ABSTRACT
It is past midnight, I am utterly exhausted, spent, a rag. I, we, have been rushing from meetings with locals, dignitaries and actors, to rehearsals, to shopping for stuff, to building the spaces, to more meetings, for weeks. (I think we forgot to eat today.) Anyway I am, as they say, at the end of my tether. I have borrowed the van (midnight being the only time it was free) and I am sitting among bracken in a pine forest, three miles out of town, holding a pair of secateurs and it's pouring with rain (and I forgot my coat). I am collecting a vanload of bracken and soil to cover the floor of a cave, in an underground slate mine, in Blaenau Ffestiniog, Snowdonia, North Wales. The performance of ‘The Widow's Dream’ opens tomorrow and I still haven't a clue what I am doing in ‘my’ bit.
