Poulstone Court: Entrances & Exits
by Jo Elliott
17-19 February 2006
Michelle Pender & Helen Roberts
The day did not get off to a promising start. A half hour
wait at security, more than an hour waiting for our hire car, and then Den
dropped her bag, breaking a bottle and flooding my bag of chocolates with
blueberry syrup. However, things improved once we squeezed ourselves and our
many bags into the car and set off. It is amazing how much luggage a dancer
needs to travel with. After a leisurely visit and a quick lunch at Ikea, I place
I don’t propose to talk about in case I offend everyone again, we continued on
our way down the motorway. Heading south, alternately cruising and crawling, to
the accompaniment of the polite directions from Chrissy’s sat-nav - “Turn left,
“Take the second exit,” and “You are going the wrong way. Find a place to turn
round.” - all was going well until we were only a short distance from our
destination. At this point, a small cross-roads in the middle of nowhere, our
hire car attempted to occupy the same spatial location as a big grey van, with
disastrous results.
Adrienne, Denise and I scrambled out with nothing worse than a few bruises
between us, but Catherine had a bump on her head. Chrissy had an even bigger
bump and was seeing double. The van’s driver was unhurt, but both vehicles were
badly squashed. Within minutes the blue lights began to arrive, first a
paramedic in a car, then two police vehicles, a fire engine and a rescue tender,
and finally an ambulance. Five hunkey firemen set to work with great enthusiasm
to demolish the car door. Chrissy says she didn’t mind this part one little bit.
Finally they succeeded in getting her out, and the ambulance whisked her and
Catherine away to the hospital in Hereford. The man from the AA loaded our poor
battered car onto the low loader, and drove us the remaining few miles along
increasingly tiny lanes, until we reached a huge house at the end of a long
driveway. One glance through the window told me we had come to the right place:
all I could see was a dazzling riot of colour from Michelle’s bazaar.
The girls were wonderful. They unloaded our bags, sat us down, and gave us cups
of tea and platefuls of food. The cooking at Poulstone Court is excellent, by
the way, and entirely vegetarian, which pleased Adrienne greatly. The house
itself is pretty remarkable. It is, I think, Victorian, built of red brick and
in the Tudor style. It is a three-bedroom country house, but each bedroom is
about the size of a school playground, and has an only slightly smaller
dressing-room attached. There is also a nursery, a sewing room, several
reception rooms plus the servants’ quarters. These days it is used for retreats,
for spiritual healing and tai-chi.
Adrienne’s mobile rang in the middle of the orientation talk. It was Chrissy:
she and Catherine had been checked over and were being allowed to leave. The
caretaker very kindly offered to fetch them, and Den volunteered to go with him.
So then there were two. With two workshops to choose from, Adrienne and I
decided to split forces. She went off to learn a Persian choreography with
Helen, and I picked and stumbled my way out to the other workspace in the barn,
to study entrances and exits with Michelle. I felt we had already made a
sufficiently dramatic entrance. However, the workshop was full of useful
information: about how to look confident and keep your chin up, to pick exactly
the right point in the music to start moving, to greet your audience and to look
them in the eye, and when to do lots of stuff and when to keep it simple. I was
finding it a little hard to concentrate, but I enjoyed myself and managed to
take some notes for Chrissy and the others.
By the time we got back to the lounge they had all arrived. We sat around
talking and starting to unwind. Michelle helped the process by showing us an
instructional video by the Worst Dancer in the World. Ever. It was truly dire.
Most beginners, in their second week, could do better than this self-appointed
teacher. She - or possibly he, opinion was divided - had no rhythm, no grace,
and negative quantities of dress-sense. Also she had some strange and unusual
moves: the Egyptian Run, anyone? The Turkish Flop? The Breast Shimmy?
By this time it was past midnight and I was having trouble staying awake. I
crawled upstairs to the most comfortable bed in the world and slept till
morning.
Saturday morning featured a buffet breakfast, all you can
eat, as long as it’s toast, cereal or fruit. Hummus on toast was a nice idea.
But soon we were moving again. We were divided into two groups, one to do
Spanish Arabic fusion with Michelle, the other to learn to dance a drum solo
with Helen. Then the groups would swap around in the afternoon.
Of the two, I would say I preferred the drum solo (but only just!). This could
be because it was something I have always wanted to learn. Helen is very good at
small, contained movements using the muscles only. I will need to practice these
at home. I discovered a brand new muscle, the gluteus minimus, also known as the
“knicker elastic muscle” from its position directly under the gluteus maximus.
Contracting it gives you a neat little hip swerve.
After lunch, I joined Michelle to learn the Fusion choreography. Spanish and
Arabic dance blend surprisingly well. The two worlds meet, of course, in the
south of Spain, and I once spent a wonderful few days on a dance holiday in
Granada. The fusion has all the flamboyance of Spanish dance, the struts, the
stamps and the proud posture, and also the gracefulness and flow of the Arabic.
It was lots of fun to learn.
There was no rest after the class ended. Chrissy, Adrienne and Den had been
rehearsing an elaborate sword dance for the last couple of months, and were
planning to perform it at the hafla that night. But Chrissy was still feeling
very shaken, and was having difficulty raising her hand higher than her
shoulder. Some rapid re-choreographing was needed. Catherine and I had been
practicing a hastily-assembled veil dance for a much shorter time, and we needed
to run through it a couple of times more. Although it wasn’t perfect we decided
it was too late to change anything, and it would just have to be all right on
the night.
At nine o’clock, or thereabouts, everyone gathered in the main lounge. Michelle
had decorated it with fairy lights and banners, and it all looked very pretty.
Adrienne, Den and Chrissy made a most dramatic entrance in full Tribal costume:
the skirts with the twelve yard hems, the turbans, and the elaborate jewellery.
Their sword dance went very well and looked fantastic. Everybody joined in at
least one of the dances: there was the Persian dance, the drum solo, and two
groups of fusion, solos from both teachers, and groups and solos by the
students. Catherine and I got through our veil dance without any mistakes for
the first time ever. I was very proud of us. Food appeared: baklava, dates,
dried apricots, crisps and dips, peanuts and even a bowl of rather sticky
blueberry flavoured chocolates. Late in the evening Michelle brought the drums
out, and we drummed and danced until some early hour of the morning.
Sunday could have been an anti-climax, but there was still
plenty to do. We had a choice of workshops in the morning: sword or arm and hand
movements, sagaats or North African dance. I had lost a little of my enthusiasm
for swords since dropping one on my hand the other week, so I chose to do arms.
It was well worth it. I learned a great deal, about using the hands to emphasise
or frame body movement, when not to use them at all, and how to steal arm
movements from other dance forms. After the break, coffee and home-made cake, I
found myself with all my friends trying out a variety of north African dances;
Algerian, Tunisian, Tuareg, and others. It was all very energetic and good fun.
All good things come to an end. The final workshop was Dance and Drum, taken by
both teachers together. Half way through our taxi arrived, and we had to leave.
We waved goodbye to all our new friends, grabbed our bags, and made our exit.
In spite of the bad start, taking one thing with another, it was a very good
weekend. Both Helen and Michelle are excellent teachers, and I learned so much.
It felt good to be in such a beautiful place, with so many wonderful people,
doing something we enjoy.
The journey home was largely uneventful. I remember a long smooth ride by quiet
roads and small towns, never touching the motorway, with neither road works nor
tail backs in sight. We ate fish and chips in Garfunkle’s at Manchester airport,
and I saw Chrissy, grinning, drumming out a mansoor rhythm to the music playing
in the background. Our little plane hoisted itself up into the murky sky, and a
short while later I was leaning forward and looking for a sign of the island
ahead. A wing dipped, and suddenly there were the lights of Douglas spread out
beneath us, gleaming and glittering like a tiara from Michelle’s bazaar.
Ok, perhaps I’m just glad to be home.
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