Golden Lion in Frodsham, a chicken curry. A scrawny pensioner at the next table commmented, “A bit of light reading there, eh, chappie?” on seeing my huge thumping paperback. (I’m reading Lawrence Durrell’s Avignon Quintet, a hefty 1367 pages.) It was drizzling slightly, so rather than head back up the hill to Kingsley Green, I sought out the tea shop for a spot of sweet and tea. It was closed. At the Devonshire Bakery I disgraced myself utterly with a sort of shortbread affair stuffed with cream and coated in thick chocolate, then toiled up the hill.
Rehearsal that night was better; Steve’s only note to me was, “terrific entrance, good ‘Heil!’. You frightened even me.” I had taken a drawing pad along, always a good icebreaker, especially with children. Once they realized what I was doing, the von Trapp moppets clustered around me and I churned out drawing after drawing for them.
When Peter brought me back home, his boyfriend John Rowley was there. I’d almost forgotten what a gentle, sweet man he is. John had bought me the video of “Relative Values,” which I’d expressed a desire to see, and which hadn’t been released in America. It’s based on a Noël Coward play, which to me is required viewing.

Tuesday, May 14
Peter was off from work today and he’d offered to drive me to the Peak District. But the weather man was reporting high winds, so we drove to Llangollen instead. I fell in love with Llangollen on my first visit here. It is set like an uncut jewel in a Welsh valley surrounded by high, plump green hills. In Llangollen the ordinarily gentle River Dee tumbles madly over rocks, befitting the ruggedness of the country. I doubt there’s a more beautiful spot in all the British Isles.
We stopped at a huge café/secondhand bookshop where I bought the Oxford Anthology of Shakespeare, then drove to Shrewsbury. It’s a medieval town like Chester, with similarly half-timbered buildings. Sadly, the town has been much modernized, disfigured with shopping malls. The ancient St. Mary’s church, however, is untouched, except for the addition of some stained glass windows imported from a German church destroyed in the war. Our only company was a sweet little old lady arranging flowers. We stopped for coffee at an art gallery, then meandered back to Frodsham through the countryside, heaven to me but necessary for Peter as he’s still scouting for houses.
At Ellesmere we stopped beside the lovely, glassy mere to enjoy the waterfowl. There were no swans, to Peter’s disappointment. But a sizeable colony of geese were shepherding their young about. Some were newly hatched, bright yellow and cuddlesome, others were at various awkward stages of growth. All were covered with down that begged to be stroked. But if we drew too near, the parents extended their necks, shook their feathers, and gave out long low honks more comic than threatening.
I fixed dinner that night: fusilli with chicken, in a sauce provençale that took a good three hours to prepare. While my sauce was on a low flame, Peter went to view a house he’d sighted earlier. (Too small, too dismal, too far.) We finished with a tarte au citron from Sainsbury’s and polished it off entirely. Afterward we drove to Manchester. Peter and John dropped me off at Phil’s, for he has offered to show me B lackpool tomorrow.

Wedsnesday, May 15
To Peter’s great scorn, I‘ve always wanted to see Blackpool. I think he’d prefer that foreign visitors see England at its best, and Blackpool is on nobody’s list of showplaces. The Dorling-Kindersley Travel Guide to Britain dispenses with it in a single terse paragraph, tactfully dismissing it as ‘no longer the apogee of seaside entertainment it once was.’ This resort, while not without a certain raffish charm, is, shall we say, a bit downscale. You might describe Blackpool as an amalgam of Coney Island, Ocean City, Maryland, with a smidgen of the less savory reaches of Venice’s Riva degli Schiavoni. Formerly a draw for the Victorian middle class, it has declined over the years into a tatty, tough town with the atmosphere of a second-rate carnival. I loved it.
It was raining when we arrived, and the drizzle lasted until we stopped for lunch. The first sight was the Blackpool Tower, modelled on Eiffel’s -- well, the top third anyway. Phil and I walked southward in a stiff wind, the Irish Sea off to our right churning about in turgid brown waves. The entire length of the seafront is lined with amusement arcades, gypsy fortune tellers, food stalls and shops selling seaside dreck common to resorts from Atlantic City to Samoa. At the south end is a vast amusement park, almost delightful in its ghastliness. There were no crowds on this grey, wet day, only enough people to keep the rides going. Phil and I both joked about going up on the roller coaster, which would have undoubtedly resulted in twin coronaries. This was the most terrifying one I’ve ever seen, rising to almost impossible heights, with a drop from its highest peak that would have finished me off. Neither of us could quite understand why anyone would go up on one. Phil bought me a bag of black currant candies, then we strolled down to the boardwalk and took the tram back to the Tower. Before leaving town we stopped at the largest gay bar in the city, the Flying Handbag.
On the way back, Phil drove me into the Pendle Hills, yet another of the glorious sights of the Midlands. I was beginning to drowse slightly and wondered if we might stop for coffee. We turned off the motorway and traveled through some winding road through gorgeous farmland to the village of Bolton-by-Bowland. The post office there formerly included a teashop but it is no longer open. The postmistress and her daughter were flattered by my rhapsodies over the beauty of their village.
Further on we stopped for a pudding and coffee at a little Chef and proceeded to Wrexham and rehearsal. This was the most enjoyable so far, and I almost used up all my drawing pad entertaining the younger members of the family von Trapp. There is hardly anything on earth more fun than producing a sheaf of cartoons for a passel of delighted children.

Thursday, May 16
Today Peter stayed at home till eleven. On his way to business in Delamere he dropped me off to walk home, a distance of a little over a mile. It is one of those spring days one waits for, warm with a mild breeze. This was a new route for me. I walked along the hedgerows of hawthorn, holly and wild rose in a state approaching bliss. The air was bursting with birdsong. The occasional scent of lilac wafted across my route. I stopped at the Lady Heyes complex of antique shops and was once more wildly profligate at a second-hand bookstore. Lunch was at the tea shop there, then I walked back home.
In the evening Peter took me to Chester, where I was to meet Jenny Glover under the new statue. I recognized her immediately, but with some shock. Jenny was always heavy, and as long as I’ve known her she’s been losing her hair rapidly. The pale cloud that’s left has turned almost completely white. But inside she is still the same old Jenny, warm and snuggly and eager to please a guest from America. She had with her a shopping bag simply stuffed with food products for me, all of them in my beloved black currant flavor. Bless my British friends: they always remember my little peccadilloes.
We had dinner at Dutton’s, a charming wine bar down an alley by the cathedral. We both ordered salmon cakes with fresh vegetables; mine were accompanied by two glasses of a delightful New Zealand white wine, very flinty and dry as chablis. We talked about everyone we knew in common, of the theatre, and both consoled each other over being less involved in it than when we were younger.
Afterward her friend Ian picked her up and I went back to the Odeon to wait for Peter.

Friday, May 17
Today was given to art. I got up with Peter, who dropped me at the Chester train station where I bought a round-trip ticket to Liverpool. Minutes later I was on the train. By the time I’d come up out from underground and found my way to Albert Dock, it was only 8:30. The Tate Gallery didn’t open till ten so I tramped around the city seeing as much of it as I could. It was a bright, lovely day. Liverpool is a far more attractive city than I’d given it credit for, and the bustle of people starting their day put me in the best of moods. I stopped at a place called The Pudding Bowl and had a small pot of tea and a slice of bakewell tart.
At ten sharp I walked into the Tate. This is a first rate collection, admirably presented, in brand spanking new spaces. It features British artists, except for a special exhibit by the American Philip Guston, whose work I loathe. I gave his show a cursory walk-through in hopes of perhaps finding something I didn’t hate, but failed to. The rest was superb, and I even found one piece by my new enthusiasm, the painter Stanley Spencer. Two of the artists from the highly controversial Brooklyn Museum show of a couple of seasons back were represented, and I found the work of both refreshing. Yes, one of Chris Offili’s assemblages features dried elephant dung but it’s done in a completely playful manner.
After lunch at a pub I found the Walker Art Collection. It’s quite grand, and the jewel of the collection is a healthy selection from the PreRaphaelite Brotherhood. Another favorite is a thrilling Nicholas Hilliard portrait of Good Queen Bess, a blizzard of high Renaissance detail. Just before leaving I found in another wing a great gallery or two of 20th Century art.
The train got me back by 4:20 and Peter picked me up. He’s viewed yet another house and found it wanting. Perhaps now he’ll take me along on one of these jaunts as a good luck charm.
Rehearsal tonight was our last in the rehearsal hall: Sunday we are in the Gateway for an all-day set installation and two dress rehearsals.

Saturday, May 18
We had hoped for a sunny day but our hopes came drizzling down in a miserable rain. Peter and I drove to Manchester for brunch with John, then drove to Wrexham. Peter had a house to see. Just as I predicted, with some degree of amused irony, Peter has now found a house with distinct possibilities. I liked it too, and David will now have to go and view it too when he returns from a week traveling. At one of the estate agents Peter picked up another brochure on a beautiful country place within their proposed budget. It is in the country, with acres and acres of land, a large and beautiful house – and Peter is extremely reluctant to view it. I find this hard to fathom, but he says that the property has been up for sale for two years, so perhaps there is a good reason. He refers to this fine property as the Bates Motel. Unkind.
This evening I treated Peter and John to dinner at a local place, Netherton Hall. Our meal was exemplary. I had camembert in a filo crust, runny and delectable, swimming in a raspberry coulis. Though hardly a boon to arterial health it was unforgettable anyway. My main course was chicken breast supreme, meltingly tender in a wine and cream asparagus sauce. Rare for this trip, the meal was accompanied by two glasses of a superior Australian wine, Rowlands Brook Cabernet/Shiraz. I‘d like to track down a case of this for my cellar, for it was exceptional.
On the way back, I suggested a stop for a walk; the sun had come out after hiding all day. Peter turned the car into a park in Frodsham, a hidden-away corner I’d missed. This amazing parkland, washed clean by rain, was made even more dramatically beautiful by the low sunlight slanting through the trees, intensifying the green. Birds were singing robustly as usual, and the dark forest, with sabers of late sunlight cutting through it, had a dreamlike quality. And it was already past eight. Refreshed and replete with good food, we returned home.

Sunday, May 19
Today was our big day of dress rehearsal but to nobody’s surprise, the keynote of the day was waiting. Peter dropped me by the Gateway theatre at around ten. This was the first time I’d been on the actual stage, and spent the first few minutes exploring the little rat-runs and hideaways of the backstage area. The morning was given to assembling the large and complicated set. From t ime to time I tried to help put the large pieces together, but really only managed to make myself useful in tying the scenic drops to the crossbars. Mostly I just curled up with my book or chattered with various cast members. Trevor Hall, our Max Detweiler, is a charming and funny man (with cigarette breath that could stun a scorpion) who has played a couple of my own parts, and a few that I’ve aspired to. Indeed, if I’d tried out for “The Sound of Music” stateside, his is the part I would have sought. Trevor has five children, several of whom have followed him into theatre. Two daughters play nuns in our production. One son, a handsome lad of around eighteen, was here helping with the set.
At one o’clock I went around the corner to Coffee Republic for a sandwich, then returned for the tech run-through at 2:00 sharp.
It began at 4:30.
At around 6:30 we began the full dress rehearsal. I sat in the front of the house watching for most of Act I, then went back to throw on some makeup for my Act II, scene 5 appearances – which went well. With scene changes, the dress rehearsal ran slightly over 2 and a half hours, not bad at all.
My impression of the whole was mixed. Some things were superb, others rather less so. But then, dress rehearsals are notoriously uneven. I feel Steve’s direction is somewhat static, with actors too often left simply standing rather than moving about naturally. I believe scenes of dialogue should be choreographed as carefully as musical sequences. On a set as large and impressive as this, actors standing like birds strung out along a wire are cruelly conspicuous.
Natasha Millar and Philip Hamilton as Liesl and Rolf were even more charming than in rehearsal. In her uniform she looks younger. (Considering her womanly figure this is all to the good.) Philip’s long sideburns have been sheared off and his spiked hair smoothed down, very efficiently cutting years off his age. One effect of this is to make him even more attractive. At this point Philip and Natasha are somewhat unevenly matched dramatically. In the number “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” Natasha comes across as a young girl falling rapidly in love. Philip, on the other hand, is still a young man performing a number. Peter, a more experienced director than Steve, thinks Philip will grow in skill with more direction, more acting experience, and that Natasha is already an instinctive actress.
Richard Stevenson as Captain von Trapp is as stiff onstage as he is warm and charming off it. As a sea captain and an aristocrat, he should always be either at attention or at ease – in the military sense. I think this could be remedied by stronger direction. Chris Dukes as Frau Schmidt is more waspishly funny than in rehearsal, polishing her smallish role to a high gloss.
Hannah Goodinson is just right as Maria. She has avoided the trap of too much sweetness, and her natural rapport with the young actors playing the von Trapp children deepens her portrayal. One can understand immediately why she makes a difference in their lives. The children are enchanting, every one of them -- both sets. I predict that audiences will love them as much as I do. Not only are they good in their roles, offstage they are a joy to know.
Cheryl Willday, a chiseled beauty with a thick mane of dark hair, is playing the Baroness – good casting. She’s so delectable that the Captain’s choice between the Baroness and Maria is a true dilemma and therefore dramatically right. Cheryl is formidable in her good looks, but offstage she has great warmth, and has a simply enormous smile which is her most enchanting feature.
On the drive home I shared my frank opinions with Peter, who had come for the entire dress rehearsal. While agreeing wholeheartedly with my points, he’s certain the show will be a hit. The audiences will warm to the children, embrace the familiar songs, and overlook the somewhat static staging. And I think he’s right.

Monday, May 20
He was. We opened to a most appreciative house. Everything went well dramatically, though there were some serious glitches in getting the pieces of the massive set to cooperate. The stage went dark for a full minute as the set for the terrace was dragged on incomplete, making the change to the bedroom scene difficult. I was backstage at the time and it was pandemonium. This is typical, I’m told, and explains why tickets for the first night are always cheaper.
Given the complexity of the show and the amount of personnel knocking about in the dark, I have found a quiet spot to settle with my book. (The Green Room is too choked with smoke for me.) A little anteroom off the makeup area contains a large soft easy chair resembling an assemblage of bales of hay. Since I don’t go on until midway through Act II, I can sit there out of everyone’s way and read, relax, and visit with cast members passing through.
My appearance was assured and swift, and put a distinct chill in the air – as it’s supposed to. My bright nazi armband announces trouble, as does my first line: “Heil!” When I came out for my curtain call there were boos, which Peter had prepared me for. Audiences in England, especially in the provinces, tend to react to the character rather than the performance. Boos for the villain of the piece are an assurance that I’ve done my job well. Damned perverse, I call it.
After the show the Tip Top organization has a lovely custom: to meet in the theatre bar.

Tuesday, May 21
This morning was bright and sunny, with huge clouds scudding through the sky. I took my book out to the round lawn in front but could only read when the clouds obscured the sun. In full sunlight it was too bright, so I listened to the song competition conducted by the blackbirds around the lawn. The hedgerows which cover England, holding the country together like a beneficent green net, encourage wildlife more than our own fenced fields do.
At eleven-thirty Fred Evans came over to take me to Heini and Rommi Przibram’s for lunch. We were due at 12:30 and Fred wisely decided to take me to Wrexham via the backroads, an extravagantly scenic route. The Delamere Forest was a gorgeous tumble of green trees, with the lake peeping through. En route we were stopped by two hearty, sunburnt farmers driving their herd of cattle across the road. Except for their modern clothes and Fred’s Vauxhall coupe, it was a scene that might have been similarly re-enacted throughout centuries past. Fred got lost and we detoured briefly into Whitchurch before righting ourselves. It put us fifteen minutes late for lunch.
Heini and Rommi are in their eighties, one year shy of sixty years of marriage. Seeing them is always sheer joy. Heini is rapidly loving his sight, which I’m told often sends him into contentiousness or despair. Today however he was ebullient, almost festive. He likes to talk issues rather than small talk, and he was in rare form as we danced from politics to social problems to language and the arts. Rommi (Rosamund) is pert as a goldfinch, a thoroughgoing charmer and Heini’s greatest joy. Past eighty she is still a beauty. She had prepared us a lunch of salad, a superb salmon quiche, accompanied by an exquisite light German white wine. We finished with strawberries and cream -- perfection. Our gathering lasted almost three hours but seemed to pass in a twinkling.
Afterward we went back to Fred’s and listened to music over a pot of oolong. He showed me photos of his trip to India. Fred was in pretty good form, too, and is excited about a trip to Cyprus in a few days. Retirement clearly suits him. At six, I was picked up by Tim, our music director, and his partner Allan, who designed the costumes.
The run was smoother tonight, fewer glitches in the set changes, a better audience. Afterward I went home with Lee Hassett, who is producing the show, a small cherubic man with bright dark eyes and a child’s eager smile. He’s one of Tip Top’s most energetic and productive workers. After a cup of tea, I was off to bed early, for I was due for an early start in the morning.

Wednesday, May 22
Steve Davies came by for me at seven-thirty.I was to accompany him to Kingston-Upon-Hull, where he travels frequently on business. At rehearsals Steve has been juggling so many concerns that this was my first opportunity really to get to know him. We drove directly east across England, passing the moors, over the lovely green breast of the Pennines. It was cloudy most of the way over, but once we reached Hull, the sun burst out of the clouds and stayed out. Steve let me off at a floral roundabout opposite Queen Victoria Square. We were to meet at 2:00, giving me some three hours to explore the town.
Hull is a city that most Britons actually boast of never having visited. I found it charming. Hull is the home of William Wilberforce the great British abolitionist, and of the poet Andrew Marvell. The city fathers are currently trying to promote the city as a popular destination for visitors and I hope they succeed. There is much fine architecture. The most dazzling was the Punch Hotel, a lacy 17th century building in the center of the city. (I regretted having no camera -- and would have liked to bring the entire building back with me.) I wandered up Whitefriargate window-shopping, and stopped at a bakery for 5 cheese straws, which I nibbled as I strolled. In the Hepworth Arcade I browsed the secondhand book stalls in the open market. At the huge Princes Quay shopping center I stopped for a nice lunch and coffee, then moved on to the Ferens Art Gallery.
This is a small but superior collection, in the process of being refurbished. Oddly, whole galleries of paintings are hung without labels, leaving one to either guess or appreciate unenlightened. There were two fine Stanley Spencers, which I studied closely and with great pleasure.
The rest of the time I just walked along smelling the salt air off the North Sea, and walked back to meet Steve. Next to the roundabout is a long park of surpassing beauty, the Queen’s Gardens. At one end is a grove of trees over a gentle knoll covered with tiny daisies, inviting one to lie down , bask in the sun, and wait for Alice’s white rabbit to run by, muttering “I’m late, I’m late” as he consults his pocketwatch.
Back at the roundabout I found Steve. He’d gotten away from his appointments early and had spent the extra time shopping. We drove back to Chester over the same route. Intermittent clouds and sun turned the Pennines to emerald. Steve pointed out to me where the infamous Moors Murders had taken place. He dropped me in Chester, where I explored a bookstore and had a most uncharacteristic Tex-Mex meal at Dos Americas before running through the rain to the theatre. While I’d strolled in the sun in Hull, Chester had been sopping wet all day.
The play went well again. I have been refining my performance, and tonight I was a little more snide, more threatening, more demanding. And at curtain call I got my reward: an even louder chorus of boos. Afterward, in the bar, I had the cast members autograph the “Sound of Music” poster Lee had gotten for me.

Thursday, May 23
Today David stayed home from work, sleeping till eleven while I wrote this journal. In Frodsham proper we did some shopping (it was market day), then went to Netherton Hall for lunch. Instead of my customary bitter I had a heavenly hard cider, dry and without a beery aftertaste. The afternoon was lazy and pleasant, David did laundry and I hung it on the line to dry, very domestic. After dinner (a fine moussaka) David took me to Chester and dropped me off in front of the theatre.
Team One of the von Trapp children were out front selling programs. David Lee, Kyle Herbert and Katie Hassett ran over to hug me, to my great pleasure. I think getting to know these small thespians has been my favorite part of the whole experience. Katie (Marta in the show) sold me a program and I went in to dress. The show went very well, perhaps the best yet, and the audience went wild over Hannah. For some reason the boos at curtain call were less vociferous. I hope I’m not losing my edge.

Friday, May 24
Both David and Peter went in to work early so I lazed about reading, recording CDs and watching the videotape of Relative Values (accomplished in its way, but rather lightweight even for Noël Coward). David came home fairly late, fixed me a light dinner of a sandwich and an avocado half filled with prawns, then took me to the theatre. I had packed a bag, to stay once again with Lee.
The production has grown smoother through the week, with fewer scenic snafus and richer, fuller performances. Philip, notably, has grown more accomplished. His Rolf is now a full-blooded character rather than a performance. Maureen as the Mother Abbess is connecting warmly with Maria in her “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” scene. When she approaches the top note at the end, however, a look comes into her eye that says, “brace yourself, here we go again!” It’s fiendishly difficult for any soprano, however accomplished, to sing that high note on an EE vowel sound. Hammerstein, at the end of his career, should have learned not to do that to singers. Maureen could have gotten away with bringing the note down an octave but her professionalism makes her go for it.
After rehearsal we went to Slow Boats, a Chinese restaurant just outside the city wall. This was one of the best nights of the entire vacation, and I heartily wished that Peter and David had come along. There were about 27 or 28 of us -- nuns, crew, principals and supporting players – but none of the children. Those of us who ordered the Imperial Banquet sat together at one table and were rewarded by the best Chinese meal to ever pass my lips. One fabulous course followed another, and the wine flowed freely.

Saturday, May 25
Because of our Chinese debauch we arose late. Steve and Lee’s father came by briefly, and at noon Lee and I set out for the theatre. On the way we stopped by Lee’s office (a manufacturer of containers) and in Chester, he took me to Philpotts, “the best sandwich shop in Chester.” I hated to go inside for this very long day, as it was sunny and bright and the city had never looked more attractive.
This was the last performance with the Flibbertigibbit team. These were the children I had gotten to know best, and I was sad to see our association end. The matinee went exceptionally well, with a very enthusiastic audience (with many children). At curtain call little Kyle (playing Kurt) was weeping as if his heart would break, and so were some of the girls. I wasn’t any too chipper myself.
We were off boards for several hours, so I took off my makeup and went with a small group headed by Tim and Allan to Fatty Arbuckle’s. After the meal an elderly lady and her son came up and asked me shyly if I had just appeared in a play. It was pleasant to be recognized, especially as they had enjoyed it.
The last performance could very easily have been our best. I watched several of the musical numbers from the wings. They seemed crisper, more deeply felt than ever, though by this point my objectivity was in shreds. At the curtain call I got the loudest chorus of boos yet, so as a lagniappe to my curtain call I gave them a menacing sneer. Hannah, the warm emotional center of this musical, clearly hated for it to end. When she took her call, her face was streaked with tears. We took our final bows and it was over.
In the theatre bar afterward, Peter introduced me to his friend Val, and I signed a copy of Daddy’s Roommate for her. Trevor asked me to draw a picture of him and his girlfriend. I turned out a few more quick sketches of my fellow players, then joined the crew to help dismantle the set. When the vast playing area was empty at last Peter drove me home.

Sunday, May 26
When I was a younger actor, ending a show could send me into mild depression lasting for days. But I’ve changed and this show still had some life left in it, in the form of – parties! We were late getting started, but a few minutes past noon Peter, David and I arrived at Tim and Allan’s for a terrific brunch. Except for having no younger von Trapps there, it was a perfect party. Allan prepared a fragrant cornucopia of breakfast fare: fried eggs and sauteed mushrooms, sausages, fried potatoes, croissants and bacon.
Through the afternoon Peter and David and I cruised the area looking for more houses for sale, then came home.
Dinner was at a large rural restaurant, Panama Hatty’s. It’s the sort of place not uncommon in America, a large, well-decorated bistro with an imaginative, internationally flavored menu. One quirk uncommon to American eateries: one orders food during drinks in the bar; it was served immediately after we were seated. I ordered a large tropical-style cocktail and settled down beside Noella Grace, the publicity director for the play. Noella is a slight brunette with bewitching eyes who shares my affection for Audrey Hepburn. I hardly got a chance to visit with her during the play but I found her a delight now. There were a dozen of us: Peter and I, Noella, Chris Dukes and Lee Hassett (the birthday celebrants), Steve Davies and Peter’s nephew Andrew, Simon Phillips and his silent lover Steve, Barbara Davies (costumier) and her daughter Leah, and Hannah. For a starter I ordered coated smelts (which sounds foul but isn’t) and finished with Indonesian Chicken Dama. This was a dish of heavenly tender chicken and vegetables in a sauce, with basmati rice, chapati and a mint yogurt dip – heavenly. Several of us had ordered a large carafe of white wine and I ate far, far too much (making for a most uncomfortable night). On the way home Peter and I discussed musicals for possible future production.

Monday, May 27
Peter left for work early and David took me into Chester. I wandered lonely as a cloud, letting the most delightful city in Britain (excepting London) reveal its pleasures. I did the bookstores, had a pot of tea with my book at the very pleasant Hattie’s Tea Shop, intent on finishing up my Durrell before leaving for London tomorrow.
Peter and I once more ate lunch in the refectory of the cathedral, then he went back to work. I continued to explore the city, dodging under shelter to escape the odd shower. I walked across the Dee Bridge and found a park created around a Roman temple to Minerva. The park runs along the river, aswarm with swans and picture-book serene. I found a bench near a stand of reeds and settled down to enjoy my book and the birdsong. One blackbird in particular trilled his song dementedly. It was quite delightful and I read until I felt the first few drops of the next rain. I’d seen a stand of trees high on a sandstone bluff so I walked over to it. The interior of this copse was like a treasure cave, the thick stunted trees crawling with ivy. The rain seemed to have abated before really starting, so I continued over to Minerva’s temple. It is carved into an outcropping of rock, augmented by stone into a rough structure. The carving of Minerva herself has been worn down by time into indistinction, but an entablature has been placed around it, creating a sort of niche – into which I now had to dart as the rain began in earnest. I cowered in that small, cramped space for a good fifteen or twenty minutes, my rump rammed up against the face of the goddess. The rain turned to hail, tiny stones the size of rosary beads. The rain was blown at an angle into the niche and my shoes and pant legs were quickly drenched. As soon as the sky exhausted its supply of hailstones and the rain abated slightly I thought of venturing out -- but another shower of hail pelted down, this time like marbles.
When the rain stopped, the sun peeped out shyly and I continued my tour of the city. Beneath the city walls along the river is a lovely park where one may take a pleasure boat around the river. Swans were preening, combing out their feathers, crocodiles of schoolchildren were chattering brightly, and all was right with the world.
Above the park I found the old Norman church of St. John, a magnificent structure with ruins of its former building still standing behind it. I went in. Unfortunately I had missed the daily concert, one of the many musical events sprinkled around Chester. I was the only one in this vast quiet space of brownstone columns. I wandered about, looking at the old tombstones, listening to the quiet.
I’d arranged to meet Peter at 4:30 for an early supper, so I settled down with my book and a coffee in the Grosvenor shopping arcade. Peter and I ate at Dutton’s wine bar, then he went off to a meeting at the theatre.
I met him again in my seat on the 2nd row of the Gateway. Only two days after our production, Tip Top was mounting a revival of an earlier success, Bouncers. This play is about as far removed from The Sound of Music as one can imagine. It’s indigenously English and very rude, very North of England. At first I didn’t care for it, but from time to time it was uproarious. It was also very brief, so we were home by 10:30. I boxed my books and CDs for mailing and finished the last chapter in my enormous novel in bed. The Avignon Quintet has been a mixed bag, a compelling story liberally laced with authorial parlor tricks that have occasionally tried my patience.

Tuesday, May 28
This morning I got up fairly early. After packing my bags, David took me to the post office to mail my package and we stopped by the Lady Heyes bookstore where I exchanged my Durrell for the Kenneth Williams Diaries.
At Euston we boarded a train for Charing Cross, then another to Forest Hill, a quiet southern suburb. Peter and David’s friend Tony Younger was kindly putting us up for the next three nights. Tony, a handsome, self-effacing and tender-hearted man, is in his seventies but looks a full decade younger. He has that somewhat tentative, rather fussy air of the well-bred English Gentleman. The house is a large, old-fashioned one, sprinkled throughout with the amiable clutter of the confirmed bachelor. Nice to indifferent pieces of art adorn the walls. The best is his mother’s painting of Portofino, a sketchy, impressionistic version that conveys much of the charm of the place. We visited for an hour before boarding another train into central London.
Peter wanted to see a show. Since this was my first trip to London in two years, I preferred to explore. At the Leicester Square booth he got a ticket to Noises Off and we repaired to The Stockpot, a favorite haunt of Peter’s. He had a full meal while I had coffee. Since I preferred to find another, finer restaurant and have a Dining Experience, I left him at the Comedy Theatre and set off for Soho.
My goal was the Gay Hussar, a venerable old Hungarian restaurant on Greek Street. I wandered in the general direction of Soho but missed the mark. After walking aimlessly – though with pleasure – I finally found Soho Square and walked down Greek Street to The Gay Hussar. I decided to try all new things, starting with a pate of goose liver and pork served on toast points. My entrée was paprikas’ tölltëlle palaczintas, chicken paprikash wrapped in crepes, with new potatoes and spinach puree prepared with a whisper of nutmeg. This princely repast required two glasses of wine to do it justice. Afterward I strolled aimlessly through the city, and arrived at the Comedy at 9:45, as arranged.
When Peter and I got back to the house, there were two visitors: Tony’s next door neighbors Julia and Brett. We had tea with this attractive young couple then went to bed.

Wednesday, May 29
We arose late. Tony prepared meusli and toast which we enjoyed in the conservatory, which looks out onto a lush and untamed back garden. There are a family of foxes in residence but I didn’t see a single one, only a number of bumble bees nosing among the flowers.
Taking the train to London, we stopped briefly at the National Portrait Gallery. At the Leicester Square booth again we were rewarded with tickets to the evening performance of Kiss Me Kate. Peter got a ticket for the matinee of My One and Only, so we had a meal at Bella Pasta and parted, agreeing to meet in the evening at the Victoria Palace.
I grazed contentedly through the second-hand bookshops of Charing Cross Road and stumbled on a long-sought (for at least a dozen years) illustrated edition of Alice in Wonderland. This volume is the Great White Whale of my collection. It was illustrated for a planned – and abandoned – earlier Walt Disney film. Clutching my treasure, giddy with delight at my good fortune, I proceeded up Piccadilly, walked past St. James Palace, across the Mall, and up to Victoria Station. On Ebury Street I hoped to make a reservation for Friday and Saturday nights at the Noël Coward Guesthouse, but there were no vacancies. I did find a room at the Harcourt House, a few doors down from my last London hotel, the Topham’s.
The rest of the afternoon was spent in wandering. I got to Sloane Square, down the King’s Road, then returned to Victoria by way of Christopher Wren’s Chelsea Hospital. After walking down to the Abbey I turned back and found an Internet Café across from the theatre, where I stayed until our appointed time. Peter joined me – fresh from the same Internet Café.
Kiss Me Kate was pure theatrical gold. Brent Barrett performed Fred/Petrucchio the best I ever expect to see it, never finer than in his rendition of “Where is the Life That Late I Led?” The character must be played as virility incarnate, without a whiff of lavender, and Barrett did not disappoint. And when he reveals the depthless love and loss in the reprise of “So In Love” his vulnerability was almost painful. Marin Mazzie was not performing as Lilli/Kate that night; her understudy Annette Yeo went on instead. She was ideal, too, alternately warm and brittle, fiery and tender – and a beauty. The Bill/Lucentio was Michael Berresse, and the most impressive feat of the evening was in his solo, “Bianca.” At the end of it, still singing, he climbed the three-story set to the top dressing rooms, turning himself over end to end, half monkey, half serpent.
We took a late train back. Tony was still up, entertaining a guest named Dan, a charming young man with a beard and fine blue eyes. He is here with his female cousin Miriam, who had gone to bed.

Thursday, May 30
This morning at breakfast Miriam and Dan were already downstairs in the conservatory. Miriam is one of those sixtyish women I instinctively like, curious about the world and her fellow creatures. Dan is even more beautiful than I had given him credit for the night before: a perfect face only slightly disfigured by a scraggly beard, large expressive eyes and full lips.
I had meusli again, very pleasant, and we chatted for three quarters of an hour over breakfast. Peter and I took the train to London and walked from Charing Cross to Cambridge Circus, my favorite spot in the heart of London. After agreeing to meet at Cappuccetto’s for lunch, Peter walked to Dress Circle while I scoured the bookstores for Evelyn Waugh’s Collected Stories. Tony is a fan of his work but has not read these.
I’ve eaten at Cappuccetto’s with both Tootie and Dana and family, so I knew it would be good.
I’d arranged to meet Steve Dumble at Balans Café. By the evidence of workmen tearing the place up, they had apparently gone out of business. It started to rain again so Peter and I ducked under a doorway to wait for Steve to show up. Alan, an actor friend of Peter’s, happened by and told us that Balans Café had moved down the street.
Steve was waiting for us at Balans with a friend named Paul. Paul is a thin and intense man with a grey buzzcut, pale blue eyes and about ten times more energy than anyone else in the café. I took to him immediately. Steve is still the same hearty beef and ale Englishman I toured Spain with two years ago, but without the beard. He wanted to see a musical in the evening, and Peter wanted to join us, so we promised to try for My Fair Lady that evening while Peter ran off to see an Irish play, Stones in His Pockets.
Steve and I dropped Paul off, then walked to Leicester Square and got three tickets to My Fair Lady. We walked around the corner to the National Gallery but only stayed under an hour since Steve’s and my tastes in painting differ markedly. After coffee we emerged into Trafalgar Square only to find dark clouds tumbling overhead. We headed down the Strand toward Drury Lane and had a light dinner at a little Italian place across from the Theatre. We lingered over antipasti and glasses of wine and waited for Peter.
My Fair Lady was as enchanting as ever, even from our bad seats in the very last row of the stalls. The Drury Lane is big as an airplane hangar; it was like being seated in London to watch a play being performed on Hampstead Heath. But time has not staled this masterpiece and in the 46 years since its debut I doubt that a better musical has been created. This production has been fitted out with exciting new orchestrations; the scenery is flawless and fast-moving. Alex Jennings, the Higgins in this production, is younger than he’s usually played, but he almost completely effaces the memory of Rex Harrison, no easy trick. Joanna Riding, whom I’d seen at the Drury Lane in The Witches of Eastwick, has a light voice that floats like cream above the orchestra. As in every production, the show leaps to life in “The Rain in Spain,” beautifully set up by my favorite moment in the show. Higgins sits down beside Eliza and, too exhausted to bully her any longer, quietly expresses his love for the English language, and his certainty that she will master it. The divine spark is struck -- and she makes her breakthrough. My Fair Lady is one of the greatest of shows because it’s really about something, and because the libretto is as much a work of art as the ravishing score.

Friday, May 31
The night was a horrible one; for some reason I was only able to sleep for about an hour and a half. When we got up, Dan had gone to the airport, off to America to explore the great western deserts; Tony had left at five for Germany. Miriam was left to make us some coffee and chat us out the door, and I drew a couple of cartoons for her granddaughter. On the way to the train station I bought a little rolling luggage carrier, something I should have invested in years before. Peter and I took the train to Charing Cross and there we sadly said our goodbyes. I have spent almost four weeks with this dear friend with no rough spots, but I imagine that he and David will be happy to have their lives back.
I checked into the Harcourt House, and leaving my laptop in the office safe, walked toward Knightsbridge. I spent several hours at the Victoria and Albert Museum, then doubled back to Harrod’s to pick up a little gift for Janet. Assaying London without a map has its rewards. Taking the Fulham Road south, I assumed I‘d eventually find the King’s Road but I went a couple of miles southwest instead. Fulham itself is friendly and workaday and firmly middle class, little shops sprinkled among estate agents, pubs, and restaurants. On impulse I made a sharp left and found I’d been walking parallel to the King’s Road. I found this lower end of it preferable to the glossier areas near Sloan Square studded with costly shops. I stopped for a gelato and a cup of tea, then made a beeline for an old book shop I spotted across the road. It was a great collection. I could have filled up another suitcase with books but I escaped unscathed.
Further along, I browsed through some favorite antique shops, then hoping to eat early for an early retirement, I stopped at Goya, a Spanish restaurant. My paella valenciana was perfectly acceptable, but didn’t have the little slices of sausage that make it a classic. Full and happy, I walked to the Internet Café at Victoria to check my email, then came home.

Saturday, June 1
My last full day in Britain – this trip. The hotel breakfast was first-rate, and made even better by the man who joined me. He’s from Vancouver, a dazzling blond, lean, lithe and leonine, with a strong, square jaw. Very friendly, too.
The day was glorious, the sky overhead like an inverted bowl of sapphire. Not so much as a wisp of cloud appeared all day. I took the Underground to Blackfriars and walked across the bridge almost singing, enchanted by the perfect weather. London had never looked better. My goal was the Tate Modern, but it didn’t open till 10:15 so I explored the backstreets of the South Bank. Walking along the Thames past the great Globe Theatre I stumbled upon an unexpected delight.
The Borough Market lies under the approach to London Bridge, spilling over into the churchyard of Southwark Cathedral. If I lived in London I think I would prefer to live within walking distance of this stunning market, the best of its type I’ve ever seen. Every foodstuff anyone could desire is here in plenty. As my bags are already crammed to bursting, I bought only a couple of things. A charming man selling exotic teas brewed me some Golden Oolong to taste, which tasted tantalizingly of oranges with a faint undertaste of straw. Instead I bought a small packet of Amber Oolong, from Taiwan, and on his advice bought a dozen dried Iranian limes from a man two stands away. These, I was advised, should be crushed, then brewed like tea.
As I was leaving the market – with great reluctance – I also got four small chocolate truffles from a statuesque and beautiful young woman. Ten minutes down the street I’d polished them off entirely.
The Tate Modern is one of the most exciting museums I’ve ever seen, and surely the most enjoyable of this visit. It is a reconverted power plant, and looks it. But the collection is thrilling, and once again had the effect of unlocking creativity, of filling my head with new directions to travel in my own art. That’s the odd thing about a visit to a great new art museum: as you explore and carefully observe, you find yourself growing and changing. Something in seeing the bold new work of others augments your own creative spark. It’s a feeling that every really sensitive artist must feel if he is to develop in his own art.
A special show at the Tate is now wowing London, a side-by-side retrospective of Picasso and Matisse. I ached to see it, but instead I felt compelled to go out and revel in the beautiful day. I crossed the new Millennium Footbridge, which ends up at the south face of St. Paul’s, truly a magical approach to London proper. Instead of going down Fleet Street to the Strand, I chose instead to go northeast to Cheapside, then north to the Smithfield Market. I saw notices of the upcoming Bartholomew Fair, that great holdover from the Middle Ages (which I thought had been recently abandoned). On a weekend the financial district is all but deserted, but on Charterhouse Street I found a marvelous old book shop. Somehow I resisted the impulse to buy. (I’d like to take this as an encouraging sign, but I was just mindful of my already heavy bags.) At Hatton Garden I turned south to Fleet Street. At The George, a venerbable old pub, I had a nice lunch and a pint of cider.
At the Savoy Hotel I went down into the Embankment Gardens, which Dana had so much enjoyed on our visit. Is this the loveliest spot in London? Everyone was out luxuriating in the sun; joy shone from every face.
Back at Leicester Square I got a half-price ticket for Yeomen of the Guard at the Savoy Theatre, snacked on an ice-cream cone, then went back to the National Portrait Gallery. Having done the first floor with Peter and had practically exhausted the glories of the second floor on my last t ime, I went straight to the top to see the Tudor portraits.
We were shooed out at six, so I walked over to Trafalgar Square and watched the children bathing in the fountains, squealing with joy. Everyone in London eventually ends up here.
I wanted to go to a favorite wine bar at Covent Garden before the performance. Near St. Paul’s church (site of the opening scene of My Fair Lady) I heard music and went to investigate. A tenor and a soprano (surely from the Royal Opera House company) were alternating. As the lady finished with “Song of India” the tenor stepped up and sang a thrilling rendition of “Nessun dorma” from Turandot. He had the audience in his palm, nobody more than I. Then she returned to warble “Vienna, City of My Dreams.” I could have stayed there until midnight, but the theatre called.
And there was The Crusting Pipe. I ordered a glass of superior old port and sat down to read in the corner – by candlelight. This is a tradition with me by now, after three visits to London. And my tipple is invariably port.
The Savoy Theatre is the house created by the D’Oyly Carte Company, and it was in this very theatre that Yeomen of the Guard had its premiere. The production was excellent, though it’s far from my favorite G&S. Sadly, the theatre was only about a quarter full. I felt sorry for the fine singers entertaining a mere handful of music lovers. Everything about the production, I should say, was magnificently right.

Sunday, June 2, somewhere over Buckinghamshire
Well, it’s all over, the longest trip I’ve taken abroad (to date). London just passed below on my side of the plane. I never expected to see the city again so soon, but there is no mistaking the Isle of Dogs in the loop of the Thames, then the Tower Bridge further on up the river. The only other landmarks I can discern from this height and distance are the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament, and in a farther reach of the river, the lacy Battersea Bridge. It’s amazing how one of the most distinctive cities on the globe fades in blue haze into just another city on a river. Unseen from up here are the vast crowds already gathering for Queen Elizabeth’s Jubilee.
This holiday has been noteworthy both in the variety of my experiences and the sheer amount of Britain I’ve seen. Most American visitors never have the opportunity of burrowing into the muscle and bone of Britain as I have. I have been to places many Britons themselves never see, like Hull; explored the Liverpool docks, the lesser-known neighborhoods of Manchester, the odd streets of London’s South Bank. I’ve strolled up and down country lanes and felt the pulse of the land.
Not many visitors are given the chance to sink so completely into the everyday lives of their hosts. Peter and David were able to leave me to my own devices, and it was a relief to feel less a guest than a member of a household. Spending this much time with Peter and David has strengthened and enriched our friendship.
Among American visitors only professional actors have known the deep satisfaction of working here as part of a theatre ensemble. This was of course the reason for my having been invited, and I seized it with gusto. Settling easily into a large cast, making friendships – this made me feel at home. These actors, props people, makeup designers and other creative personnel – they have been my greatest discovery.
They are England.