Racing the Train

I don’t know why I am always so flippant ahead of big races. It’s not like I’m a consistent athlete. Sure, I run fairly regularly, but I definitely don’t tailor my training to the challenges awaiting me. Which is probably why I had such a hard time of it at Saturday’s Race the Train, held along the Talyllyn Railway in Wales.

Well, that and the fact that I sank in mud up to my thighs at the halfway point. I was doing alright, keeping a steady pace and somehow managing to stay ahead of the train until after turning back towards Tywyn at Abergynolwyn, but then it was uphill, past the beautiful waterfall, and straight into a swamp.

It had been raining incessantly the previous day and into the morning of the race — so much so that the race was postponed last minute. Miraculously, by the time it came to run at 14:05, the sun was shining, but the muddy remnants of the previous 24 hours were present along the fields and into the hills.

The announcer at the start of the race did warn us that we signed up for 14 miles of hell, but even though it was hot and sweaty going from the starting point at the Tywyn station and through the farms and along the trails, I thought I was doing well. The atmosphere was fantastic — I’ve never been to any trail run so full of enthusiastic spectators, and hearing the steam train chugging away in the distance made for great motivation.

But, alas, some things are not meant to be. Instead of attempting to circumvent the mud that appeared in my path, I ran straight through it and sank. The runners around me immediately came to my aid — it took four people to pull me out! But in straining my muscles, my left leg cramped hard. It felt like I’d pulled something. I urged everyone around me to keep running and did some painful stretches on the side, but the damage was done.

And so I limped on, the trail becoming narrower and narrower until there was a long queue stretching out of runners making their way back to Tywyn. The landscape had become tricky to navigate, with streams and slippery stones, brambles and thorns. We half walked, half ran in heartwarming camaraderie, supporting anyone who tripped or stumbled.

As I got to the final three miles, I could feel the end approaching and picked up the pace. I ran faster and faster as I neared the city, appreciating the support from all the people still out there along the route, cheering the runners to the finish. As I rounded one of the turns, I was surprised to see my friends drive by, waving and yelling encouragements. I went even faster, speeding my way past the station, to which the train had long since returned, and sprinted my way across the finish line.

I didn’t beat the train. In fact, only 44 runners out of the 410 finishers did. It was a lower success rate than usual and, disappointingly, no women were among those 44. Then again, there were only 90 women running. Even though it wasn’t a great performance — my final time was 2:35:24, my worst ever for (just over) a half marathon — I had a fantastic experience.

And better yet, we decided to fit in a hike the next day — the Coed Nant Gwernol Circular, which took us up the waterfall and overlooking the quarry. It was exactly what we needed after the previous day’s exertions. Even more excitingly, someone mentioned the secret waterfall to us — a concept I hadn’t heard of, but now want to head back out there to discover. Apparently, somewhere in the forest is a hidden waterfall, and based on the pictures, it looks beautiful.

Looks like a trip back to beat the train and find the waterfall is in order. Here’s to 2024!

Review: The Rake’s Progress at Glyndebourne

Having had such a wonderful time at the Glyndebourne Opera Festival last year watching Le nozze di Figaro and the Poulenc double bill, I excitedly scoured the programme for an opera to attend this year. When I saw that a Stravinsky score was being staged, it was no contest, despite not knowing anything about it – not even the fact that it’s an English language libretto written by WH Auden.

I only discovered this after watching the performance on Saturday night, when I looked up why the opera felt so decidedly modern. And indeed, it was only written in 1951, explaining why the characters are far more reasonable than the usual dramatics of Italian or French operas. The fact that scorned wife and famed bearded lady Baba the Turk compassionately supports Anne Trulove in her quest to help the wayward Tom Rakewell endears her to the audience, especially after Anne inquires after her own plans and Baba confidently announces that she is heading back to the stage.

Even more striking is that Anne’s life is not over once her lover loses his mind and dies. She is sad, but she leaves. As unfortunate it is that Tom wasn’t strong enough to withstand the Devil’s temptations, she did all she could. A brilliant script, wonderfully performed by the charming soloists.

It would be an unforgivable omission if I didn’t mention the set, designed by David Hockney. At once simple without being boring and extravagant without artifice, it captured the mood of the moment, drawing attention to the contrast between pastoral authenticity and the City’s vices. And likewise for the outfits, selected tastefully as representative of the opera’s tragicomic sentiment.

The only negative was that changing the sets required the curtain to go down every twenty minutes or so, with the orchestra ceasing to play, the lights going on, and the audience descending into chatter for a few minute before the stage was ready and the singers could carry on. It’s understandable that it needed to be done, but each time took you out of the magic of the story and back to reality – then, as soon as you were back in the action, there was another set change.

The famous Glyndebourne long intermission was almost an unwelcome obstruction. Mostly because this year’s summer is nothing like last year, so we had a speedy, shivering picnic on the lawns and then queued a long time for hot beverages. Luckily, Glyndebourne staff were proactively handing out blankets to keep us warm. But as we all know, weather is unpredictable, so it was only after the opera finished that we could properly enjoy the gardens – it had warmed up towards the evening, and dusk was strikingly beautiful.

All I know is that whatever gripes I may temporarily have, Glyndebourne is a magical experience, and I can’t wait to relive it all again next year.

The Rake’s Progress is at Glyndebourne until 27 August.

Review: Patriots

When it comes to reviewing Patriots, there’s the practical and there’s the emotional. The practical is simply appraising the actors — Tom Hollander, Will Keen, and Luke Thallon as Boris Berezovsky, Vladimir Putin, and Roman Abramovich, respectively — and Peter Morgan’s script. But to me, Russian history, especially recent Russian history, is a mess of emotions.

The very nature of feeling Russian — of speaking the language, living the culture, knowing the history — without being Russian in the truest sense of the word, is a constant internal conflict. I was born in 1991 — the very year the Soviet Union disbanded — in Latvia to a family of Ukrainians. I grew up speaking Russian, but I was never Russian.

I lived through the 90s — sheltered by childhood, of course, but nevertheless conscious of the disorder, the violence, the fear. And then, as I moved away and into the West, I watched from the sidelines as history played out. All the moments depicted in the play — the car bombs, Boris Yeltsin’s speeches, the rise of Vladimir Putin, the Chechen wars, the poisonings and murders and deaths.

It was fascinating to see it all on stage, written by someone who had a completely different context and yet managed to capture some of the sentimentality of the Russian soul. Of course, I would’ve probably quoted Mariengof instead of talking about ushanki, but that’s probably personal preference. There’s also the fact that hearing English people (mis)pronounce Russian words, regardless of how fantastic their acting is otherwise, destroys suspension of disbelief.

The play recognised that there are no heroes in this story. It acknowledges the complexity of human motivation — in a way, it almost revisits Leo Tolstoy’s repudiation of the great man theory. There are so many different interests, various alliances, and political forces at play, that history follows those currents. That being said, I did find it strange that the only person portrayed almost without criticism was Aleksandr Litvinenko.

There were a few other things that surprised me. Despite the Chechen terror attacks and war being mentioned a few times, there was silence on the topic of Beslan — a crucial turning point in the crisis. Also, the reference to Vlad Listev, who was never mentioned by name, but immediately recognisable, felt tactless, especially given that he was also murdered, very likely by the state.

I also can’t say that I ever expected to hear so much Vladimir Vysotsky in a play about Russian oligarchs. There’s got to be some sort of irony to it, no? Maybe it says something about my poetic, sentimental soul, but my biggest takeaway was to go and listen to all my favourites, including Лирическая, over which Berezovsky and Putin bond in some St Petersburg bar.

Maybe that’s the whole point — people like Vysotsky feel human. We empathise with their struggle. We relate to it. But the lives of oligarchs are alien to us. And I wonder, how can people care so much about something that, ultimately, doesn’t matter? That’s the tragedy of life — those with power are desperate to hold on to it, irrespective of the damage they do to anyone else. But maybe for someone who doesn’t feel this as deeply as I do, it’s just an interesting look at history with brilliant actors, excellent staging, and a beautiful soundtrack.

Patriots is at Noel Coward Theatre until 19 August.

Travels through Iceland

It’s taken me a while to figure out the right way to start this travelogue. Even though my trip to Iceland was only 2.5 days, I saw so much — did so much — that it’s still hard to absorb. I feel as if I’ve been travelling for months.

But in reality, it was a surprisingly quick flight over from London to arrive in Reykjavik just after four on Friday afternoon, a short stopover in the capital for a coffee and a climb up to the top of Hallgrimskirkja, and a drive through the drizzle to Bogarnes, where we spent our first night eating fish, meeting cats, and being devoured by midges.

I had roughly sketched out what I wanted to do for the two full days we had in Iceland — Saturday and Sunday — but this was all redrawn as we accounted for weather conditions and my sudden desire to see lava. Spoiler alert, no lava, but a whole lot of hiking.

We started in Snæfellsnes, where we parked just between Kirkjufell and Kirkjufellsfoss — the mountain and the waterfall. Climbing Kirkjufell was probably the best hike I’ve ever been on. It involved three sets of ropes to get to the very top, at which point we were balanced precariously on a narrow ridge with gorgeous views across the bay.

But even more exciting was the fact that we saw not one, but two arctic foxes foraging. They were wearing their black coats for the summer, looking almost exactly like large cats as they swished their tails back and forth. Other than them and the multitude of birds, we were alone at what felt like the top of the world — but was actually only 463m.

Coming down, we encountered a lot of hikers, many of whom were woefully unprepared for what lay ahead. I suspect it had to do with the cruise ship that had docked that morning. We took a look at the waterfall, which was absolutely crammed with tourists — presumably those who didn’t dare brave the menacing mountain.

As we drove the meandering roads back through to Reykjavik and to our next destination — Fagradalsfjall, the volcano — we couldn’t stop marvelling at the beauty of the nature surrounding us. I know it’s been said many times before, but it truly is like another planet.

Once we’d gotten to the carpark for the volcano trail, the clouds had descended. Visibility was next to none as we started off, but it had cleared up by the time we reached the final destination, opening up to show us the hardened lava that had flowed not so long ago. I’m not sure where, but somewhere in the vicinity the volcano was still erupting, but unfortunately (or fortunately?) we didn’t encounter any molten rock.

We were chased away by a persistent cloud that hid everything from sight, climbing back down the mountain and to the lovely Loa’s Nest, our accommodation for the night. The next morning was my birthday, so though we were eager to get going, we waited for the delicious breakfast waffles the hosts are famed for — and they didn’t disappoint! We scarfed down a few portions and made our way to the car — we were driving over 500km that day to catch all the sights.

Our first stop was Seljalandsfoss. I felt like a child again, running underneath the waterfall and behind it and all around. Even better, 500m down the trail was a cave leading to another waterfall, presumably part of the same system, but even more delightful in its secrecy. Full of emotion and drenched to the bone, we took off to the next destination, which was meant to be Skogafoss, but ended up being Sólheimajökull when I spotted it off the Ring Road and my husband followed my fascination.

It was raining and terribly cold, but I was in awe. We didn’t have time to hike the glacier, but noted it down for next time. We then stopped for coffee and a snack on the other side of the Black Beach, where my husband braved the waters — he’d taken a dip in Scotland back in April and wanted to claim an even more Northern swim.

Our next stop was the reason for driving so far. I had desperately wanted to see Diamond Beach — Breidamerkursandur. In reality, it proved less dramatic than in the photos, but to make up for it was the nearby Jökulsárlón, which was a sight to behold. An ice lagoon with blue mountains in the background — I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. And there was even a seal fishing down the estuary!

We turned back, but we’d had the foresight to leave some sights for the return trip — the touristy side of Black Beach, where we had to chase a few sheep off the road, and Fjaðrárgljúfur, a canyon hidden away from the main road. The viewpoints were wonderfully placed, allowing a full view of the depth of the canyon and the waterfall.

We saved Skógafoss for last, running up the 60m to the top with great speed — we’re in training to race the train in two weeks’ time, after all — and then as close as we could into the waterfall itself. It was more than enough to wake us up for the long drive to our final hotel before an early morning flight, the wonderful Hlid Fisherman’s Village.

While we could feel the trip winding down, there were still marvellous sights out the window — the steam of distant lagoons, the jagged mountain peaks, a glorious red sunset. A perfect end to a perfect trip.

Review: A Little Life

I’m going to say something that, judging by the reviews I read and the standing ovation I witnessed, is probably an unpopular opinion. I thought A Little Life was awful — not in terms of plot, because I read the book and was prepared for its unspeakable horrors, but in terms of the acting, the staging, and simply the lack of emotion.

Maybe some books shouldn’t be performed on stage. Especially not when it’s the plot that’s faithfully reenacted rather than multifaceted nuances surrounding male friendship, mental health, addiction, trauma, and accountability. The book had so much depth. And despite the fact that it was equally miserable, it never read like “misery porn” — unlike the performance.

Given the considerable length of the novel, it’s not surprising that the play was equally long — 3:40. But it focussed too much on recreating all the plot points rather than developing a relationship between the audience and the cast of famous actors — James Norton of Happy Valley fame, Luke Thompson of Bridgerton, Omari Douglas of It’s a Sin, and Zach Wyatt of The Witcher.

I haven’t seen any of the TV shows for which they’re known, but their acting left a lot to be desired. I’ve seen raving reviews of Norton’s Jude St Francis and simply can’t understand it — did they watch the same play I did? Norton was stilted, unsympathetic, unable to bring anything to the table except misery. In the book, he was an unshakeable part of the foursome, but in the play, nothing about their friendship made any sense.

As the performance raced through the plot points, jumping around in chronology, things were happening with no context — we hadn’t seen enough of their relationship to understand why Harold suddenly wants to adopt Jude. Willem’s love for Jude comes out of nowhere. The only one that makes any sense, frankly, is JB at his cruellest, mocking Jude and then collapsing in agony as he realises the consequences of his words and actions.

But the confines of the play offers no time to delve into JB’s addictions or Malcolm’s inferiority complex. They’re relegated, sidelined — perhaps understandably, but then again, wasn’t their friendship and their love for one another the whole point of the book? The worst, for me, was watching the play destroy the book’s tender budding romance between Willem and Jude. I almost feel like I should reread it to convince myself that what I felt while reading was real.

I could go on and on. And it’s really a shame, because I dreamed of watching the story come to life before my eyes — a deconstruction of male relationships, the dichotomy of cruelty and tenderness. In its defence, A Little Life did try to address this aspect, counterbalancing cruel figures from Jude’s past against the love Harold has for him and contrasting the partner who nearly killed him with the sensitivity of Willem. But it wasn’t enough.

What resulted is a poorly directed, choppy play with bad acting. Perhaps I’m the only one who feels this way, but I feel this way quite strongly, so I won’t shy away from it. It could’ve been brilliant, but this dramatisation of A Little Life failed.

As a final note — and please forgive my continued negativity — I’d also like to dedicate some space to the Savoy Theatre. Because it really needs it — space, that is. It was so unbearably cramped and hot that one woman passed out during the performance and needed medical treatment. I understand that it’s an old building, but it’s a tragedy waiting to happen.

A Little Life is at Savoy Theatre until 5 August.