Site-specific folklore

But is there anything as deliciously British as site-specific folklore?

 Maybe pork scratchings.

Every country has its folklore. Britain is a haunted country with a spook and a story hiding behind every bush. Creepy old houses, stone circles and telephone boxes that smell slightly of wee and the paranormal are standard issue.

 Continental Europe specialises in grimmer folk tales, from the trolls of Scandinavia to the unhappy happenings in the dark forests of the interior. The United States has some cracking folklore, from native American superstitions those those from the modern age: crossroads, prairie campfires and spectral locomotives being especially popular.

As for the Far East, they have so many batshit crazy wailing ghosts that they have formed the lynchpin of the continent’s film industry.

That stories (or can we use the term ‘tales’ in this context? yes, yes I think we can) about strange events or weird happenings attach themselves to certain locations should be no surprise; let’s be pragmatic here, people are always looking for some way to attach fame to a location for sound commercial reasons.  If Queen Elizabeth I actually did sleep in as many historic houses, now conveniently converted into boutique hotels, as claimed in the brochures, it’s amazing that she found any time at all to get out of bed, put on a ginger wig and twat the Spanish.

It’s when the locals seek to play down a place’s association or reputation that the stories are likely to be authentic.

Britain leads when it comes to the sheer volume of weird tales in the haunted landscape. Sometimes you are forced to conclude that every postcode has its own legend. Possibly this is because you can’t go far in Britain without seeing a spooky house, an oddly shaped tree or a sinister looking alley, country lane or bus stop. But more likely it’s because of the proliferation of public houses and the treasured local custom of talking bollocks and teasing tourists.

There are places though, both ancient and modern, where it doesn’t take much to imagine strange or sinister things happening.  This can be a crooked country lane at dusk but can just as easily be a grimy underpass, especially if it smells of cider-pee and hoodie.

Deserted rural landscapes provide a happy home for local legends, like Black Shuck, the devil dog of the Fens.  Black dogs are a popular myth in East Anglia, seen as harbingers of death, but Black Shuck, an enormous spectral hound that haunts the North Norfolk coast, has the distinction of being the legend that, when recounted to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle when he was staying in Cromer, inspired him to write ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’, although SACD relocated the action from Norfolk to Dartmoor, possibly at the bidding of the Dartmoor tourist board, or the Norfolk tourist board, it's not clear.

It’s natural enough to imagine a landscape soaked in blood and history as the home of spooky tales, real or invented, but because all folktales have to start somewhere I don’t see why modern landmarks shouldn’t have their own gruesome tales attached, even if there are fewer ‘heritage and culture centres’, or ‘pubs’ as they are also known, than there used to be for those stories to be invented, told and retold.  

For instance, canal towpaths are more than places where condoms are discarded and fishermen take refuge from their unhappy marriages, they can be genuinely spooky places when deserted at twilight, even if they are only a graveyard for shopping trollies. A road laybys can be spooky too, and not just because they are the evidence disposal site of choice for lorry drivers.  I know of at least three laybys where the smell of bacon sandwiches has been reported, even though there are no cafes present.

It takes a certain something for a site to cross over from being sad to spooky. Caravan sites, children's playgrounds and concrete corners that are strangers to sunlight can all seem forlorn, and can even be tipped into tragic through the simple edition of half a dozen petrol garage bouquets left there, but to become spooky they need time and imagination. Or maybe just an unexpected creak.

Review - Murder on the Nile

Malvern may well be the perfect place to put on an Agatha.  A spa town made up of several villages strung along the shadow of the Hills, it could be said to suffer from something of a split personality, in parts grand, in parts bohemian, in parts just a little eccentric and as a whole, delightful.  

It is the sort of place where, if there were a body in the library, it would have the good manners to be discovered in the ‘true crime’ section.  It is charming and friendly but there is just enough of the history and resort oddness that comes with being a spa town that used to attract a lot of visitors, and just enough of that village sensibility of everyone knowing everyone else's business while simultaneously being a place where secrets are kept, to make it the sort of place where curtains might twitch and they love a good mystery.

Malvern Theatre is a place like no other, with a strong reputation for being the venue that directors take their shows to to perfect them before being unleashed on London, as well as unashamedly providing entertainment for the town.  Here the curtain twitches and then rises, and the people of Malvern do like a good mystery.

And if that entertainment and mystery comes in the form of bloody murder, then so much the better.  Because Malvern is the perfect place for a whodunit, with atmospheric locations, interesting locals, all that grand architecture and plenty of dark corners to hide secrets in.  

The curtain went up on ‘Murder on the Nile’ and we were not in the sleepy, sinister English countryside anymore, rather, we were in Egypt or, to be more precise, the foredeck of a Nile cruiser bathed in glorious sunshine.

Even for an audience of locals who have quite a healthy relationship with water, thank you very much, this vista caused quite a thrill among the audience who, thanks to a constant diet of rain and drizzle over the past months, were overjoyed to see some sunshine, even if it was artificial. Rows A to D were slapping on the factor 40 and spritzing one another with insect repellent, it was that authentic.

What makes a great set?  Well, in my experience gaffa tape and imagination in equal measure but in this case it was the lighting that made the impression.  Instead of a merciless glare we had mellow light, and not just any mellow light but the mellow light of a travel brochure, from a more elegant age.  Because the characters, being English and abroad, decided that the best way to cope with a voyage on a boat riding on a river through the Sahara was to wear as much linen as possible.  This is inspired, if one is going to look uncomfortable and moist, one had better do so elegantly.

As the full house showed, Malvern enjoys an Agatha and this was no exception.  An exceptional cast was in no way outshone by, but without a doubt led by, Kate O’Mara.

There is something about a real star that sets them apart and Miss O’Mara’s performance was flawless.  Looking most of the time like she was trying to ignore an unpleasant smell (insect repellent from the front row?) she was, to the smallest detail and in the widest sense, the grand society lady, travelling.  This was a woman who carried England with her wherever she went and no matter how foreign the land.  So it was here, every phrase clipped and every movement measured.

The plot was a precision instrument and the cast contrived to throw suspicion first one way and then another.  Without a serial Agatha sleuth on board, the audience felt justified in silently speculating about guilt and innocence, not having to worry about second guessing Jane Marple.

The only thing lacking was the unavailability of 'pink fizz' on tap for the audience.  This is what the cast were constantly ordering from the ship's bar, drinking enough of the stuff to float the ship itself, it's a wonder anyone could shoot straight.

It's always impressive to see a great cast enjoying performing a good play, and enjoying the 'sunshine' too.