Dedwyddwch

Imagine.

The potent smell of fresh paint tickles your nose, coloured beams of light pound heat onto your nervous shoulders, your perfectly made up face squints past the flood of light towards rows of strangers. Your fire proofed costume itches as the stage manager cues in sound, as words flow from your mouth and a hush descends.

Now, take away the traditional and replace with the unusual. Think, freezing Welsh air instead of smelly old paint, a disused farm in place of a Proscenium Arch. Visualise the audience wrapped in blankets as they perch on bales of hay, watching a one woman show through a combination of TV screens and live theatre, as music gently lingers over the farm and desolate fields. Picture that and you’ve got the recipe for experimental theatre.

Let me take you on a journey, deep into the Welsh countryside. We’re chugging along in Jill’s old but perfectly formed little car with Mel, Anne, Zoë and myself squashed in tight as we leave the warmth of Theatr Felinfach and head down the dark and twisting lanes away from civilisation as we know it. So we sing loudly as we’re swallowed by darkness; as skeletal trees reach their lonely branches across the road, eerily visible against the watery moon. I lose my bearings as we turn down identical lanes, bomb past woods and struggle up hills, Jill’s faithful banger spluttering and swearing at our combined weight as we slowly move upwards at a terrifying angle.

Amazingly in one piece we reach the farm, a feat of nerve and determination we accomplish four nights in a row. Wind battered, the empty farmhouse stands unassuming amongst the farm buildings, its bruised, peeling walls leaving behind a sad, blotchy white. The harsh wind rushes past as we shiver and head inside, enticed by the chatter and warmth coming from the front room where a log fire crackles in the hearth as Eddie Ladd and the other members of Theatre Company Brith Gof make us welcome.

Soon it’s time for the dress rehearsal come tech run. Time for the five of us to huddle up on the straw and watch the first half. It’s a feast for our eyes and ears; a fusion of physical theatre seen through eight TV screens connected to video cameras positioned throughout the farm and Eddie’s performance in front of us, using the length of the yard as a ‘stage’. We forget the cold, as St. Matthew’s Passion washes over us, as Eddie contorts and twists, jumps and runs, working with the music; she speaks in Welsh, as a camera closes in on her facial expressions. We’re mesmerised until our concentration is rudely disturbed by a loud moo. We all get the giggles.

Let me introduce you to Daisy the cow. The audience shares her space. With just a barred fence between her and them, they have to get used to the noises and unfortunately for them her frequent bowel movements.

Quenching our giggles we continue to watch as Eddie cries ‘Fire!’ We sit like idiots and think it’s all part of the performance, until smoke pirouettes from the shed and the crew madly rush to extinguish the electrical fire.

Well, a dress rehearsal should never go smoothly. Speaking of which it’s our turn. We’re Eddie’s chorus of women; dressed in black we’re silent extras in the final scenes, both as performers and nervous video camera operators. Clutching my camcorder in one hand and the cable in the other I take my position in the farmhouse as do Zoë, Anne and Jill in the front room with Eddie, and Mel downstairs with another camera.

Nervously we await our music cue. Then action. Down the stairs I go, I back along the hall, stumble out into the cold as I drag and unhook my cable in an attempt to focus on Eddie being carried by the other three, all wearing serious expressions and shivering with cold. Mel with her camera films from the other side as we do close-ups on focused eyes and plumes of foggy breath. Circling each other we round the corner and duck under twisted cable as we head towards the seating. This is our only chance to remember the sound cues, visualise the movements, perfect our timing. We’re on tomorrow.

Nervous excitement drips from my pores as we watch the mini-buses drop off the audience. We sit in Jill’s car out of shot and listen to the music start up. The five of us eat and gossip until we hear our cue, see the lights flood the yard in front of the farmhouse and we drive into shot. The audience can see us, can see Eddie, can see every aspect of the farm on the TV screens. We move to our positions and I switch on my camcorder.

Over and over again. First, second then all too soon the last night, we constantly move, duck, scramble and experiment until the final scene takes place and we hold our breath awaiting the precious sound of applause to release us.

The play over, the audience depart in the mini-buses, as we crack open the lager and are drawn to the warmth of the bonfire. We chat about the play, theatre, our dreams. As the alcohol flows and laughter erupts I feel content, my future seems as bright as the crackling fire lighting up my friend’s faces. Fruity, red wine toasts our efforts and reality seems a long way away as we warm our stomachs with home-made vegetable soup, munch on fresh granary bread, crumbly cheese and hummus. We roast our fingers as we retrieve crispy potatoes from within the glowing embers. Simply magical.

The cowshed takes on a new identity later as St. Matthew’s Passion is discarded and heart thumping beats pound into the night air. Daisy looks bemused. A dance floor is cleared and the party begins. The early hours are haunted by our drunken laughter with not a soul for miles to share our enthusiasm.

Four AM passes and we begin to tire, our heads swimming, our feet aching, we drag our sleeping bags onto the straw seating and set about turning it into a huge makeshift bed. I lie in my sleeping bag, with only my face and woolly hat poking out and gaze at the black velvet sky hung with stars, willing myself to sleep. I can see my breath, hear mysterious noises, smell strange smells as my eyes begin to close and my thoughts distil into dreams.

The chilly light of dawn rudely nudges me from sleep with the eruption of birdsong, the most delicate of alarm calls and I emerge from my sleeping bag, rumpled, bleary eyed, hungover and a little too much like Wurzel Gummidge for my liking. I’m comforted by the sight of the other four with straw spiked hair and pale, make-up free faces, all of us revitalised by copious amounts of fresh, Welsh air.

Breakfast is special. The local vicar has come to say hello and has brought a feast. Ten of us huddle around the rickety table in the farmhouse. As pale sunlight spills in, we eat freshly baked bread piled high with cream cheese and delicately smoked salmon, washed down with Bucks Fizz, it’s time to say goodbye.

You bow as the audience applauds, the movement of hands captured in the light, like startled doves. You wipe away the greasepaint from your face, dropping your character like a piece of rubbish into the bin. Your costume is hung on the rack for the last time as you are bombarded with shouts of ‘Well done!’; a hug from the director, a kiss from fellow actors. The get out begins. The show is over. But the memories remain.

Dedwyddwch. Happiness.