Review: The City and the Town, Linck & Mulhahn

Last week, I was lucky enough to see not one, but two plays – the first, The City and the Town, at my favourite Wilton’s Music Hall, and the second, Linck & Mulhahn, at Hampstead Theatre. I didn’t know what to expect for either, but I came away with the conviction that subtlety and nuance are integral ingredients of good theatre. Good art generally, in fact.

The first play, The City and the Town, was about a middle class lawyer returning home to an undefined Northern mining town for the first time in 13 years. The acting wasn’t as strong as everything else I’ve seen at Wilton’s, but the premise was interesting. Reunited with his brother, we see the stark contrast of classes – the returning brother had escaped to Cambridge, read law, gotten married, had children, and bought a house with a large garden. The remaining brother had become a neo-Nazi and was in jail for grooming a thirteen-year-old.

This is revealed in stages. In the second half, after the funeral, the brothers are joined by Lindsey – the case worker of the remaining brother and the ex-girlfriend of the lawyer. They discuss the situation in emotional, yet exceedingly self-aware terms. The neo-Nazi explains exactly why he’s a neo-Nazi. The ex-girlfriend explains that institutionalised racism is why she didn’t get into Cambridge. The middle class Liberal brother pretends not to understand. It was a bit of a mess, if I’m honest.

Linck & Mulhahn, meanwhile, was receiving rave reviews from theatre publications, so I didn’t want to miss out. It started well – the first half had just the right amount of humour, romance, intrigue. A soldier deserts and works as a tailor’s assistant, only to begin a romance with a young woman, Mulhahn. When the relationship becomes serious, it is revealed that they are both women, but Mulhahn immediately accepts the situation and they get married.

Now, I didn’t actually know that this was based on historical fact, but when I looked it up during the intermission, I accidentally spoiled the ending for myself. Even so, the second half was noticeably weaker. Mulhahn’s mother catches them in a compromising position and reveals Linck to be a woman, at which point she is tried for sodomy and ultimately convicted to death. Now, this would all have been fine and would’ve made for difficult, but fascinating viewing, if the author hadn’t introduced modern morality into the speeches of her characters. 

I found it hard to believe that the doctor – the same doctor who was threatened with death by a deserting soldier – would offer his support. I found it hard to believe that the prostitute – the same prostitute Linck had “given pleasure to” but refused anything in return – wouldn’t be horrified to know the truth. I found it hard to believe that Mulhahn would’ve been so headstrong in trial and still been acquitted. As lovely as the staging and the acting and the first half of the play were, the second half disappointed. 

Both plays were fantastic to experience, but there was still something missing in each. As I love to say, they weren’t the “next best thing” I keep searching for.

The City and The Town ended its run at Wilton’s Music Hall on 25 February.Linck & Mulhahn is at Hampstead Theatre until 4 March.

Running 21.4km at Seven Sisters

Sometimes, there’s things you should talk about. Like the performance of Macbeth I saw last Friday at Wilton’s Music Hall. And even though I prepared an entire paragraph on how the acting was phenomenal, the perspective intriguing, but the staging – perhaps intentionally – a jarring combination of modern and historical elements, if I’m completely honest, I’m much more excited about the weekend I had.

I’ve recently started self-managing my stress levels by going on excessively long runs. Well, fine, I had done it once so far, but now I can add a run from Eastbourne to Seaford through the Seven Sisters to my collection. And I’m planning to run in the Surrey Half Marathon in two weeks or so, plus regular training sessions with the Sutton Runners, and of course the trip to run Hadrian’s Wall I’ve booked for May.

The point is, if it doesn’t hurt, I’m not interested. So I set off from London early on Sunday morning, catching the train from East Croydon to Eastbourne. Three hours later, I was running out of the station and towards the beachfront and, soon, along the South Downs Way up Beachy Head.

The start was tricky – I paused a few times to set my rucksack comfortably, to take off my jacket, or just to make sure of the direction, but once I got going, it was a dream. Sun on my face, wind in my hair, my muscles straining as I pushed onwards. I was having a brilliant time. Everyone smiled and said hello – an elderly Japanese man making his way up one of the Seven Sisters even stopped to applaud me as I ran past.

And it would’ve lasted too, were it not for that meddling Cuckmere River. I vaguely remembered crossing a shallow stream when I visited Cuckmere Haven last summer, but I didn’t think much of it – until I realised that the stream isn’t so shallow in wintertime and I’d have to go all the way around via the A259. After a few wrong turns left me circling back a few times, my knee had started to act up and I was running out of water.

I finally made it around – possibly even passing a famous actor as I tried to find my way back to the South Downs Way but too preoccupied to pay much attention – and headed back up the cliffs. I was now on the home stretch, running past Seaford Head and onto the promenade, looking for my husband and dog, who were meeting me at the finish. After locating them, we headed back up the cliffs for a short walk and, in Cristian’s case, a fateful sprint.

We made our way to our favourite The Old Boot for lunch and then decided to head home. Unfortunately, the fateful sprint was most likely responsible for the situation we now found ourselves in – our car keys were nowhere to be seen. And the spare set was all the way in London. We deliberated, we searched, and finally, we ordered an Uber. Luckily, we were matched with a lovely Lithuanian driver at the end of his shift, who went out of his way to help us, driving us – and the dog – all the way to London, waiting for my husband to grab the keys, and driving him back. 

Sometimes, certain situations just help you regain faith in humanity, and this was certainly one of them. Although it probably could’ve all been avoided if I wasn’t so keen to cause myself excessive pain. But hey, at least we had an adventure!

Hiking Madeira: Fanal Forest, Pico do Arieiro to Pico Ruivo

Right before Sunshine Saturday – which wasn’t a phenomenon I was familiar with at the time – I booked tickets to Madeira for the beginning of February. It’s astounding how in less than four hours, we can swap cold, dark London for an island off the coast of Africa.

We arrived at midday at the start of this past weekend, flew through passport control and were inside our rented Fiat 500 with the roof down within a half hour from landing. After settling in at the lovely Casa das Proteas in nearby Sao Jorge, we ventured back to the capital to explore. 

Unlike London, where the winter sun doesn’t stay up past five in the evening, Madeira basks in its warm glow at least until seven. We enjoyed a walk along the shore, then enjoyed local specialties in the historical centre. I indulged in a bit of vinho verde, while my husband, our driver, tried their maracuja soda.

The next day, of course, we were planning to tackle the most popular hike on the island – the 12km roundtrip from 1818m Pico do Arieiro (which I’ve discovered is actually called Pico do Areeiro, but no one spells it correctly) to 1862m Pico Ruivo. This, however, was not to be. 

The rain clouds had gathered. Visibility was limited to maybe a metre or two in front of you. Since the peaks were a no-go, we headed to Fanal Forest. The eerie forest and lake were in their element in the fog – we descended underneath the cloud, wandered along the levadas and eventually went off-piste for a strenuous hike back to the car.

We celebrated with another walk by the ocean and dinner in a restaurant offering the option to grill your own meat or fish on a hot stone. My husband chose tuna. This was a decision he’d come to regret.

The next day, we woke early to start our adventure to the tallest peak on Madeira. My husband was a little queasy, but he attributed it to the glass of wine he had before bed and we pushed on. A few kilometres later, he vomited violently. It was food poisoning.

Stuck between two peaks, with massive inclines both ways, we decided to continue. Soon after he forced himself up the worst incline of all, he realised he couldn’t go on, but said the peak was close and to carry on – I ran ahead, determined to bag Pico Ruivo and rush back down. 

Along the way, I had encountered some former Portuguese soldiers who now lived in the UK and we struck up a conversation as we climbed the final 500m from the mountain hut. The peak was also covered in fog, so I snapped a quick selfie, took a photo for my new friends, and rushed back to my husband.

He had made it to the hut by that point, ordered some tea, and collapsed on the sofa. We sat in the hut for a long time until he finally felt strong enough to move. The way back was torture – he’d stop every few metres to rest and felt nauseous the entire time. Even worse, there was a hell of an incline to do, and not a lot of room on the narrow paths.

We somehow managed it, though, and he was feeling better as we drove to Funchal for a final wander. Since he was still weak, we mostly sat on the pier watching the waves and then turned in for an early night. It was fair enough, we had a 6am flight to look forward to the next morning. And then a half day at the office for me immediately after.

I can’t say the trip was a raging success, but these things are unpredictable – and regardless of the suffering, we both greatly enjoyed the views. And given the proximity and cheap Ryanair flights, there’s a likelihood that we’ll be back.