Shakespeare re-written

There was an amateur drama society in Dublin which specialised in visiting schools. An excellent group whose performance of 'Death of a Salesman,' 'Philadelphia Here I Come,' and other works were welcomed by teachers of English drama. These actors engaged the students in discussions after each performance and were able get to the heart of the matter. They made the understanding and enjoyment of the play more relevant than it being another exam subject.

This drama group became so successful that instead of travelling from school to school they procured matinee time in a local theatre. Schools joined forces to attend performances in groups. Eventually the programmes began to include works by Shakespeare which were also part of the school's senior and junior cycle.

I had the honour once of taking a group of senior boys to this theatre. They were not dedicated members of the William Shakespeare fan club! We met at the theatre door, handed in our tickets and located our seats -- the boys insisting that these were in a block beside the area assigned to the local girl's school.

A gong sounded, the music began, it was curtain up..

A communal gasp greeted the empty stage until a circular area began to rise slowly. On the top of this plinth an actor stood looking very uncomfortable in a short skirt and foil tunic.
'Hey' a student shouted, 'it's yer man from the telly.'
'Hi Mike,'
Mike (the soldier) waved to the audience. In doing so he hit his sword against a pillar. Half of his weapon fell onto the floor. It was made of plywood.
'Aaah.' The crowd sighed.

A second soldier entered stage left to creep stealthily around the plinth.
 'Come I too late he,' cried?
'Yeah, you missed the bus' cried a voice from the pits.

Mike waved his half sword in the air
.'Fly, fly, fly ,' he roared.
'Fly, fly fly Aer Lingus' shouted the boys.

Scroll forward.

Mike's mother enters in full regalia accompanied by her lady in waiting.
'My sweet son,' she says, arms outstretched beseeching him not to go to war.
The not so sweet sons in my care make sick noises!

Soldier Mike engaged in a long speech extolling his own bravery. Mother wept and in her rush to prevent him leaving for battle she tripped and staggered across the stage. Her maid clung valiantly  to the robe of her mistress. They teetered dangerously close to the edge of the stage, Soldier Mike sensing danger marched forward, slipped on his sword fragment and all three fell into the orchestra pit.

Final Curtain

No actor was hurt in the performance. A worthwhile discussion session followed led by the director of the play and with actor participation. Students were invited on stage to act in a couple of episodes. The company decided not to stage entire Shakespearean plays again, instead they'd choose segments or important speeches. My boys missed the bus home -- a cunning ploy. We went for a Big Mac and chips. Coincidentally the girls missed the bus too!

'

A Memorable Outing

                                         
                                           chestnut                                                   Anthony B.


While I work on the sequel to, A Place in the Choir, simmering away in my head is my next novel which is set here in Crete. To help bring my ideas to fruition our friend John brought us to the village of Topolia. This outing which happened some months ago helped me get a feel for the place. I wanted to absorb the atmosphere of a semi mountainous village overlooking an area of great Cretan history. As we drove the White Mountains loomed to the east, and northward towards Kastelli an expanse of sea rippled gently under a sunlit sky. Our journey took us through chestnut forests, orange groves and clusters of tall pines. Many colourful bee hives adorned the crevices where they were tucked away among the wild vegetation.There were huge rock formations higher up and what looked like deserted village ruins hanging over the cliffs.

Stopping for coffee in a cafe on the edge of the village I was eager to begin my research. At a table nearby a venerable white bearded man was seated. Surely I reasoned he'll be a source of information. My Greek was limited and I hoped he spoke English.

'Excuse me,' I said. 'I wonder if you would know what the oldest church in Topolia is called?'
'Goodness,' he replied 'I'm not that old!'
I smiled in embarrassment. 'I'm doing research for a book you see and I need some information. I don't live in this area, I'm actually from Ireland.'
'Don't worry about that -- we're crazy too!' He laughed.
He then willingly provided very interesting facts about the village and surrounding area. I hope I'll do justice to his generosity, humour and encouragement in my book where Crete is the backdrop..

After this meeting we set out for home. John drove us to Kissamos first for lunch. It was a lovely warm day and we sat at a table outside a Taverna. Nearby men were working on a building, they had scaffolding in place. Children were going home from school and there were a few visitors walking around. Suddenly we heard a great rumble. It was as if some heavy machine was being driven through the square. When our place settings began to move and the table to shake we wondered what was happening. Someone shouted Earthquake and everyone ran into the vacant space in the square. Feeling lightheaded we tried to hang on to John's car for support. It was swaying back and forth and continued to do so for several minutes.Workers on the ground called a warning to their companions on the scaffolding. They stayed where they were clinging tightly to the metal uprights.

When all was quiet and safe we continued our return journey.
 'I'm glad we got our priorities right,' I laughed shakily.
'When we ran from our table John, you rescued your camera. Naturally I grabbed my bag and notebook but Matthew, you possessively clung to your lunch  -- including the knife and fork.'

The White Mountains

This morning the sun shone on The White Mountains or Lefka Ori (Greek) which are a main geographical feature of western Crete. Made of limestone these spectacular mountains consist of many peaks. The highest Pachnes which means fog or morning dew reaches 2453m. Such high peaks are without vegetation. Here in the rocky heights golden eagles live and breed.
One way to reach the the mountains is to take the road northward to Omalos. This is a small village at the north east corner of the Omalos Plateau in the centre of the mountains. It is roughly 38km south of Chania. On a trip to Omalos one Spring we were privileged to see two golden eagles sweep from their eerie, wheel, dive and return to their habitat. It was an amazing and spectacular sight. The wing span of these birds of prey is so immense that as they swept over the car we were momentarily left in darkness.


Alfred Tennyson wrote a poem called The Eagle (1809-1892) which I had to learn by heart in school.


He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,                         

,

Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.                                 
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Harbour Hotel

It was around 1986 that we booked a hotel in Elounda. That was before well known areas of Crete became the tourist hub they are today. I've no idea how we got to Elounda but I think we had to fly via London.
Our harbour hotel was full when we arrived in the middle of the night. We were given a small room at the very top of the house. It was like a crows' nest. In the morning we went to the window for our first view of the sea. What we saw was the island of Spinalonga rising from the Gulf of Corfu like the crinkle cut back of a dinosaur.
Our host Manolis, explained that the room we had booked was not available -- there had been a death in the family and the hotel was occupied by aunts, uncles and cousins. He would secure a room for us in another hotel. Of course if we were happy to stay where we were he could not under any circumstances charge us.
We stayed and in as far as was possible in two weeks we became part of the family. We were invited to attend the funeral service and to join in the meal for everyone which followed. Photos of the deceased uncle were passed around.He was pictured working in the olive grove, in his army, uniform and looking magnificent on the day of his marriage to Irene. Five beautiful children followed who now in middle age mourned their father.
One evening we walked along the seashore with Manolis and he offered to take us to Spinalonga. Next morning we set off in his blue and white boat. As we approached the island, the Venetian Fortress gleamed in the bright morning light. Manolis explained that this fortress had been built with stone from the now sunken city of Oleos which was once  a place of worship for Greek Gods and Goddesses. But the saddest part of the island's history was its years as a leper colony in the nineteen thirties.
Leaving the boat we climbed the stone steps which led to the crest of the island. I tried to imagine how the people who were forcibly taken to Spinalonga had resisted. They must have felt degraded, unloved, forgotten? Peering over high walls I saw huge rocks down below where mighty waves crashed and tumbled. Surely during times of desperation the idea of jumping into this cauldron must have crossed the mind of many a sufferer. And did any person with withered limbs and oozing sores ever claw at the stone inch by inch in an effort to escape? It would be a dream surely to be carried pain free forever on a soft blue sea?
Manolis who had been talking to my husband may have read my mind. 'In time' he said, 'life for the community on Spinalonga improved. The inhabitants had their own shops, medical care, a church and a library. And there was electricity on the island too -- before it came to the mainland.' he laughed.
Did electric light prevent them from crying at night for the relatives they had left behind? Did it erase from memory the healthy children they would never hug again or end those dreams once shared with separated spouses? I didn't think so.
Manolis told us about a woman who tried to infect herself with leprosy so that she could join her husband on the island and about the father who churned his way through the water and came ashore on Crete with his small son hanging onto his neck. They were promptly returned to the island.
There was a story too about a husband and wife who were permitted, as were others at the time, to go back to Athens to settle their affairs. They had a row and he killed her -- and sent her pickled body back in a barrel of fish! He was captured and left to serve out his sentence as the gods intended.
Manolis took us to see the forty remaining graves on the island.  A stone slab covered each burial place for the whitened bones of those who did not survive long enough to be allowed off the island when the leprosy scare eased. Here slumber the noble souls who were deprived of a healthy life in the olive groves, who never trod the wine-press with fellow villagers and for whom the scent of orange, lemon and jasmine had become a memory.They were deprived of that tranquility and sureness which comes from being held close in one's own place.
We returned to Elounda later in the evening. Sitting in our crow's nest we listened to bouzouki music and the chatter and laughter of people dining in traditional restaurants down below. As the sun set in the west, Spinalonga soared in the distance solid and enduring against the sky. I remembered those lonely graves and I wondered if the bones could hear the music too. Maybe they clapped their bony hands and smiled through bleached teeth before returning to their slumbers.
Much has been written about Spinalonga since I was there with my husband and Manolis in 1986. It is an unforgettable place -- it provoked the thoughts written above which in no way do justice to those who lived there.

Feature

   When Linda Talbot, former London based journalist, book, art and theatre critic and well known author of children's fantasy stories asked me for an interview I agreed. Here is a copy of what she's written.
   I am embarrassed and at the same time delighted by Linda's observations. I am very grateful to her for taking the time to do this. I hope my answers to Linda's questions will give you an insight into why and how I write

    Marie Quirke-Smith has a mischevious sense of humour and a rapid response to atmosphere and character.

   As a writer this leads her into explorations of society, a potent sense of place and an incisive insight into people. Her book 'A PLACE IN THE CHOIR' has been published as a paperback and is now on Amazon Kindle. It traces the life of Ellie and her Catholic upbringing, spicing her experiences with humour and trenchant domestic detail.

   Marie, who comes from Ireland and now lives in Crete, explains, “The idea for this book developed when issues arose about scandals within religious institutions. I wondered why this happened. How were the entrants to religious life chosen and how were they trained?

   “I write about nuns in this novel although by no means exclusively. But I must emphasise that the nuns who educated me in boarding school bear no resemblance to a couple of unpleasant characters in my book. My teachers were dedicated holy women, highly educated, caring and forward-looking. The novel to some extent is semi-autobiographical – it’s difficult to write without shadows from one’s own life intruding. But the book is essentially fiction and whatever may ring true to life within the pages is purely coincidental.”

What are Marie’s current views on Catholic education?
She says, “I think Catholic education continues to have much to offer even though the church itself may be on a learning curve and its influence, especially on youth, has lessened. Education is an ongoing process and any educational institution needs to re-evaluate its role from time to time. Each has its own ethos which will influence how people interact and affect the way they live.

How did the story evolved?
“I had an idea in my mind at the beginning of the book but the story took on a life of its own as I wrote. Since the paperback edition was published I undertook a complete revision of the novel. Now I feel I have a more authentic offering.

I began to write the book in Ireland. When we moved to Crete I didn't have time to continue on a regular basis.”

But it was finished and she is now writing a sequel. (which can also stand alone).

“This has suddenly taken off”, she admits, “The main character faces huge challenges which will have to be tackled. It’s an interesting story based in Ireland and Israel in the 1970s and 1980s.”

Marie shares a common dilemma with many writers: “I want to write when I can’t. Sometimes when I’m having a meal with friends I want to be at home writing. Often I’m not mentally present because I’m coming up with ideas which I go crazy trying to recall later.

“I have a problem too – that all the odd jobs must be completed and the house looking tidy before I sit down to write. So I’m often tired by the time I decide to start, then it’s time for  cup of tea – even lunch – any excuse to put off the inevitable. But the urge to write is relentless and a day doesn't go by without a few sentences being jotted down. It’s often a scene which ignites me – like watching the simple contentment of a man quietly drinking alone, before his friends join him in a café.”

Now she is writing a novel set mainly in Crete. She says, “Crete is an influence beyond price. The slow pace of life, the hospitality of the people, the freedom to have the life you desire, the beauty of the mountains, the tranquillity and sometimes power of the sea. Sheep bells and bird song in the early morning. The sound of olive trees rustling in the wind. The valleys, villages hanging onto rocks, wild flowers, sandy beaches and sun umbrellas. The ever changing colours of the sky, those little hillside churches and ancient monasteries, the history of the place, friendships formed, concern for the elderly, love for the children, lights on the night ferry leaving for the mainland, old cities with their harbours, forts and fishing vessels. Village festivals in August – food, wine and raki. And the value of family ties; weddings, baptisms and name days.”

Marie Quirke-Smith has come a long way from her first writing as a child when she was given a pencil of her own and wrote about the animals on the farm where she lived. She has responded to  social situations, delved the motives of those involved, vividly absorbed a sense of place and infused her characters with convincing traits and intriguing behaviour.

It is these qualities born of a natural talent that will render her books timeless.

cuttings & clippings

We had to disconnect all technology for some time because of bad storms. Today having had to catch up on things left undone I've just a few clippings and a memory to share with you.

A father's name is most important in Crete. It has to appear on every official document and on most non official ones too. On my first visit to the Health Clinic I was suffering from an ear infection. The doctor began questioning me.
'And what is your father's name?' he asked.
'Oh no, I said, 'it's my ear.'
The doctor smiled. I need to know your father's name,' he said,' before I can treat you.'
I wonder how many father's, some deceased, and from other countries, ever expected their name to be of such importance in Greece?

When I attended the eye doctor he said me during a particular part of the exam 'look at my ear.' I thought he said 'look at my hair.' Since he was follicle challenged to quite a degree this was embarrassing.
'Where exactly would you like me to look?' I enquired.
Tweaking his right ear he said, 'here, it's usually attached to the side of my head.'
'Of course,' I stuttered. 'I'll be going to the hearing specialist tomorrow.
'Why not,' he smiled.

A family friend celebrated her one hundred and fourth birthday recently.
'How, I asked her have you managed to live so long?'
'I took a deep breath at one time,' she smiled 'and I have kept doing that.'

On New Year's Eve, not too long after our arrival in Crete, there was a party in a nearby taverna. The patrons were mostly local people who were determined to enjoy the festivities. When the dancing began there were stunning performances. Young men in white boots danced in line until unexpectedly one jumped into the air and tipped his heels together. Everyone cheered which encouraged him to new heights. The young women in national costume were composed and danced impeccably afterwards. When it was time for men of all ages to take the floor for a special dance my husband joined them. I watched him doing the steps almost as well as any Greek.
'What if he tries that jump?' I asked my friend.
'Don't be daft, he won't.' she answered.
He did.
He rose into the air, flipped over, and miraculously landed on his feet. He received a rousing cheer and was presented with a cigar for his efforts.
'How did you do that?' I asked.
'With more than a little help from my friends.' he laughed

When snow follows rain

Following days of heavy rain and strong winds we were warned to expect snow. It arrived yesterday morning. We awoke to whiteness everywhere. Great mounds of snow stood out in the landscape, and trees, now looking like fantastic characters, spread wide their magnificent snowy branches. Rooftops and Church domes glistened. The peaks of the White Mountains around us were lost in a heavenly sea of drifts which gleamed in the winter sun. A week ago I'd been marveling at the sight of anemone already in bloom. I hope they will survive this cold snap and reappear to brighten the land.


The rain which preceded the snow storms caused much misery in the surrounding area and in the city of Chania. Houses were flooded, falling rocks and landslides disrupted the daily flow of traffic and the loss of electricity made life miserable for many people. While we marveled at the beauty of the pine trees in the forest and took our photographs others were desperately trying to salvage household goods. It was very cold too -- much lower temperatures than we've ever experienced here in the past. We were eager to light a log fire early in the day.Villages high up in the mountains were cut off while those farther down in the foothills battled a steady flow of water streaming downhill towards their basements.

Although assistance was at hand from the Local Authority, Agencies, and Support Groups a little water can go a long way. In the aftermath of flooding help is needed even more. The support, goodness and neighborliness of people who live on Crete (and in places all over the world) inspires     us during such times of crisis.