Adventures in English

Now that I’ve had time to think (and move)…..

I’ve been meaning to put in an entry about my experience, but it felt like a conveyer belt of crazy kicked off as soon as I got back.  I’ve been working full-tilt at a camp at the Botanic Garden, I moved to a new flat, and I’ve just generally been rushed off my feet. So here it is: my reaction to the trip.

I had an amazing time, obviously.  It was great to see some friends from undergrad and postgrad, and to revisit some places that I had been previously, as well as some new places. 

Shakespeare’s Birthplace was completely redone, since the last time I went the entrance was a meek little entryway, but now it’s this multimedia event with (slightly patronizing) timed video components that guide you to the creme de la creme - Shakespeare’s folio, which is lit with what can only be described as the light of God (cue the hallelujah chorus), but is really just a dramatically bright and well-placed spotlight.  Oh, and there was a suspicious amount of pictures of and references to Kenneth Branaugh.  I’m not saying he bought out Shakespeare’s Birthplace, because no nonprofit would ever think of pandering to wealthy donors, but I’m sure their coffers are a bit weightier with the Branaugh looking down at you from every other poster. 

London was great as ever, and just as much a deterrant for living in the city as it had been when I’d gone in years past.  My hotel was near the Russell Square tube stop, which pretty much meant getting sweaty with strangers every time I wanted to journey past Oxford Circus, since it was one of those annoying stops with a massive lift that never seems big or fast enough.  I tried the stairs once, and I felt like I was in that bit in “Labyrinth” when Sarah’s stuck running around an M.C. Escher painting. Gah.

I really liked Much Wenlock - the two days I stayed in the Raven before the festival were a good chance to recover from the frenzied pace of traveling and “doing things” and just relax.  Also, I had the best curry I’ve ever had in my life there. 

The Festival at the Edge was a perception-altering experience.  It was both bigger and smaller than I’d thought it’d be.  Bigger in that there were more people than I imagined would be willing to camp out in a rainy field for something that is, let’s face it, a dying art.  And smaller in that everyone seemed to know each other.  Groupies came out of the woodwork to address and, from the looks of it, take turns buying certain storytellers a coffee or drink.  All the storytellers seemed to have a similar approach to their style, with a few exceptions.  A lot of them had that weighty, hand-movement-centric approach, with a lot of pauses and nods.  The guy telling Beowulf seemed to take himself very seriously.  For the most part, I found that those that took it too seriously dragged me out of the story.  The connection to the audience, at least for me, was far more important than the connection to the material.  There was one woman who would talk in equal measure about her family in Liverpool and ancient Celtic legends.  But she had an ease that really struck a chord with me.  Huw Davies, a Welsh storyteller, had an amazingly atmospheric performance, where he made the audience pull their chairs in close (it was an 11 p.m. to midnight performance) and lit a couple of candles, while his harpist played and sang in both English and Welsh.  Come to think of it, music played a prominent role in most storytelling performances.  It made me happy, since we have talked in my classes about the musical roots of the epic (“epic” coming from a word for music).  Apparently the two are inextricable, and it’s good to see that things in that field haven’t changed too much since Homer’s time.  If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Would I do it again? Yes.  Would I want to do it every year? If I lived in the Midlands, then yes. If not, then no.  I think I got a great taste of the experience, but part of its appeal was its newness, and it would be good to go back in five years’ time to see how it’s changed.  One of the storytellers was commenting to me about how there were no young storytellers this year, and that it was sad that they didn’t see any new roots being laid down in the storytelling community.  It’s true - without outreach and active encouragement, those in their early-to-mid-20’s are unlikely to put down their video games or iPads and try to tackle oral storytelling. Cause it’s harder than it looks, and it takes a LOT of practice.  The one thing I can say for the storytellers I spoke to was that they cared.  They just cared. They cared about people, about the feeling of a voice as it reverberated around a crowded canvas tent, about the music of an African tribe dumming out among the Shropshire hills, about the strangeness and beauty of it all.  They’re passionate people, and there’s something to be very much admired about that.