Wales '86

Wales 1986

Thursday-Friday, June 26-27
I took Thursday off from work – I had tons of jobs to do before my trip. Laurie Wayne came around at 4:15 to drive me to the airport. There was scandalous traffic all the way to Logan and I was on tenterhooks, though Laurie was placidity incarnate. On my flight to Heathrow I was surrounded by a chattering group of gardeners from San Francisco.
We landed at 6:20 a.m. and cleared customs in under 40 minutes. With luggage in tow I strolled for several miles to the area where I was welcomed by a beaming Michael Quarrier. We were on the road by 7:00 a.m. We drove out of the environs of London through a light ground mist which followed us all the way to Chester. We took the freeways out as far as Oxford, then through the town itself, too quickly. Then through the countryside up to Gloucester, stopping briefly on Birdlip Hill to gaze down into the Vale of Evesham, pale blue with mist, which Michael kept cursing but which I found deliciously atmospheric. We stopped at a pub, The Raven, and I had a pint of bitter and a sausage roll. By this time it was past noon. We arrived in Chester shortly, a lovely small city ringed by a beautifully preserved medieval wall. We drove to Michael’s home, a semidetached bungalow with a fine garden in back. Michael stoutly denies being much of a gardener; the yard belies such a claim.
I took a 3-hour nap in the afternoon, a good deal more refreshing than I would have expected. Michael woke me with a nice spot of tea, then we went into the center of Chester to walk around the wall. It was even more attractive than I expected. At the point where I started, a canal can be seen flowing far below the wall. At the first corner is a tower from which Charles I watched his army defeated by Cromwell’s forces. The progression around the city included sights of Chester cathedral, an elaborate clock celebrating Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee, part of the older Roman wall, a splendid view of the River Dee, the hideous new police department building, the racecourse and the Watergate, in the wall’s west gate. It was a grand tour: Michael is a mine of information.
Home, Michael prepared a princely feed. Starting off with crab bisque, we went on to carrots and potatoes and heavenly stuffed quail. We finished off with an ice cream sundae, vanilla topped with chocolate chips and almonds, swimming in rich yellow Advokat, an eggnog liqueur.
Over port, crackers and cheese, we were joined by Peter Swingler and his partner David, a looker with fine long brown legs. We had a fine time and I went to bed tired but happy – and slept wonderfully.

Saturday, June 28

Michael woke me up with a brimming cup of coffee and the sly admission that he gone out to the Club, a gay bar, and gotten lucky. Indeed, his bit of luck was still upstairs. Michael went out to attend to his laundry and I went out to the living room, where I was soon joined by Michael’s trick. Tim is quite young and good looking, with thick, tousled hair, a nice amused-looking mouth bracketed with small dimples, pale eyes rimmed with black lashes. He had a nice body and engagingly sexy walk.
Michael came back and we dropped Tim downtown and drove to Wrexham in a roundabout way. And what a way! A short way out of Chester we were into Wales; the signs were now bilingual. We drove south and west into lovely hilly country. The higher we got, the fewer trees grew. By Horseshoe pass, a spectacular turn around a deep valley, most of the trees were below us. The scenery was delightful as we drove around and through Llangollen, then by a beautiful monastery, the Vale of the Cross.
We arrived in Wrexham and drove to Grove Park Little Theatre. A Saturday coffee was underway in the bar. Mona Stansfield greeted me warmly at the door. Present were Jenny Glover, as sweet and toasty as in Boston; Phil Edwards, plump, randy and funny; and his young lover Russell, a leggy redhead with a square jaw and green eyes and, emerging from tight white shorts, long muscular freckled legs. Peter and David came in later, as did Eluned Evans. Phil gave me a tour of the theatre. It’s bigger than Vokes, seats 204, with a well-raked auditorium. The theatre sits in the middle of the city and is painted an odd but pleasant mulberry color. It’s rather split- or multi-leveled, with dressing rooms in the basement, but the stage has no decent wing space at all. Midway up from the stage level to the entrance is a little tea bar. Upstairs beyond that is the bar. I felt immediately at home.
From the theatre we drove out of town a few miles to Erddig, a ‘stately home’ in the midst of extensive renovation. The last scion of the Yorke family, Philip, died alone, reclusive and grindingly poor in a corner room, with only his dog and an occasional accommodating boy scout for company. As he was (obviously!) the last of his line, the National Historic Trust took over the estate and opened it up to the public.
The place is vast, dark, and roughly filled in, as it’s still in the midst of restoration. Its fine gardens are also being reworked. Less than a mile away is a small agricultural museum. Walking back we crossed a broad field studded about with sheep and goats. To get back to the car we took a beautiful path through a thick forest.
Back in Wrexham we drove to Jenny’s. She had arranged a high tea in my honor. Also present were Eluned, Peter and David, Phil and Russell. It was delectable, four kinds of sandwiches, scones, breads and chocolate cake, strawberries and cream. Although it was hot and muggy it was still fun. Afterward we watched part of Wimbledon on television (Peter is a huge fan), and then, off to the theatre!
At the door I saw Heini and Rommi Przibram, Griff and Charlotte Baines. Heini and Rommi, Richard Morris, Phil Edwards, Eluned, Fred Evans, Ray Ledsham, Margaret Armstrong, Steven Freudmann and others circulated -- in character as all were in the show. Also before the show I saw Hazel and Len Simm and little Glenys Morgan.
The play was the second part of Nicholas Nickleby, four hours that seemed a good deal shorter, except for the bloody heat. Had a thumping good time.
There was a cast party and reception afterward, filled with beer and cheer and during which I got to see a good deal more of Ray and Richard. This year Ray, it turns out, played an old part of mine: Charles Condomine in Blithe Spirit.

Sunday, June 29
Woke up at 11:30. Michael and I went through my new road atlas of Britain (a birthday gift from Michael, bought at Erddig) and marked out the routes we’ve taken this trip. I want to keep it up to date, as a wonderful memento of the trip. We drove into the main part of Chester, had lunch at the Carriage House, then walked to Chester Cathedral. It’s from the twelfth century, was updated and extended over the next 300 years, and even had some nice Victorian touches. I found, by happy accident, Thackeray’s grave in the church. We also explored the Abbey, attached to the cathedral, then walked the Rows, the shopping area of the city. Michael’s knees were in danger of giving out so I explored a few shops while he brought the car around to the visitors’ center. There we saw a film on Chester and I cashed a traveler’s check. Walking through the Grosvenor Gardens I was amused to note more than one couple lying on the grass only several degrees from making the beast with two backs. Then home for drinks and relaxation. Chris, a friend of Michael’s, came over to join us for drinks and dinner -- a classic Yorkshire Pudding, a rib roast and stuffed red peppers. We ended with poached pears in wine with ice cream. During dessert we were joined by two more old friends of Michael’s, Geoffey and Philip. After a nice chat we went down to The Club. It’s a lively place – bar downstairs and disco up. Danced a bit with Chris. Michael scored again with Graham, a weedy boy with streaked hair, a moustache and lots of teeth, sort of a young, ‘80s version of Neville Chamberlain. (I’m uncharitably inclined to believe that Michael’s scores are rent boys.) Back home, I went to bed reeking of Club smoke, though considerably more relaxed than on previous nights. Tomorrow we travel!

Monday, June 30
Michael awakened me early and I packed for the trip north. We let Graham off in Ellesmere Port and drove across very flat country in bad traffic toward York. Soon we crossed the Pennines, beautiful mountains steeper than I would have believed in England. It turned quite cold, mist so heavy it seemed almost wintry. Above the timberline ragged sheep were our only company. We descended into the Manchester area and later reached Pontefract, once the center for liquorice farming (!). It’s also the site of the ruined Pomfret Castle, where the feckless fool Richard II was murdered.
Soon after we were in York. Like Chester, the city is walled and has a great cathedral. But the stone of York Minster is grey-white limestone to Chester’s muddy red-brown. This church is a splendid airy gothic pile, with small gargoyles sprouting from the spires like spiteful pigeons. I explored it alone after having lunch with Michael in a pub, The York Arms. It was as lovely inside York Minster as out, the quintessence of the Gothic cathedral. Afterward I cashed a couple of travelers’ checks. Michael dropped me off at York Castle while he got reacquainted with an old friend he had seen. (Michael is a native of York.) I climbed the steep hill to Clifford’s Tower, the only standing part of the castle. I carefully ascended the narrow steps to the walk around the battlements, head reeling, legs, arms, hands, feet tingling. Struggling manfully with my acrophobia I made it around clockwise. To my left, the town falls away down the steep hill; to the right is the hollow crater of the ruined tower. When I made it down to the ground I looked up and felt somewhat foolish to realize how close to the ground the battlements were. The museum was a different matter – delight for a good two hours. In essence, its programme is a social history of the English people. The most impressive item to me was a recently discovered Saxon helmet from around 700 A.D.
At 5:30 Michael picked me up at a designated spot and we drove over to see his mother. She is 77 (seems younger), and imperially trim; I found her charming. Michael strenuously objected to this characterization later. He describes her rather as a “charming monster”, probably with some justification. Their failed relationship makes his already considerable complexity more poignant. I thought of Nanny, the grandmother who raised me.
We sped north out of York, past Darlington, past Newcastle-upon-Tyne, to the small city of Alnwick high up in Northumberland, three miles from the North Sea. We checked in at the White Swan, a converted carriage house in the center of town. The Alnwick Festival was in progress, many young men and women parading about in costume from all periods. We ate a Lucullan dinner in the hotel restaurant, The Bondgate (sea trout rolled in oatmeal, sauteed in limes, wonderful cream of celery soup, Alnwick moor mushrooms in tomato and garlic, ending in chocolate gateau). Afterward I strolled around the town while Michael slummed in the hotel lobby. Dusk comes later in these northern regions: at 10:00! A heavy mist lay over the town, lit by occasional lonely lights, a marvellous atmosphere where one felt anything could happen. The town is old, old, heavy with grey stone, which the mist softened to an antique beauty. One pub, the Queen’s Head, has a noteworthy pub sign, good Queen Bess’s face glowering out of a flower of spiked lace.
When I returned to the hotel Michael was holding court among a bevy of young Norwegian girls, over to play in the festival band. They all speak good English and were charm incarnate. They play again tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. and we are going to hear them.
The exceedingly attractive young manager of the hotel, in a Gordon tartan kilt, came over to visit briefly. I had a Perrier, Michael a Drambuie, and then we went on up to bed.

Tuesday, July 1
We had a vast English breakfast in the hotel restaurant – figs, jam, marmalade and oatcakes, and a grilled kipper, washed down with first-rate coffee. After a stroll around Alnwick, whose ghostly beauty had flown during the night, we checked out. We packed the car and walked to the town square to hear the band from Bryne, Norway. After about ten minutes we drove out of town, past Alnwick Castle, northward along the North Sea. Bamburgh Castle, an enormous fortress hight above the sea, was closed, except for some schoolchildren on a special permit. So we contented ourselves by walking halfway around it. In one stretch facing the sea, the walls were coated with beautiful, tiny snails.
Back on the road we went north around Berwick-upon-Tweed and we were in Scotland. It wasn’t noticeably different from Northumberland until we climbed into the Lammermuir Hills, glorious and quite lonely except for thousands of sheep. Michael stopped just below Whiteadder Reservoir in a green valley, so I could take pictures of the shy, photogenic spotty-faced sheep. On the down side of Lammermuir we stopped at a pub in Gifford, the Goblin Ha’, where we had a pint of bitter and I had a sausage, onion and apple pie. Michael had the ploughman’s lunch. I wrote a few postcards here and we drove on to Edinburgh.
The city is primarily of dark grey stone, very crisp and airily gothic. What I saw of it was glorious. Princes Street is what every big-city street should be. And towering over it on an immense promontory, Edinburgh Castle, with the delicate spire of the Walter Scott monument below it. Michael and I drove west toward Glasgow to our hotel, the Royal Scot, beautiful, newish, though plain on the outside. We checked in, lightened our loads, and took a bus back into Edinburgh. Michael toured the castle while I did a bit of gift shopping. We met for a delightful dinner at a bistro called Nimmo’s: haggis with neeps, rainbow trout stuffed with Scottish cheeses and grilled, and a bottle of Neuminster. (I can now go to my grave having eaten haggis, the Scottish national dish, with no more obligation to eat it again.) It was now too late to go to the theatre so we came back, Michael to absorb a bit of scotch, I to write postcards and update this journal.

Wednesday, July 2
A most unusual day. We got up for breakfast at the hotel, another English classic: eggs, kidneys, bangers, black pudding, grilled tomatoes, plus marmalade and croissants. We drove into Edinburgh proper and walked around the castle to the camera obscura exhibit, shown by a beautiful young guide with a delicious thick burr, then down the “Royal Mile.” I left Michael at a pub, the Jolly Judge, while I did some more shopping.
Around 1:00 p.m. we drove south toward Carlisle through breathtaking countryside, in the valley below the Pentland Hills. Finally in the area of Carlisle, we started looking for Hadrian’s Wall, which had become a sort of obsession with me. We searched for an hour with no results. The wall, as beautifully chronicled in photographs, eluded us completely. We drove west all the way to Bowness-on-Solway and only found a map that indicated where the original Roman fort stood. We saw no wall, no bare stones at all, only a mound where it might have stood, still unexcavated at this point. Snappish and sullen, we drove down the coast along Solway Firth to Maryport.
Michael booked us at Maryport as an experiment, having no knowledge of the town. Our hotel, the Waverley, is a perfect example of the second-class seaside resort hotel, postwar austerity still clinging to it. The town itself is lackluster and Michael was as appalled as I was. We drove down to a town with the evocative name of Cockermouth, for dinner at a pleasant restaurant. Soup, game pie, and a very frothy cheesecake – not the substantial, Jewish-American classic but not bad, either. We drove back by way of Worthington, a lovely seaside town seven miles down the coast. Back at the Waverley we sat in the lounge, I reading Anthony Burgess, Michael watching Wimbledon. On television are, among other things, Rashomon, and a re-run of Rhoda, inexplicably very popular over here.

Thursday, July 3
Today I am forty. Time marches on.
We left Maryport right after the hotel breakfast. After a short stop at Cockermouth to send a card to Sasha, we drove into the glorious Cumbrian mountains, the fabled Lake District. The first lake was Crummock Water, and immediately after, Buttermere. The lakes themselves are very impressive in themselves, set among the dramatic mountains; the perfect weather added immeasurably to the show. And for the first half hour there were few cars. The landscape changed subtly from hill and grass to valleys of granite boulders, then to exquisite leafy dells and twisting turns. We circled north to go around Bassenthwaite Lake, then south again alongside Thirlmere, the Grasmere, then the gorgeous little town of Ambleside. The road turned and twisted along, we with it, both overjoyed at the beauty of the land.
We stopped in the town of Coniston, where Ruskin is buried. At the Crown Hotel, outside on the terrace, we stopped for a coffee. I walked down the street to a butcher shop and bought two Scotch eggs, a pub delicacy I remember from my first visit in 1971 and have been searching for since I arrived. We ate them and walked through town, and I picked up some postcards. We headed south along Coniston Water, east again and northward along Windermere, the grandest of the lakes and the one most popular with tourists. It was getting on for lunchtime, so we went through dazzling Bowness-on-Windermere and stopped in the town of Windermere itself. We found a nice restaurant; I had fresh-caught Windermere char covered with a sauce made with prawns and peppers. I drank a nice shandy. A chocolate gateau followed. Michael went back to the car while I made a leisurely turn through the town. We headed back to Chester and arrived in an impressive hour and forty-five minutes.
After an or so of rest, we picked up Chris Parkin and drove over to spend the evening at Geoffrey and Philip’s. The delightful wine and cheese party featured a glorious array of cheeses: red Leicester, brie, Cheshire, Stilton, and Wenby, a mild smooth product of Yorkshire.
We were joined by Geoffrey and Philip’s next-door neighbor Judy Martindale, a fun, friendly divorcee. She’s a good laugher. We listened to music and visited, and on top of all the wine I had a bit of gin and tonic, the result being…

Friday, July 4
…A fiendish hangover. I suffered the predictable consequences until around noon. By 1:00 my headache was almost gone, my ablutions were done, and so Michael took me to the Chester Zoo. It’s a fine collection of birds, beasts, fish and breathtaking gardens. Vast beds of roses, arranged by variety, were as much a treat as the fauna. After a couple of hours, Michael brought me home to pack before transferring me to Peter and David’s.
What a superb host Michael Quarrier has been! Campy, exasperating, tireless and terrifically funny, he really showed me Britain, though it must sometimes have been exhausting to someone of his age and (let’s be frank) weight. This morning he showed me programs and pictures of his old shows, including his outrageous costumes as the Dame in the Christmas pantomimes. His eyes glowed with the mischief and delight of a ten-year-old.
Michael drove me over the border to Wales, to Peter and David’s house. Crocus Cottage is an exquisite place next to a pub, the Nag’s Head. Still in a state of restoration, it has a large kitchen, a cozy library-sitting room, music room, and a large, as-yet-undefined room now used for storage. Above all this are bath and bedrooms. I’m cozily situated in a nice bedroom, Peter’s I think.
Michael stayed for a bit, Russell and Phil came over, bringing a birthday cake! Soon Michael left (till we meet again on Sunday night) and we had dinner and a delightful visit.
Dinner, prepared by David, was a south of France concoction, a hotpot of chicken, cheese, mushrooms and tomatoes over rice. Lots of rich red rioja. We listened to music – David brought out CDs of an old singer I’d never heard of, Zarah Leander, a Swede who was wildly popular in Nazi Germany. I also discovered that David is a devotee of Billy Holiday and Peter, apostasy of apostasies, can’t stand her! (“Dismal bitch!”) Peter went on up to bed, and beautiful David and I listened to her. These were the later recordings, where the cream had drained away from her voice, leaving only a ragged rasp as the vessel for that imperishable style. Yes, I can already tell that this part of my trip is going to be as enjoyable as the first. I am so much at home with all of these friends.

Saturday, July 5
Wonderful day, especially at evening. Woke up latish, nice Granola-type cereal. Then Peter and David and I drove downtown where I did a spot of shopping (the Spitting Image books and a copy of Punch). Then to Grove Park for their Saturday morning coffee – a regular custom, apparently. From there I was taken to Phil and Russell’s where I was presented with yet another birthday gift, the record of the musical show Pickwick, which I’ve sought for years. Peter and David went on, I stayed for a nice lunch of fried fish, etc., ending with a peach meringue.
Phil then drove me to Oswestry, Shropshire, through the dazzling Welsh countryside. Dorothy Davies, my old show director from Maryland is from there originally, and spends half the year there with her husband Cyril. I was determined to at least try to find her. There was, of course, only half a chance that she would be there -- or even be alive. We stopped at a shop where a friend of a friend of Phil’s was supposed to be. No luck. We were directed to the library, and had a bit of luck: Dorothy is a Catholic, so we were given the number of a priest who might know her. Phil got him on the phone. The man was a bit vague, said he thought he knew of her but wasn’t exactly sure. (With a name like Davies, just across the border from Wales…) The priest might have been loath to give information in case we might not be entirely savory characters – our search could have seemed a bit shadowy. But Phil was a superb detective, asking succinct, to-the-point questions. It wasn’t his fault that we had no real luck; this was, to be truthful, rather a quixotic search. But I liked seeing Oswestry itself, so much a part of the life of a friend. Since I had Dorothy’s American address, I sent her a postcard. A remembrance of her hometown from an old friend will please the old darling. Again, if she’s still alive.
Phil brought me back to Peter around six. We drove to Eastham, a suburb of Birkenhead, to pick up David, who’s spending the night at his mother’s house. From there we drove to Manchester. I’d always imagined the city to be a large, gritty eyesore but it is nothing of the kind! Manchester is grand and beautiful in the classic Victorian mold, with elegant tall buildings and lovely parks. In its red-brick grandiosity it reminded me of a statelier Boston.
We stopped (for the loo) at Philip’s, a friend of Peter and David’s. Philip’s place is a shrine of show-biz memorabilia – Judy Garland’s image everywhere, show posters and film placards encrusting the walls. We then drove a few blocks north to the theatre.
This was originally the Royal Corn Exchange, a vast domed hall. Now a great theatre is constructed in the center, a vast fretwork of scaffolds, supports with banks of seats, a ring of lighting equipment and bits of set suspended in the middle.
We took our seats, three on the very top row – surprisingly a fabulous view. We looked almost directly down into a pit of light. The play began. It’s the first English production of a classic 19th century French farce, Court in the Act. To recall its elaborate plot would require pages; let it suffice to say that it was a perfect night in the theatre -- three delicious settings, brilliant costumes, skillful comedic playing from a superb company. The glittering jewel of the production was the lead actress, Gabrielle Drake, a brilliant farceuse who skillfully used even her costumes as props. This was lucky, as she was repeatedly required to slip out of them. A memorable evening in the theatre, and Peter and David were as enchanted as I.
At the intermission three different Britons thanked me for coming over to visit. Most Americans, terrified by the meltdown in Chechnya, have elected to stay home this summer, a decided damper on the British tourist industry.
Afterward we strolled through the city, glowing with lights and even more beautiful than earlier. We surveyed the menus of several restaurants, finally settling on La Terrazza. David and I shared a bottle of Soave. Peter had appetizers, which I avoided, being rather stuffed on this visit already. My dish was worth the wait: linguini Terrazza, in a saffron-cream sauce with squid and shrimp. We ended with coffee and Amaretto biscuits. On leaving we had difficulty finding our way out of the city. Dropping David in Eastham, we came home. An unforgettable day.

Sunday, July 6
How can one pick one day of a marvelous vacation as being better than all the rest? That’s easy. It must simply rate as one of the great days of your life. This one did.
I got up around ten. Shortly, Peter came back with Phil and Russell, Jenny, Eluned, and Fred Evans. We piled ourselves and the picnic hampers into two cars and headed for the Derbyshire Peak District. Our destination was the town of Buxton, Derbyshire, but most of what we saw till Macclesfield was in Cheshire. Buxton is a charming large town constructed largely of soft brown Derbyshire stone. In the center of town stands the Buxton Opera House, alongside a lovely green park. In the Pavilion we all sat down to drink coffee and wait for Claire, a friend of the group who now lives in Mansfield. I was enchanted by Claire, an extravagantly pretty brunette with a soft sweet voice and, I was told, an extremely vacant and dithery personality. I never saw a hint of this.
We all moved the picnic gear to a soft slope by the stream that meanders through the park. The cloth was spread; the food was unpacked; we picnickers settled down – and immediately sprang up again. The ground was wet and quickly seeping through the cloth. There were plenty of plastic bags, however, now emptied of food and equipment, and we sat on those. The picnic began.
Wine! Chicken! Ham! Quiche! Cheese and cucumber, watercress, egg salad sandwiches, too! The company was incomparable and the weather was coolish, but utterly pleasant. On the patio of the Pavilion above an amateur brass band played, and all was as close to perfection as I ever expect to find. It was almost a caricature of carefree Sunday indolence and I loved it. There were even duck families swimming in the stream alongside us. If a White Rabbit with waistcoat and pocket watch had run by I wouldn’t have been at all surprised. This was truly Wonderland.
All good things must end so we took all the stuff back to the cars, then came back to stroll through the park and we even rode the kiddie train around the pond.
We had theatre tickets, but there was time before curtain to take a field trip. We piled back into the cars and drove to the village of Ashford-in-the-Water. And yes, it was perfect too – the most beautiful village I have ever seen [Note in 2003: this judgment still stands.] Everything was in soft grey stone – the Sheepwash bridge, rose-coated Bridge House, the church, tombstones, private houses – all untouched by the ugliness so plentifully to be found in this century. But time ran as fast there as it does in any town. We drove back to Buxton through deep valleys dark with tangled trees.
The Buxton Opera House is a large white, gold and burgundy auditorium, foaming with putti, shields, curlicues -- all the rococo glory of your classic opera house. As we settled into our seats Michael Quarrier joined us.
The show was Blood Brothers, a musical (sort of) by Willy Russell. The plot involved poor twins separated at birth, one sold to a barren rich woman. It was hopelessly contrived, with impossible implausibilities, a paucity of music, bad set, and at least thirty references in the lyrics to Marilyn Monroe. Nonetheless I enjoyed it if only because of the company I was in. It was a fine ending to a delectable day. We all separated from Claire, whom I hated to see go, and got back in the cars and drove home. Fred went with Peter and me. In a heavy rain all the way home, we talked about the show and acting in general. If “the days that make us happy make us wise,” I was Solomon.

Monday, July 7
Perfect day succeeds perfect day! After breakfast Phil and Jenny came by to take me on a drive around North Wales. We started by going west to see Theatre Clwyd in the town of Mold; it’s a large, imposing affair on a magnificent hill. We drove towards Denbigh, a hilly town of (what else?) picturesque charm. West, on the Denbigh moors, we saw the ruin of the great house they destroyed when filming the George C. Scott/Susannah York Jane Eyre. It stood on a hill with dark clouds behind – a perfect metaphor for the character of Rochester. Further on, hills turned to leafy glens. We crossed the river Conwy to a town called Betwys-y-Coed and had tea on the terrace of an old hotel. Phil and Jenny are sprightly companions and I must applaud them right here for indulging my propensity to stop and photograph things.
On the way to Swallow Falls, we stopped short behind a tourist coach. For five minutes we didn’t move. Then ten. Then fifteen. Behind us and before us stood an endless line of cars. Roadwork up ahead. Finally the coach tore into the opposing lane, Phil following. Immediately behind us came a huge yellow lorry. Bracketed by these behemoths, we barrelled on through.
Further up the road we turned at Capel Curig. Below stretched the twin lakes at the base of the Snowdon mountain range. We crept upward, mountains of green crushed-velvet in the distance. In the Pass of Llanberis we stopped for me to snap some more pictures. I wanted to stay at this valley of ragged rock and velvety grass forever, but more wonders beckoned: Llanberis Castle, the foot of Mount Snowdon, more towns and countryside.
At Caernarvon, the magnificent site of Prince Charles’s investiture, we stopped for lunch -- beer from one shop, fish and chips from another. The latter was dripping with fat and cholesterol and bursting with flavor, yummy to the last licked finger. The essence of gustatorial guilt.
We toured the town on foot, going around the castle down to the bridge at the Menai Strait, the sublimely beautiful body of water between Wales proper and the Island of Anglesey. We crossed the Britannia Bridge and visited Llanfairpwllgwyngullgogerychwyrn-
drobellllantysiliogogogoch. Back over another bridge onto the mainland, we passed through Bangor, Llanfairfechan, Penmaenmawr, and exquisite little Conwy. Here is a fine castle with fragmented wall, hilly steep streets looking over the mouth of the Conwy river. We crossed the bridge and stopped at the resort town of Llandudno. A broad Edwardian promenade fronts the sea. Embraced by the hollow between Great- and Little Orme Heads, it’s a most attractive town.
Through Colwyn (Costa Geriatrica, Phil snorted), Abergele, St. Asaph, and Denbigh we headed home. We picked up Russell on the way back from the train and got two bottles of bardolino. Jenny cooked a great meal. Fine end to a great day, no? No. There was more to come.
Phil and Russell brought me back to Peter and David’s for the reunion of our New York travel party last summer. Richard Morris brought slides and we had a showing. By and by Ray Ledsham showed up (he’d been at an audition) and the party got into full swing. Richard had even (at my request) brought a goodly part of his animal skull collection, which all but Peter found absorbing. Soon the party had to end and David and I played Lena Horne’s one woman show for awhile and then to bed.

Tuesday, July 8
The morning began with a nice surprise: David brought me juice and tea in bed. Phil came by around 9:30 and he, Peter and I drove to Liverpool. It was seedy and rundown in parts and I never got a sense of the center of the place, but I liked it anyway. We got to Penny Lane (Beatle holy site) and got out to prowl about, and stopped for coffee and madeira cake at Sergeant Pepper’s Country Kitchen. My cake was all right but something nasty was floating in my coffee so I sent it back. They accepted it silently, no apologies or offer to replace it, which I would have undoubtedly refused. It wasn’t at all a nice place – in fact a certifiable tourist trap, and Peter and Phil were suitably indignant.
Downtown, I bought a couple of secondhand show albums. We met Russell, who works in Liverpool, at a pub called the Lisbon, a nice, light place with ornate ceiling, spacious and pleasant. We all settled down to the same meal, steak and kidney pie with mixed vegetables and chips.
Also on the downtown tour was The Cavern, where the Fab Four started their career. Sadly, the original hole-in-the-wall has been torn down, the whole replaced by an American-style indoor downtown mall. In the center was a truly hideous bronze statue of four young men vaguely reminiscent of the Beatles. John was the only one easy to pick out, being hung about with dried flowers. I couldn’t help but feel that such a careless, stupid chunk of ‘art’ was insulting to a group of such good musicians. They deserved better.
Driving through other parts of Liverpool I could perceive what a grand city it still is, below the evident fiscal depression, the loss of style that Peter and Phil bemoaned all the time we were there.
We took a wrong turn coming out of the tunnel so we headed for a moribund resort on the tip of the Wirral, the peninisula between the estuaries of the Mersey and the Dee. New Brighton is almost a ghost town, but because of its marvelous view of the bay, there are plans to try to revive its fortunes. We drove home through the rather prettier towns of the Wirral, West Kirby and Neston.
Michael Quarrier came by. He had arranged to give a talk to the Erddig Women’s Association on the Christmas pantomime. We stopped at the theatre to get a costume and wig for Michael. He was most offended at playing the Dame in the outfit which Peter had selected for him. We picked up Hilda, who was to play music for the talk.
At St. Michael’s Church Peter gave an informative and entertaining talk on the history of the traditional panto. I loved every minute, and the ladies responded with chuckles and nods of recognition. When Peter got up to the present day he spoke of working with one of the best ‘Dames’ he had ever seen. “Hit it, Hilda…”
Hilda struck a chord and Michael sashayed in. He wore heavy, tartish makeup, a yellow and silver-lame sheath quivering with flounces, a high yellow confection of a turban covered with silver fruit and topped with yellow feathers -- a perfect lampoon of Carmen Miranda.
Michael launched into an hilarious monologue that simply finished us off. The women were seeing the embodiment of a cherished institution; to me it was a prime sample of a branch of theatre I don’t know at all; and a good time was had by all. It was quite an experience, and I regret that the panto is only an English tradition. Americans must settle for the inevitable Messiah and Nutcracker every year, with little variation. Where’s the fun?
Back home we ate dinner with TV. David fixed a delicious meal and we talked books till bedtime.

Wednesday, July 9
David and Peter went out early to work and I lazed about, getting my bags in order and waiting for Phil, due at some unspecified time. I listened to another of David’s Zarah Leander records – what a find she is. Phil arrived after 11:30 and we drove to Wrexham to pick up Jenny, our destination Llangollen and the International Eisteddfod. We found a parking space on a grassy slope, walked across a humpbacked stone bridge, and suddenly the hills really were alive with the sound of music.
A choir was singing in the distance, sounding as pale and pure on the breeze as the wind through reeds. Phil, working at the Wales Gas tent, got us in the gate free, which meant that we didn’t have a ticket to the musical events, but no matter. Enough music was piped outside to give us the feel of the festival. At the tent, Phil introduced us to his boss and directed us to the drinks counter. Phil began working; Jenny had a white wine, I an ale. The meal was smoked mackerel, quiche, new potato and salad, with caramelized orange and brandy snap for dessert, followed by coffee, Stilton and crackers.
When we finished we had to leave Phil behind to work. Jenny and I wandered the grounds, absorbing the free stuff. There was an enjoyable demonstration of ancient instruments being filmed by the BBC. We worked our way around the circle back to Phil’s tent to tell him we were going into the town itself. He agreed to meet us in an hour and a quarter, to take us back to Wrexham. Outside the festival gate we ran into Richard Morris, and he joined us in our walk around Llangollen. We mainly hit the antique stores, in my fruitless search for a traditional teapot. Instead I found a nice Staffordshire stirrup cup. Richard lives here, so he was a fount of information about the town.
Back in Wrexham we stopped at Phil’s mother’s house for a spot of tea. She was pleasant and friendly though Phil told me afterward that she wasn’t always so. Peter for instance, fell afoul of her sometime in the past and now regards her with something akin to horror.
Phil took us to Jenny’s and I said goodbye to him there. He’s been a wonderful guide and splendid company, but then so has everyone. I spent the remainder of the afternoon at Jenny’s, listening to a taped interview with Stephen Sondheim while Jenny bathed and got ready for the dinner party.
At 7:30 Peter came by to drive us to Heini and Rommi Przibram’s house, a large residence fronted by a rose garden. Most of the guests were already there: Ray Ledsham, Eluned, Michael Q., and our hosts’ daughter Bridie. Ray could only stay a bit, but Richard Morris and David joined us as the evening wore on. Heini overheard David and me discussing Zarah Leander and burst into a symphony of devotion to her. The evening was over too soon and I hated to say goodbye to these wonderful people who’ve made this a perfect holiday.

Thursday, July 10
After packing and my morning wash-up, I had a lush breakfast that David, bless him, had prepared. He drove Peter and me to the rail station in Chester and we got our tickets. Passsing through Crewe, Wolverhampton, Sandwell and Dudley, Birmingham, Coventry, we arrived at Euston before I quite realized we were actually in the city.
We easily made it to the tube station and traveled to Earl’s Court. My bags had never seemed so heavy; I wondered if I’d even make it to the hotel. Finally we reached it: the Philbeach Hotel, in the curve of one of London’s great crescents. After dropping our bags we departed for Leicester Square. We didn’t want to see the same shows so we split up. Peter decided on Stepping Out, a long-running show about tap-dancing. I got a ticket for Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. We lunched at a favorite spot of Peter’s, Stockpot. I had curried eggs – not bad but hardly what I expected.
Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, at the Prince of Wales Theatre, was pleasant except for a few minor irritations: three of the cast, including the female lead, were replaced due to ‘indisposition,’ the performers were deafeningly miked (an ugly American import, I’m afraid), and the relentless mugging of the six younger brothers transcended caricature. They were like hillbillies on speed, perfect boors devoid of charm. Quibbles aside, it was entertaining but not a patch on the movie. After the show I met Peter at the half-price ticket booth in Leicester Square. From there we walked to Covent Garden. The market I remember so fondly from 1971 has vanished. The remaining shell has been turned into an American-style mall; Eliza Doolittle’s grimy domain has been gentrified out of existence. I might have been in Boston’s Quincy Market or any one of a hundred similar malls. This sad metamorphosis didn’t keep me from shopping, though. Dress Circle, a show music wonderland, is here.
After scouting dozens of splendid cafés (Peter is a criminally finicky eater) we settled on a nice creperie. I had a crepe with ratatouille and chicken accompanied by a kir. Peter (o, lost soul) had a hamburger with fries.
The play we had chosen was Alan Ayckbourne’s A Chorus of Disapproval at the Duke of York’s. The theatre itself is a baroque charmer; the play was less successful. It’s not fun to see a master like Ayckbourne produce a play so tedious and unnecessary -- one forty-five minutes too long. Some of the performances were expertly done and the production itself was smooth. But the heat and the length of the evening pulled this into the losing column.
It was sprinkling lightly when we emerged into the night. We strolled up Piccadilly to find a pub. The Clarence, on a side street, was cozy, warm, friendly and tiny. After Peter’s lemonade and my pint of bitter it was soon “time, gentlemen,” so we got to the Green Street stop and took the tube back to Earl’s Court.

Friday, July 11
I woke long before Peter. I had a solitary breakfast with my book in the hotel restaurant then fetched my camera and told a sleepy Peter that I would be back within the hour. I expected to make a wide circle around the neighborhood and return to the hotel as a logical procession. London had other ideas. I got hopelessly lost and had to be guided back by pub- and shopkeepers. And halfway out, I discovered that I had only 2 exposures left.
We tubed into the heart of town. Peter wanted to go to Foyle’s so I got off at the Green Street stop and toured the city on foot -- to exhaustion, as I like to do. It was fun to be on my own for a while, mobile, footloose and curious. I met Peter at the Charlie Chaplin statue in Leicester Square, an inept bronze excrescence that looks no more like Chaplin than I do. Another puny ‘tribute’ to a great artist from a negligible one. We walked to Covent Garden to mine the remainder of Dress Circle. Afterwards we walked to the National Theatre on the South Bank. On the Strand I bought a Scotch egg to munch on the way.
This was my first visit to the National. Our play, Brighton Beach Memoirs, was at the Lyttleton. While Peter had a spot of lunch I took the lift to the upper level lobby of the Olivier Theatre. I honestly and legitimately expected to find a grand portrait of the master actor, perhaps in one of his memorable roles. Instead there was a modest bronze head, respectful but to my mind an inadequate tribute. Unlike Chaplin, it was at least recognizable.
Brighton Beach Memoirs was the best Neil Simon I’ve ever seen. Production: superb. Actors: superb to brilliant. Even their American accents were impeccable. Our seats were dress circle, first row: excellent. Both of us were highly entertained and moved. We were both walking in the clouds as we walked back to the West End.
We walked to a gay bar on St. Martin’s Lane to meet Peter’s friend Alan, a beautiful bearded blond who makes wigs and hats for shows. After drinks we walked to a sidewalk café in Soho for dinner. On the way I spotted one of the actors from Seven Brides….
The last show of the trip was the Donmar Warehouse Theatre production of Side by Side by Sondheim. Alan walked us to the theatre and left us. I had enjoyed his company tremendously.
In spite of overfamiliarity with the material, which I was never terribly fond of in the first place, the show was entertaining. The four performers were highly accomplished, a good enough reason for the show.
Afterward it was raining lustily – the only drenching downfall I ran into on the whole trip. We flew down Shaftesbury Avenue, ducking into shops and underneath galleries, to the General Store, where I at long last found my teapot, a plump little charmer covered with rosebuds. Then we took the Underground back to Earl’s Court and made a mad dash for the hotel in still-pelting rain, a bath, a drink, a bed.

Saturday, July 12
We got up at 7:30 and I called Heathrow to check my terminal. After the briefest of breakfasts with Peter we packed and were informed we had a phone call. It was David, saying goodbye. (He has been one of the loveliest discoveries of this trip.) On the tube to Heathrow, the zipper on Peter’s bag came out, the first of a string of mishaps. The second was when I got up from my seat to discover I’d been sitting on a huge soft wad of chewing gum. Opening my bag for fresh slacks I pinched my hand in the catch, drawing copious blood. The checkout counter was the most clotted throng of people I’d been in since the Tokyo subway. After I checked in, we said goodbye and I made my way to the departure gate. I hated saying goodbye to Peter.
The flight back was not without one final mishap: with an almost deliberate thoroughness I hurled an entire martini into my lap. But not even gin-soaked trousers could spoil a wonderful trip like this.