Muncaster Review LIVE! Bristol Renaissance Faire's Friends of Faire Garden 7/25 2-4pm

Photo by Tom Charney

This coming Sunday, July 25, 2010, from 2:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m., I'll be talking about my most recent journey to Muncaster Castle to the assembled beloved crazies at the Bristol Renaissance Faire's Friends of Faire Garden!

If you're not a member of Friends of Faire, a scant $5 gets you a single-weekend membership -- email Dayna Thomas at nlraf_unilady@yahoo.com for more details. While many of our adventures will be posted here on the Phoole Wor(l)d blague, there's at least one anecdote that can only be related in person, so you'll want to get there and hear it straight from the Phoole's mouth!

Phoole's Pilgrimage, Part 5: The Festival of Fools Begins!

Photos by Tom Charney - An unstable girl in a stable yard

(This chapter continues the tale from where I left off here. Click here to get all of the chapters in the story so far.)

Bright sunshine and deep blue skies awoke us Sunday morning. We crept down to Creeping Kate's Kitchens for breakfast. Like all good castles, Muncaster has converted their stables to an eatery, with some of the stall partitions still standing to divide the dining room into cozy little nooks. At breakfast, we both ate cereal with milk, which we cannot do at home -- there's something about American milk that makes both Tom and I quite ill! But UK milk has no adverse effect on us whatever. It's the little things.

On our way back up to our room in the Coachman's Quarters, I had a little reunion with the thoroughly-upstanding Joel Dickinson and the excellent Iain McNicol (who doesn't have a webpage, as far as I can tell, but why not nip over to the FaceBook and ask to be his friend?), who would also be performing throughout the entire Festival. Joel was there to do his gently-brilliant interactive walkaround juggling, tricks and magic gig, having added some delightful sleight-of-hand since we last played together in 2007, and running Circus Workshops for the patrons at intervals throughout the day in the big marquee tent on the stable-yard lawn. And Iain coordinated the other walkarounds and contributed his own very funny performance as his rustic local farmer character, complete with bunny puppet. I felt a bit of an idiot not recognizing Iain right away when we encountered him that morning -- the last time I'd seen him, we'd both been in biggins-caps, the wearing of which impairs my memory greatly. But it was great to see them again. It was yet another little confirmation that I hadn't just dreamed my first trip; it had actually happened, and there are extant witnesses.

I took a moment to freak out over the fantastic poster of me hanging in the stable yard on the front of the gift shop. Thanks to Muncaster's PR Guru, I am even more super-unbelievably-internationally-famous than ever. And the PR Guru's name? Quite coincidentally, it is Steve Bishop. Phooligans and Phoole Friends who have been with me through my entire career will remember a different Stephen Bishop, who used to be the Bristol Renaissance Faire's head costumer, and who used to portray the Russian Ambassador to Elizabeth's Court. He had hilarious eating habits, it will be remembered. Muncaster's Steve Bishop has a diametrically-opposed temperament to the Russian Ambassador of yore; he's rather reserved and quiet, and it's very funny to Tom and I that such different people have the same name.

And then we were out with the guests! I'm completely spoiled for UK audiences: at the very least, patrons at Muncaster humor Jane the Phoole, responding to assumptions with assumptions of their own, and it makes me work to keep up with their clever inventiveness. Very rarely do UK patrons refuse interaction -- small children may be shy at a first encounter with my very-overdressed character, but every grownup we met was ready to incorporate me into their world, with handy comebacks at every turn. I enthused wildly about the temperament of Muncaster guests here on my last voyage, and the 2010 Festival of Fools guests didn't disappoint!

We enjoyed a hilarious act by Jason the Juggling Jester, who had been one of the competitors in 2007 (when I made my own feeble attempt). His show has really grown. It's extremely funny, has lots of hilarious audience-interaction moments, and I wish I had a website for him to tag with little videos all over it, just to share it with you -- we genuinely dug his show, and I hope he's there the next time we're there. His act is tight timewise, and his running gags are endearing, slightly dangerous, and very fun!

Meanwhile, this was Tom's first visit to Muncaster, and the sights filled his eyes and heart with wonder, as they always do mine. Here are some vistas, courtesy the camera of MBTC:

Our window, and the blue sky that greeted us Sunday morning.

The Nose Bag, a little snack shop in the Stable Yard.

Ancient Stable Yard wall.

Coachmen's Quarters.

Skylights and chimney-stacks over Creeping Kate's Kitchens.

Another view out another window in our room.

The road separating the Owlery (left) from the Coachmen's Quarters (right). Our rooms were up on top; our windows were the four furthest on top.

A pond, home to ducks and a few geese.

Can you even stand it? I can't. Makes the heart skip a beat every time.

It just looks like that. Really. But more so.

In the left foreground, you can see just an edge of the glorious ancient rhododendron plant that's over 150 years old. It's huge and beautiful.

The clock on the castle works properly and marks the hours with a clear chime. Back home, Tom and I rely on our mobile phones (and his nifty TokyoFlash watches) to tell us the time, but we could barely get any mobile signal at the castle, and Tom was Fasso Latido most of the trip, so we came to rely on the castle bells for the hours, especially as the position of the sun was completely unreliable as a time-telling tool, since the sun stays up in the sky much longer there than it does in the Midwest US. The "magic hour" photographers crave at dusk lasts much longer than an hour in Cumbria. The chiming of the clock was just another one of those covetous, authentic little history-glimpses for which we live.

We met a variety of hilarious guests that day, including a rowdy table of holidaymakers who pointed to one of their number and said, "Oi! He's a knight, you know. Knighted yesterday. No, honestly he was!" I turned to the fellow they'd indicated, and he confirmed, "Yep, I'm Sir Mike now."

I had to laugh, because back home, I get that a lot! US audiences are fascinated with obvious class-based social systems. US society spends so much effort pretending to be egalitarian; when US audiences get a chance to goof off, they like to openly acknowledge the class systems they secretly covet. So when patrons back home announce themselves as royalty or nobility, I take it in stride, and I often beat them to it by making up outrageous titles and new names. I think I learned this particular habit from T. Stacy Hicks, when I found him naming audience women "Lady Iphigenia Throgbottom" and so on. "Rumbleseat" is another favorite surname of his. I've stolen that gag, haven't I? Well, I will give him some of my gags in return when we next convene, and maybe we can call it even.

But it was odd to encounter UK patrons naming themselves with glamorous titles. "Sir Mike?" I giggled. "Please can't I call you 'Sir Michael,' just so it sounds more proper? It's a bit like calling you 'Sir Jeff' or 'Sir Steve.' It just doesn't flow somehow." Fasso and Jane had fun goofing with that whole group -- they were lively and silly and kept us entertained too.

As the crowd began to thin toward three o'clock, we wandered back to the castle proper, where we accepted the little audio-tour hand-transmitter thingies and made our way through the hallowed halls of the beautiful old place. I took my own Tom Fool to see the famous panel painting of Thomas Skelton, fool to the Penningtons in the late 16th century and early 17th century, the Fool who inspired the Festival.

On the stairs up to Tom Fool's painting, we were alarmed to find three genuine Canova relief panels which I'd somehow missed during my last visit -- I've now been in the presence of actual Canova sculptures in five different countries, including the Vatican. We discovered a portrait of Dame Askew upstairs, dated "1574" right on the painting, which made us hyperventilate a bit, because, as we like to say at the Bristol Renaissance Faire, we've been doing "1574 since 1989." (Learn all about the Pennington family history here.) And in the Tapestry Room, we had little heart attacks upon scrutinizing the fireplace, discovering the date "1588" inscribed in the back panels, with maritime-themed andirons and decorations. Despite the fact that one of Tom's characters, Sir Ralph Sadleir, died in 1588, that year makes the heart leap for us Elizabethan enthusiasts, being the year of the defeat of the Armada.

While we were having our minds blown by the fireplace, a patron scooted past the doorway to the room, stopped, came back and did a big double-take. We turned around to grin at him with the little audio-tour gadgets in our hands, and he laughed in surprise. "I thought you were waxworks!" he said. "You look perfect in this room, you know?" And we did.

We took in as much of the castle as we could, and when we realized we were the only non-Penningtons left in the building, we grudgingly trudged toward the door. But we spent a few delightful minutes chatting with Phyllida Pennington and Patrick Gordon-Duff-Pennington (I like including their surnames because I love all of the hyphens. I have a hyphen in my first name, and I just giggle over any hyphenated names, especially surnames with more than one hyphen). Phyllida, alarmingly, had been working the door at the castle. She is young at heart, to be certain, but of advanced years, and it was sobering to realize that, as much privilege as the family enjoyed in prior centuries and generations, now the castle's maintenance is a great deal of hard work, and the entire family is devoted to the estate's intense upkeep and elaborate events. Patrick loves the gardens wholeheartedly, and those gardens are a lot to love, especially as the entire vasty estate exceeds eighty acres and includes hundreds of diverse species. And Phyllida dons her kirtle, wimple and veil and acts the part charmingly as she welcomes guests to tour the halls. Tom and I admire them intensely, and it was humbling and invigorating to be able to chat with them, however briefly. We didn't want to make their day any longer than it needed to be, though, so we excused ourselves after a bit and went to enjoy the waning sun on the cannon bank.

Here I'm taking in the sight of the gigantic rhododendron I've mentioned above. The thing is epic in scale! And when one's wearing 20 yards of upholstery fabric, one wants to sit on as many low stone walls as possible. It's just what's done.

We toddled back toward the stable-yard lawn to see what stragglers were left after the day's entertainments, and we were delighted to find that most of the patrons we'd seen all day were still there, lazing about on the lawn, practicing circus tricks they'd learned from Joel's workshops during the day, and drinking a last pint while listening to the big sound of the Holborn Hill Royal Brass Band, which we greatly enjoyed. Sadie commanded us to have pints, so, knowing her to be quite fierce, we obeyed quickly, and basked in marches and overtures by the marquee while chatting with Sadie and Stuart, a production manager at the castle who loves gorillas. We talked monkey and gorilla behavior extensively, and it was one of those perfect times you remember for the rest of your life: brass band, Tom Fool Ale from the Jennings Brewery, marquee, lawn, happy people, and talk of all kinds of monkeys and apes.

During the happiness, though, we realized we'd forgotten to eat supper, and we'd also failed to ask the kitchens to send plates up to our room for us. So once we dragged ourselves back to the Coachman's Quarters to change (and wash the glue out of my hair, as mentioned in my 2007 tale here), we decided to try to walk into Ravenglass to get a bite at the Ratty Arms.

While the walk was scenic and beautiful and perfect, it was also long -- it took us an hour to climb the hills and descend the valleys along the narrow road, dodging fast cars on unaccustomed sides of the road (it was only our second day abroad), and by the time we made the Arms, the kitchen there had closed as well. So we resigned ourselves to -- more pints! And a packet of crisps. We took our meager supper out on the deck by the La'al Ratty narrow-gauge railway.

After a short while, a woman came out of the Arms, chatting on her phone, and presently we recognized her as having been part of the "Sir Mike" party earlier that day! We wondered if she would recognize us "out of drag." I caught her eye at one point and smiled, and asked her, "Did you enjoy the Castle today?" She looked puzzled for a fraction of a second; then realization popped her eyes wide, and she hung up on her call, saying, "I've gotta go - there are entertainers from the Castle here!" and she promptly sat down with us, grinning madly.

She looked Tom in the eyes and commanded, "All right. Talk to me. In your voice." Tom carried on with his Fasso-standard Chico Marx impression, and she shook her head broadly. "No no, I want to hear how you sound. What do you really talk like?" Tom smiled and said, in his best John Lennon voice, "Should I pretend to be from Liverpool?" She looked grave and admonished, "Oh no. Don't do that. No. You shouldn't. Come on!" And we gave in and talked like Americans from Milwaukee, introducing ourselves in real life. Her name's Mo, and she's married to Sir Mike!

I had to know why everyone in their party was insisting he was called "Sir Mike," and she told us a Most Surprising Tale of Heroism and Gallantry!

Mo and Mike live on Piel Island, which has a fascinating history, and, curiously, has its own King. Not surprisingly, the ancient and scenic island welcomes many tourists, and it happened that on that Monday, a vicar from somewhere else in the UK had been visiting Piel Island. The vicar had had some kind of accident and had fallen into the water, and he would have drowned if Mike hadn't leapt into the foam and SAVED HIS LIFE. For real. And the King of Piel Island had knighted Mike, making him Sir Mike, a Knight of Piel Island.

I immediately felt like a Giant Jerk for having made fun of Sir Mike before, and I said so. "No, he enjoyed you immensely!" Mo reassured me. But I asked Mo to convey to Sir Mike my admiration and assure him that, had I not assumed him to be like the faux-knights of home, I would have deferred to him much more mightily! We chatted on with Mo for a good bit more, and she told us all about the Furness Peninsula and Barrow and the charming and relaxing sights to see and things to do there. On our next trip, we really must include a day or two visiting the area. Mo said, "Just mention Mo and Mike when you're there; everyone knows us." I felt certain that was true.

And then she returned to her party, grinning, and we realized we'd had several pints and not a lot to eat -- and that the walk home was going to be long and silly! And it was. As we tottered back toward the road, a black cat appeared out of nowhere (black cats are good luck in British superstition, I'm told) and ran up to Tom directly, as if saying, "Oh, Tom's here! There you are, Tom!" He has that power over most animals; it's as if he's known throughout the Jungian unconscious of all critters, and they're really excited when they get to meet him in real life. We saw another cat further down the road, as we struggled up the farmland hills near Muncaster, but that cat was firmly feral, regarding us for the briefest of moments, just registering Tom's presence for a second, then lunging back into the tall grass, hunting a vole or some other little running furry thing.

We got back to our comfortable room and collapsed, and that was our first day at the Festival of Fools! In the next chapter, we'll meet a Dog Called Smiley, get mistaken for the King and Queen of Muncaster, and have even more silly adventures. Click back often!

Phoole's Pilgrimage, Part 4: Sadie, a Snail, and the Room of Requirement

(This entry continues the tale from where I left off here. Click here to get all of the chapters in the story so far.)

It never really occurred to us before, but in getting to know Muncaster's Events Coordinator, Sadie, a bit better on this trip, we realized that Sadie is the UK version of our friend Mary. Exhibit A:

This is a picture I took of Sadie (using my Palm Pre), near Sca Fell. It looks like a lot of pictures of Mary anywhere, except that Mary will occasionally allow her picture to be taken, as long as she's got her tongue stuck out at the camera.

The similarities between Sades and Maaaary (as we call her) don't end there. Either of them could have subbed in for Jack Palance in City Slickers. Either of them could also reenact any of Calamity Jane's Pony Express rides. They are, in a word, tough! We should be glad they're on our side, and that they've got healthy senses of humor.

Tom and I are both Anglophiles, and of the two of us, I'm possibly the bigger Gigantic Geek for All Things British. I was raised on BBC TV and radio, comedy and drama, and a steady diet of Wodehouse, Wilde, Tolkien, Douglas Adams and Stephen Fry from a very young age, and the default setting in my brain has always been, "If it's funny, clever, cultured and articulate, chances are it's British."

So, in getting to know Sadie better, it was so strange to hear her extol the virtues of American things! We were driving into a caravan park to drop off brochures to attract visitors to the Festival, and we laughed at how many campers had satellite-TV dishes hanging off of their tents and caravans, whereat Sadie revealed she'd lived in some pretty rough places, herding cattle on the Great Plains. She's lived and worked on cattle ranches across North America (you can learn more about the ranch she worked on in Montana here); she misses Hershey bars; she loves True Blood; she grew up watching The Dukes of Hazzard, and when we showed her photos of Tom and his best friends clambering into the General Lee, she flipped. While I often daydream about just upping and moving permanently to the isles where my motley make so much more sense, she's practicing with the bullwhip she got while driving cattle in Australia and learning deep South slang. She's a real cowgirl who's had crazy adventures all over the world, and after that conversation, we frequently joked about just trading places with her -- sending her back to the States to rope and ride, and moving in with her folks and her dogs and doing her jobs in the UK for her.

Another thing she has in common with Maaaary is this: she has two dogs, of the same breed, one of which is calm, the other of which is completely, utterly koo-koo. But we'll meet her hilarious puppehs in a later chapter.

So after devouring a thoroughly wonderful meal at the Brook House Inn (in Eskdale, quite close to the tiny town of Boot, which became important a few days later in our trip), Sadie took us to see more fells and deep lakes and verdant rolling sheep-covered hills. In honor of our friend Rico, Tom found a good rock to throw out into the lake:

And we saw this huge snail, which was curious to us, because back home, the snails are tiny:

And then Sadie took us back to Muncaster, to settle in for the first good night's sleep since leaving the US. We didn't, though, because the sun-staying-up-nearly-all-night thing is a huge novelty when you first arrive, and we weren't sleepy enough yet. We went for a little stroll around -- I had to show Tom the cannon bank, the brain-melting vistas, and Tom Fool's Tree, for starters.

When we'd wandered around to the lawn side of the Castle, where the Kingdom of Fools' stage gets set up, we found Peter Frost-Pennington and his son Ewan grappling with a tent, preparing for the arrival of Maximus, a Roman Soldier who'd be there during the Festival of Fools, recruiting and training young soldiers and gladiators. (We learned a great deal more about the Roman history of the area a few days later.) We helped get the tent put up, and it was delightful to pass a bit of time with Peter and Ewan. They're hilarious, much funnier than we are, not that it's a race, but there it is. And then Peter said, "Have you ever visited this room? I don't think you have."

And there he indicated a door we'd never really noticed before, probably because it's as old and beautiful as the rest of the castle, and it blended into the rusticated stone and vines. And Peter showed us the room behind the giant old door. It was definitely J. K. Rowling's Room of Requirement, containing wonders. You're going to have to trust me on this one -- we didn't feel like we should photograph anything there. But Antiques Roadshow could spend a two-week special on this room, and we felt humbled and really pretty giddy that we got to have a look.

When the sun finally started to actually set, we knew we'd be doomed if we didn't rest up for opening day of the Festival, so we bid our hosts goodnight and climbed up to the Coachman's Quarters, prepped costumes and props for the next day, fell into our incredibly comfortable beds, and passed out. (If you click here and then select the Virtual Tour of the "double room [disabled access]," you can see the actual room we stayed in.)

In Part 5, the Festival of Fools begins!

Phoole's Pilgrimage, Part 3, In Which The Lodgings Are Fantastic

(This entry continues the tale from where I left off here. Click here to get all the chapters in the story.)

So Peter Frost-Pennington met us at the Ratty Arms (an excellent pub in Ravenglass, conveniently situated at the train station, waiting to gather you into its, um, arms) and cheerfully chided us over our repeated and bizarre travel delays. It's always good to see Peter -- he inspires confidence. He hefted our luggage and drove us up the winding roads to the castle, warning us: "Sadie's having kittens, you know! She'll be relieved you're finally here." She was! Introductions all around, check-in at reception, and we lugged luggage up to the room.

THE ROOM. We had Room 1 in the Coachmen's Quarters. Nice big room, with windows on two opposite sides. On one side, we had a view of the courtyard, so we could watch people bustling behind the scenes to get things done and see the other guests and fools arrive with their entourages and families. On the other side, we had the owlery. Very Hogwarts.

Now, in my travels, I end up having to wash a lot of glue off of my head. (See my account of the end of my last visit to Muncaster here.) As a result, I become keenly aware of How Awesome Showers Are. Until recently, my most favorite shower in the world was the one at The Dome, which is a private residence maintained by some Brilliant Delightful Well-Loved Friends of Mine. The shower in the Subterranean Suite at the Dome has the water pressure of a firehose, which is exactly what you want after performing for nine consecutive hours in 100-degree Fahrenheit heat and 100-percent humidity in 100 pounds of upholstery fabric! The water-cannon-like force smashes you up against the opposite side of the shower cabinet, and you let it. You love it! It's brilliant.

A close second favorite to this shower is my shower at my bungalow. Excellent water pressure, and apparently it's heated by the center of the sun itself. Unbelievably lobsterfying hot water. Very wonderful.

But I'm here to tell you that the shower in Room 1 at Muncaster Castle's Coachman's Quarters is my favorite shower in the world. I hope my beloved pals at The Dome forgive me for cheating on them, but the experience of voluntarily waterboarding myself in their basement now comes a close second to the shower that unglued my head for my Muncaster week. When you book your Muncaster holiday, try to book this room. Between the views and the shower, you'll barely have time for tourism, but it is well worth it!

So we chucked our bags into the room, marveled slack-jawed at the lodgings, and then tumbled back downstairs to Sadie's car, and she whisked us off for a drive up to Unbelievably Beautiful Scenery and a completely amazingly delicious meal at the Brook House Inn. Tom went mad for the beef-and-beer pie, and I devoured Sadie's recommendation, which was the bleu-cheese chicken. The Inn is a Free House, which means, I learned, that you can get Lots of Different Brewers' Beers and Ales there, instead of the place being beholden to a single brewery.

And I have to continue the story in Part 4, wherein we learn about Sadie's True Calling: COWGIRL!

OWLS!

The World Owl Trust is headquartered at Muncaster Castle, and they are fantastically wonderful people. And owls. SO MANY OWLS! When you visit the Castle, visit the owls. You can adopt an owl for a really amazingly low fee, see a wide variety of species, and even get your picture made. How could we resist? WE COULD NOT. So here are two very nice pictures of Fasso Latido and Jane the Phoole with owls:

But of course I love I Can Haz Cheezburger?, so I couldn't resist making these very nice pictures (taken and very kindly shared by Trystan Williams) into LOLz:

Phoole's Pilgrimage: Muncaster Castle Festival of Fools 2010, Continued

Brilliant photo by Graham Farey, whom I heartily thank for the use of the image. See more of his excellent work here!

When I last journeyed to Muncaster Castle in 2007 with the intrepid Jenny Higgins (henceforth known as "Jiggins"), we timed things well without even knowing it: quite by happenstance, we traveled on days when no one else was traveling, and from the States to the Castle, we enjoyed on-time flights and mostly-empty trains with no delays.

So it never occurred to me that traveling on the Friday and Saturday of a bank holiday weekend in the UK, with storms predicted in our flight connection city, would present any obstacle. After all, my 2007 trip had been nothing but ease, so why would I expect hurdles?

In Atlanta, our flight to Manchester was delayed an hour while the entire airport shut down due to frightening lightning-rife thunderstorms. Arriving in Manchester, we were tangled in delays at the airport there as well, and we struggled with our monstrous luggage onto already-packed trains.

We did manage to get seats on the first train, from Manchester Airport to Lancaster -- albeit the folding jump seats in the vestibule. Sometime after my 2007 visit, Northern Rail and TransPennine Express seem to have invented a new Seat-Reservation system for coach-class passengers, and though we've been riding trains now for several days here, we cannot make heads nor tails of it. The seats aren't actually reserved for any one person, it appears; the seats are tagged with little cards on the backs of the seats, and they're reserved for people getting on at certain stops and getting off at certain other stops. But there are other rules as well, and they seem completely inscrutable. So though we found the train to have a lot of empty seats, we couldn't actually use any of them, and we had to huddle in the baggage area, mantling our giant trunks as they tried to roll all over the train.

The luggage-rolling dilemma was soon solved by 100 other people piling their luggage on top of and around ours; we grimaced at the imminent rummage to get our stuff out from under the pile at Lancaster, but that was an hour away. The seats soon filled up, and I'm not sure if the reservation system was paid any heed by anyone else -- no one seemed to get ousted, regardless of where they got on the train or what their seat-card said. The train could easily have done with two more cars, and soon the entire train was packed, with people standing in all of the aisles.

A very nice older couple joined us on the jump seats after a few stops, and, jointly horrified at the mountain of luggage, we worked out together how we'd Tetris the upper luggages down into the spaces occupied by our trunks so that we could all detrain at Lancaster. They were off to visit children and grandchildren in Lancaster, and they enjoyed finding out that we were continuing on to Ravenglass for a festival dedicated entirely to Foolery, the discussion of which eventually turned to amateur fools (a.k.a politicians) and the state of the world. Their perspective was kind, worldly-wise and charitable, and we greatly enjoyed passing the time talking with them and solving the great crises facing humankind. They had actually traveled much more of the world than either Tom or I had -- they'd ridden elephants in India and visited Africa and all kinds of remote places. I greatly enjoyed the short time we spent talking together, and though it's unlikely, I hope we get stuck on a crowded train again with them someday -- we rearranged the teetering luggage-pile quite efficiently and brilliantly, and if it weren't for their patient assistance, our motleys may have gone on an adventure without us!

We'd hoped for a less-crowded train to take us the remaining two hours to Ravenglass, but no joy: the next train arrived crammed to capacity already, without even jump seats being available, so we braced ourselves against our trunks in the vestibule and prepared for the worst. At many stops, we had to get off the train with our trunks to let passengers off, let new passengers on, and then cram ourselves and our trunks back into the vestibule for the next travel segment.

We discovered hordes of holidaymakers were bound for different coastal towns -- many happy young families and older travelers cheerfully emerged at Grange-over-Sands for a fete, and a rowdy crowd of already-drunk youths roared obscenities at each other and bellowed with laughter until they exited at Cark for the Cartmel Races. At that point we turned to a handsome couple with whom we'd shared the cramped vestibule, and I said, "It was efficient of them to get endrunkened in advance! They seem high-spirited holidaymakers," to which the other gentleman responded, "Yeh, we've got a different term for them: d***heads," and we all had a loud laugh at that. The guy in that couple had really rugged good looks, we remember -- short-cropped hair, well-weathered oxblood-colored gloss-finish leather coat, lots of woolen layers under, gruff voice but arch and articulate, good choice to have on your side if anticipating a sudden brawl. The woman with whom he traveled was smaller, seeming of Indian descent, impeccably stylish, and also a good choice to have on your side in a brawl.

Jostled over the miles in the crowded vestibule, through fogged windows, we got glances of a rainy coastline, with lambs hunkered down in sandy pits to avoid the chill misty wind. When Jiggins and I had made the trip in 2007, the sun had come with us, and our comfortable seats afforded views of rolling green Tolkien hills full of fat frolicking fleecy sheep. But as the rain slashed against the packed train on this trip, I began to despair of fulfilling my promise to Peter Frost-Pennington that we'd bring five days of sunshine for the Festival.

In Barrow-in-Furness, a twenty-minute stop stretched into an hour as we learned we couldn't go on because the train no longer had a driver. Loudspeakers announced that another driver was on his way down from Carlisle, but no one knew when he'd arrive. Then announcements came that once the driver arrived, trouble on the tracks ahead would need to be resolved before we could go. The train lurched ahead 100 yards, giving us a heartswell of hope, but then it stopped again and we waited. I tried using our rented mobile to reach Sadie at Muncaster, but the service coverage was spotty, and the signal went in and out and finally completely dead. I hoped the main details had gotten through -- that we'd be delayed; that we'd hoped to arrive by two o'clock but probably wouldn't actually get there until after five. At least we'd been able to find a couple of seats by then, though we were sure that at any moment, a conductor would come through and chase us back to the vestibule, as the seats were probably "reserved" for someone or no one else.

Finally, FINALLY we made Ravenglass, and I got through to Sadie, who said Peter would be at the Ratty Arms having a pint, waiting for us. And the adventure continues in my next post, when we finally get to the castle!

Phoole's Pilgrimage: Muncaster Castle Festival of Fools 2010

(Photo, by Tom Charney, of an inchworm on my hat, on the windowsill in our room in the Coachmen's Quarters at Muncaster Castle. Every time I look at this pic, I get the Danny Kaye song stuck in my head.)

With heavy hearts and even heavier trunks, we left Muncaster Castle and the soul-ignitingly beautiful Lake District behind today. We're wasting a little time in Manchester until next week; Tom's having a well-earned nap, and I should be re-packing my mountains of gear, but I couldn't wait to share a few pictures. These were all taken by my brilliant husband Tom Charney; he performed (dazzlingly) with me almost all day every day as silly Italian Fasso Latido, so he didn't get that many shots, but hopefully some of my new Phoole Photog friends will be sending along more images I can share too.

Muncaster Reveries, Last Chapter: Or, Back and There Again

And so today I'll finally tell the end of the story that really started six years ago, when I became Milwaukee's Official Municipal Jester, and ran a rambling road of preparations, experiences and delightful terrors on the way to the end of the International Jester Tournament during Muncaster Castle's Festival of Fools 2007.

For the earlier parts of the story, click here. I'll now continue from yesterday's thrilling cliff-hanger, where I was hoping to quietly slink away to chat with people, rather than having to revisit the so-silent crowd I puzzled that morning.

After the last act had performed a spectacular competition show, with juggling and fire and fire-juggling, and I was embroiled in a very serious conversation with a group 7-to-10-year-old children about the future of screenwriting and the joys of churning out 2-minute plays with no punchlines, Sadie found me and gently ushered me into the castle's dining room, which had been doubling as a sort of green room for those about to go on during the competition. We were all supposed to wait there for the awards ceremony. Embarrassed as I was, Sadie and Vivienne Soan managed to distract me brilliantly by asking me charming questions about how I'd constructed my clothes -- and all Phooligans know I love to jabber on about motley haberdashery! So many students ask me why I bother to spend so much time, money, research and energy on my motleys. Well, it pays off, one way or another!

(I don't know why, but I like the way Paul's sort of peeking into this shot, like a one-eyed Jack on a playing card. I just like it.)

And then we all had to troop outside, to await our fates behind the little stage, while Patrick Gordon-Duff-Pennington re-introduced us each to the crowd and then announced the judges' pick for the winner. The crowd cheered when I came back on, which I attribute to them having just been seriously revved up by the last several excellent acts, and also I think the children might have been energized a bit by my goofing off with them all day; my interactions with them may have caused them to forget my dreary performance earlier. In any case, cheering happened, and it surprised me.

Paul Garbanzo took the big prize, to thunderous accolades, and once he'd been hatted and coated and adorned with medals, Patrick handed around the consolation prizes -- each of the non-winning competitors received a handsome, simple wooden bowl.

The hilarious Martin Soan had changed costumes about 457 times that day, and he'd appeared for the awards dressed as the Pantomime Mrs. Havisham (yes, that one, from GREAT EXPECTATIONS). I do not have a picture of Martin dressed as the Pantomime Mrs. Havisham, but I want you to know that it's one of the funniest things ever. Chair, dress, wig, everything: hysterical! And I wish I had video to show you of the moment he received his wooden bowl from Patrick Gordon-Duff-Pennington, whereat he pointed into the bowl and said, "Hey, there's no money in there!"

The audience enjoyed this. But taking it completely in stride, Patrick addressed the crowd directly, on the mic: "He says there's no money in there. Look here, fellow, I'll have you know that branch came through my sitting-room window!" And the crowd roared with delighted laughter.

While the roaring went on, I grinned dazedly, and the little wheels inside my brain clicked around and lined up: in 2005, a devastating storm struck Muncaster Castle, taking two huge branches off Tom Fool's Tree. The family had saved the wood from that ancient chestnut tree and had our prizes fashioned from it. I held in my hands a piece of Tom Fool's Tree.

That felt a bit like winning. It still does. I have the bowl at home, in a nice case. Here you can see me, gripping it while getting jostled for the obligatory group portraits:

(Back row: Mike Hancock; Compere Maynard FlipFlap, Muncaster Fool Emeritus; Etienne; Martin Soan in his Elizabethan attire. Front row: Jason the Juggling Jester, Paul Garbanzo, and yours very truly madly deeply.)

Here, Martin discovers that my bumroll makes an excellent place to rest a drink when you're tired of carrying it around.

And then we all had to do big arms:

Paul was shortly whisked off to BBC-Carlisle for interviews, but the rest of us got a bit of tape in as well:

And then I goofed with the crowds again until all had calmed down and the Festival had closed.

I recall we got rain then, the first rain since Jiggins and I had disembarked in Ravenglass, just a five-minute squall, and the sun came right back out again. I'd dashed up to our perfect little room in the Coachman's Quarters to wash the glue out of my hair (my hair [I do actually have hair, and I'm sorry if you're finding this out now for the first time] is so fine it won't hold any kind of hairpin or bobby pin, so in order to make my hats stay on correctly, I have to coat my head in hair glue, which is a real thing that exists] and put on A-E clothing, came down, got rained on very briefly, and then everyone piled into a room to enjoy Paul on telly from Carlisle. That being achieved, Jiggins and I headed out for possibly our last Muncaster stroll of the voyage.

We had an absurdly dramatic farewell scene with Joel Dickinson, who was clinging to the back of a luggage-cart train as it zipped across the lawns, waving with baroque sentimentality, which we returned double, because he's an extremely nice person. And rounding the corner by Tom's Tree, we found Martin and Vivienne taking in one last skullfull of the mind-blowingly beautiful vista:

If you can arrange to recline on cannons by Tom's Tree and watch slanting evening sunbeams chase a rainstorm across the fells while in the charmingest company of the Soans, I recommend you do it.

And the next day, so very sadly, we left great Muncaster Castle, gorgeous sheepy Cumbria, and the eye-explodingly-beautiful Lake District behind. But I can't end the story without revisiting Eric Tree-Head. Remember young Eric, son of the great Maynard Flip-Flap?

The day after Eric and I first met, he recognized me at breakfast in Creeping Kate's Kitchens, even though I was out of my motley. He approached our table wide-eyed and awed, and pointed to me, and said, "You were the Queen yesterday!" I grinned gigantically. After he'd retreated, beaming, his mum confided, "You're his new girlfriend, I'm afraid; he talks of no-one but you." I was terribly impressed with myself at that. I mean, his dad was the reigning Muncaster Fool at the time -- I was happy to simply be remembered at all!

So on the last day of the festival, Eric Tree-Head, age six and three-quarters years, gave me a gift. He presented me with the stout walking staff he'd found and used during the Festival of Fools, shown in his hand below:

He was extremely solemn in giving it to me. I took it reverently, turned it over in my hands, and looked at him very seriously. "Eric, this stick has a pointed end, and I am a very silly person. Do you think it's safe for me to have a stick like this?"

He considered for a long moment. And then he pronounced, "I believe you can be trusted."

I laughed and cried.

I couldn't fit the stick in my trunk, no matter how I tried (which will amaze those of you who have seen my trunk. I can fit ME in my trunk, but this stick just would not fit in). So as we were leaving, I found Eric Tree-Head, and together we put the stick leaning up against the trunk of Tom Fool's Tree, and I said, "I'm coming back to Muncaster Castle some day, and I'm going to find this stick when I come back, all right?" That seemed fine with young Mr. Tree-Head.

It's hard to believe that "some day" is coming up in less than a week.

Will the stick still be there?

Will I see Eric Tree-Head again?

Will he remember?

I wish I could take every last one of you with me -- I'd pack you in my trunk, but I need room for the stick! Failing that, I'm bringing some tech, so I can report on adventures if there is ever a lull.

Phooligans all, thanks, thanks and ever thanks for your absurd devotion. It's the Phoole Fuel that keeps me adventuring!

Muncaster Reveries: Maybe I Should Finish The Story From Last Time!

In just over a week, Tom and I will brave the volcano and fly to Manchester, and then take a train to beautiful Muncaster Castle to do walkaround performance for the Festival of Fools 2010. I won't be competing this time around, and that pressure being off, the run-up is a breathless whirl of packing, last-minute motley-making, and other minute launch preparations.

But we haven't even finished the story of the last trip I made to Muncaster, my first visit, in 2007, when I competed in the International Jester Tournament.

To save you anxiety, I'll cut to the punchline: I didn't win. No, not even close! Martin Soan told me I should say I won 2nd place, and I grinned and followed his advice. But if you believed me when I told you that, you've been Phooled. There were no places -- just a winner, Paul Garbanzo, and, as Martin said to us after the prize had been awarded, "The rest of us? We're LOOOOOOSERS!"

The competition is really for acts with big physical spectacle and audience involvement. MoOnIe the Magnif'cent, a.k.a. the brilliant and amazing Philip Earl, would be a shoo-in for the tournament -- the judges sought acts on his zesty scale. Something talky? Not so much. And even before the day, once all of the competitors had arrived, I knew I was doomed.

Jiggins had the right idea -- she went off for insane adventures around the castle grounds with Etienne, while I stayed behind at the lounge with the other competitors and their families. On the one hand, the night before the competition was brilliantly memorable -- I was in a room with some of the funniest people I'd ever met. They were all just calmly, deeply hilarious. Usually, in a room full of people, I eventually feel that pull to be the funny person -- not that night. My services were not required. And that terrified me deeply.

Soon I was on the phone to poor patient Tom for at least an hour. "I have to come home. This is insane. I can't do this. These people are too funny. No, I mean everyone. In the entire country. It's presumptuous of me to pretend to be qualified to compete." Tom reassured me the way he always does, reminding me of the devoted people who Got Behind the Phoole to get me to the UK in the first place, reminding me of the love and generosity of the people who would come to be known as Phooligans, reminding me that I'd gotten laughs and encouragement the rest of the trip, from the too-kind Penningtons and their charming guests. I'd gotten that far, farther than any other jester I'd known. I had to try.

I had originally planned a ten-minute act of story-joking and self-effacery, and in hindsight, I should probably have stayed with it, not that it would have mattered; I was up against five acts that were all bold physical spectacle. I panicked the night before, and feared that what was funny to Americans wouldn't be funny at all to Brits, and tried to rewrite at the last minute, going instead for jokes I'd learned from the Brits themselves. I could hardly get to sleep, dreading the morning like a date with a firing squad.

And, indeed, when my performance began and I faced the crowd, I did in fact die. I bombed. I bombed worse than I have ever bombed in my life, and I mean ever. The first story-joke fell absolutely flat, with no response, and I felt myself drowning in the crowd's uncomfortable silence at a minute in; at two minutes in, lacking even one laugh, I cut and ran. I got out of there. I bowed with a flourish and bolted, polite and confused applause propelling me through the castle doors and into the depths of a kitchen in the middle of the house.

I know Americans traveling abroad have a reputation for being over-emotional, particularly as considered from the British perspective, so I knew I had to make this quick -- I found a place to hide, and I cried for exactly one minute, very, very quietly. I had anticipated failure, but I hadn't anticipated it being so very painful! I'd stuffed my bag with the brightly-colored tissues for which I'm oddly famous, the ones that seem to come in colors to match every motley I make, and I soaked two of them efficiently, with hot tears of shame.

I don't know how, but Etienne found me first. He tried to be encouraging: "Well, at least you're done!" The totally-not-helpful substance of that remark made me bark with unexpected laughter, and I wondered how I was going to put my face back together sufficiently to get back out there and get back to the thing I do well, Walking Around Talking to People. Just then, Jiggins found me too -- with my makeup in hand, ready to help repair the Phoole visage. So thoughtful, Jiggins, the Phoole Guard Extraordinaire.

As I put my eyes back together, Jiggins quietly and calmly said, "Now, there's something I have to ask you, and I do not want this to make you anxious. But did you contact David Tennant's agency about you coming to the UK?"

Indeed, I had done so. In fact, in the months running up to the Festival, I'd cheekily pinged the agents of all of my favorite British celebrities, saying, "Hi! I'm a silly American who loves your work. If you'd like to see me goof around in 16th-century motley with a fake British dialect, I'll be up North soon." I stared with saucer eyes at Jiggins as she rotated her camera so I could see the screen on the back.

"It's just that there's this guy out there, and it probably isn't him, but he just watched your performance, and, well..." And I cringed and peeked, and on that little screen, it looked exactly like him:

I died inside, even more than I'd already just died inside. Had I just given the worst performance of my entire career, with David Tennant in the house? I couldn't let that potential hang in the air -- I had to know. I whooshed out of the castle to find this guy.

I found him right away -- he'd sat down to wait through the brief intermission for the next act. As I swept toward him, all of the tiny children who had just sat through my awful cringefest swarmed around me: "Jane the Phoole! I liked your stories, Jane! I enjoyed you!"

I stopped and grinned warmly at them all. "Ah. You did, did you?" I gritted my teeth slightly. "You all must have been laughing on the inside, where it counts!" But their ebullience boiled over, and they took my hands and pulled me down for what must have been congratulatory hugs.

The Guy With the Unmistakable Hair was still in his seat. I steeled myself and tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me, begging your extreme pardon, Sir, but has anyone ever told you you look exactly like David Tennant before?"

The man turned around. "Who?"

My heart started beating again. The lovely young woman next to him, whom in that second I realized was his wife, prompted, "The bloke who plays Doctor Who on telly."

"Oh," he replied, not Scottish in the least. "No. Afraid not."

I turned to the pile of children. "Don't you think this man looks like The Doctor, though?"

They exploded. "It's The Doctor! Are you The Doctor? You look like The Doctor, though!" And so on.

I'm afraid I must have embarrassed the poor fellow unduly, but I couldn't just go on thinking that the bottom of my career might have been witnessed by one of the most amazing performers ever. Relieved, I laughed my head off, and, begging the gentleman's pardon, I excused myself and drew my new entourage along with me.

Phooligans know how I love to goof with kids, and I like to speak to them as if they're adults, taking their ideas very seriously and engaging them as people, not as any kind of subordinate or in-progress person. Well, these children actually ARE adults. They're incredibly articulate, well-spoken, considerate individuals, and I delight in their insistings and assertions. I passed the rest of the afternoon trying to forget my abysmal belly-flop of a show, immersing myself in nonsense conversations with the very young.

I ended up getting my picture taken with hundreds of people, and before long, each TV station crew had put me in front of their cameras. I heard a producer say, "Get her. She has good clothes, and she can talk. Get her on camera." Jiggins overheard other producers saying the same thing. So I flexed some "thee"s and "thou"s on various BBC channels. That goes a long way toward helping one forget that one's just bombed onstage -- very cheering! One crew had me juggle with Joel Dickinson; another had me do an interlude in a tour of the castle.

I barked with laughter through Martin Soan's hysterical show, and when Etienne and Paul Garbanzo made the crowds roar, I felt perhaps I should just draw off my little crowd of followers and hunker down until the whole awards thing had blown over. But it was not to be.

Soon: the rest of the tale!