Bradford-on-Avon's poetry entrepreneur Dawn Gorman has found a new and more glamorous venue for Words & Ears, and The Swan Cellar Bar was crammed on Monday night. David C Johnson, self-styled 'half man, half pippin' led an evening of varied and enjoyable contributions with performances from his new book Fallen Apples, and I'm pleased to say the Frome posse all participated too - here's 'domestic goddess' Rosie sharing quirky thoughts on housework.

Bath's Mission Theatre celebrated the 7th birthday of resident group Next Stage Company with the opening night of Jerusalem - a startling coup since its multi-starred West End production closed only last week, with queues throughout the night for the final performances. Jez Butterworth's play is about society's relationship to outsiders, national psyche, authority, change, love, loss, and basically the meaning of life: his brilliant script was also showcase for Mark Rylance as Johnny 'Rooster' Byron, the swaggering reprobate whose life blood is the sap of essential energy destroyed as wild woodlands are eroded by new estates. Comparison is impossible yet inevitable, and this bold production scores surprisingly well, finding the humour & humanity, maintaining energy & suspense, and with a positive advantage in the genuine youthfulness of Rooster's under-age woodland 'rats' which creates the credibility - and underlines the vulnerability - of his kingdom. Set, sound, and lighting are excellent, with creditable performances by all the cast and Tim Evan charismatic in the central role. Huge credit to director Ann Garner for bringing an extraordinary and important play successfully to Bath. Highly recommended - it's on till Saturday.

- as a postscript to my comments above, Mission Theatre's snatching of the Rylance baton has been noted by the arts section in the i, with a big fat picture as well as quotes from the director. Nice one Next Stage!
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Until a few weeks ago, my mental image of 'the Canary Islands' was rowdy bars and rows of loungers on black sand. I'd never heard of La Gomera, reached by ferry from western side of Tenerife. So if your geography is as shaky as mine, you might like to know the total population of this 2-million-year dormant volcano is slightly less than that of Frome, and most of this tiny circular island is covered with one of the oldest natural forests of the world.
You can walk deep into the laurel 'cloud forest' with moss thick as hoarfrost on every branch, you can climb literally out of the clouds into brilliant blue sky again at the top of the rocks, and an hour's walk will take you through eco-systems varying from dense pine forest to near-barren rocks polka-dotted with cactus and aloe vera.
Every turn in the hairpin-roads brings vistas to make you gasp, from the hikers' paradise of Garajonay National Park right down to the palm fringed bays 1450 metres below.
And then you drive back along the narrow mountain road past rural settlements painted moorish colours of cinamon and gold, a route that becomes daily more familiar - there's the goats, there's the bar with the bougainvillea - there's our house, in the middle of Chejelipes, as Madness might sing.

And the apartment was utterly astounding. A picky person might take issue with the broken cooker and paucity of light bulbs, but there's a coffee-machine and a fridge, and what I'll always remember is the panoramic window giving amazing views right down the valley, high above the reservoir where hawks circle slowly in sheer blue sky in the morning and at night the moon rose slowly above craggy distant hills.

Which brings me back to lounging beside black sand, which after 2 or 3 - or even 5 - hours of strenuous walking seems a grand idea, when beer comes in frosted glasses and all you can think is: it's December, and it's 23 degrees!

So I've just spent a week of my life without wifi or internet access, and mostly without mobile signal. But I've seen dolphins and exotic plants and primeval forests and incredible rock formations in sunshine and mist, in places I could never have imagined and places I'll never forget...

Back in the real world, there was a festive feel in the air at Words&Ears Poetry night in Bradford-on-Avon on Monday, so thanks to Frome posse - Rose, Alison, and Rosie - for so brilliantly supporting my guest spot. For an angelic footnote: click here then Programmes and scroll down to Dec 18th Seeing Things - A Week of Angels for David Chandler's programme on FromeFM featuring some of the great poets of Frome.
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So now it's December there's no holding back the encroaching of spangles and jingles and festive tingles. I joined the throng on Catherine Hill for Sunday's Artisan market, where Marian Bruce's studio was offering winter stabling for the SCRAPTORS horse while delicious fare and delectable fairings were selling like hot punch all along the cobbles.

On Monday night we went Into the Wardrobe for the final Frome Poetry Cafe of the year: our annual Merlin Christmas Show Special with theatre tickets for 'best' readings inspired by The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Making the selection was Mayor Nick White - appropriately an actor himself.
"Just fantastic - really brilliant" was his overall verdict on the fabulous range of performances, from sultry wintry magic from Rose Flint to festive sauciness with Muriel Lavender and Liv Torc, and some moving personal pieces as well as lashings of wicked wit around the theme. Nick's final pick went to Alison Clink's quirky musings on Narnia and Phyllis Higgins' cautionary tale of an impressionable child who would try it at home, although "I explained to her that household furniture/ Seldom conceals an other world aperture..."

And with two writing circles in one day, my writers' year ends in a plethora of chocolate, Prosecco, and fascinating readings and discussions. There'll be more celebrations of course, but I'll miss some of them as I'm away next week - but I'll be back for Words & Ears Poetry Cafe at Bradford on Avon. Be there, as they say, or be elsewhere...

In the fabulously inventive and audaciously absurd world of Gonzo Moose, Wilhelm and Jacob Grimm, the famous fairytale-collecting brothers featured in their touring production Grimm and Grimmer, are just like Jedward, except one looks like Tweedledum and the other looks like Robin Cook. It's tempting to say that, in their various fairytale guises, Seamus Allen and Mark Conway steal every scene with their witty physicality, but I'm aware too that the charm and theatrical presence of Lauren Silver, in the single role of their sister Lotte, is the glue that holds this hilarious chaos together. The plot is essentially pure fairytale: the hero(ine)'s journey, the helpers (an ear, some lascivious elves), the darkest hour (top tip: brute force beats magic) but with a large helping of Monty Python and Gonzo Moose black humour sprinkled in. And blood. "Let's never do that again" say the Grimm boys, back in Jedward unison mode, after the (not-gratuitous-at-all) blood-gushing heart-surgery scene at the end... I've missed a bit of the story, actually. The show came to Bath's tidy little Rondo Theatre for one night only - I think you should all go & see it in Oxford next month.

Angels... what are they like? I've known some strange ones. Marian Bruce's amazing life-size installations - arguing, whoring, desolate... The Recording Angel in my play Love Bites, whose smart-arse jocularity would make him voiceover candidate for any celestial Come Dine With Me. Historically of course angels are depicted with feathery, birdlike, wings: the Tom Lomax artifacts exhibited at Rook Lane Arts are more cerebral, calculated apparently according to rules of alchemy, but the tiny ones looked to me more like mangled fondant mice. Whatever one's expectations, Rose Flint's excellent poetry workshop at that exhibition space inspired wide-ranging thoughts and feelings: Linda Perry's magnificent piece accused her chosen angel of looking for bones to hang your bare existence on, and as Rose commented, all our angels were pretty broken. I look forward to next Monday, when I hope to remeet some of these psychotic, traumatised, mutilated, angels struggling towards the Poetry Cafe to be born again....

Still on a poetic theme, a quick plug for Words & Ears, Dawn Gorman's monthly gig in Bradford on Avon, where I'm flying the flag for the Provocative Elder movement next month - also small poetic role as sexegenarian separatist at the fundraiser party for Keep Frome Local on December 1st.

Homecoming often means counting degrees of heat difference on fingers of both hands and toes of both feet and wanting to curl up under my autumnal duvet - but Liv Torc guesting at Words&Ears in Bradford-on-Avon looked like a don't-miss event, so Muriel Lavender and I went along to hear the Wondermentalist poet whose website mission statement pledges Liv Torc seeks the humanity and absurdity within the human condition and when she finds it, she strips it naked and kicks it...
The Asbo bard did not disappoint. Kissing, beards (nastiness thereof), the wet patch (its charm), love generally and Amy Winehouse in particular, Liv is empathetic and enchanting.
To be fair to the English weather, although it's rarely fair to me, we've had some lovely days since my return, one of which occurred for the Writing BootCamp picnic party. This has been the summer inspiration of Alison Clink and Frances Liardet, whose lovely house we've weekly invaded for intensive inspections of work-in-progress.
Around two dozen local writers (I told you Frome was prolific, didn't I?) arrive at these sessions to share current work, pitch projects, and generally expose our vulnerable authorial bellies for the compassion, and passion, of like-minded scribes. Groupings - there are obviously several, with such high numbers of participants - are by lot, but always seem to provide the right mix of diversity and empathy. So here we are, some of us at least, celebrating this amazingly egalitarian and supportive experience, a summer Boot Camp with flip-flop friendliness, marching us all on to further writerly achievements.

The Madness of George III, directed by Christopher Luscombe for the Peter Hall Company at Bath Theatre Royal, is not as much like the Nigel Hawthorne/Helen Mirron movie as you might expect. Alan Bennett's script is clever and dazzling, of course, with intriguing insights into 18th Century attitudes to politics, medicine, and manners, but the focus here is on spectacle. Characters place themselves like playing cards lined up for an elaborate game and there’s no pretence of natural interaction as they deliver their lines. Scenes are static, so static that the production seemed almost like an elaborately costumed play-reading – but hey, hey, as the Farmer King would say, what costumes! Gillray lived and breathed through the Prince Regent and his coterie.
In a big bland theatre with a vast stage to fill this was probably the best strategy, and evoked a sense of Shakespearean drama, from the broad comedy of the kings poo to the tragedy of his downfall into lunacy. George recalls Richard II in his collapse to the ground to tell sad stories of the death of kings, and the parallel is plangent in a late scene as he reads from King Lear.
George III is a fascinating character, sane or mad: grieving for the lost colonies of America in a John of Gaunt-like speech, childlike games of Mr and Mrs King with his unerotic but much-loved wife, and plaintive repetitions of “I am the King!” as sanity spirals out of his grasp and his people slip away from his control. A thought-provoking, splendidly visual, evening with a first class cast – especially the king himself, played due to illness by understudy Simon Markey who was promoted from footman for the occasion and received well-deserved cheers at the final curtain.

And to round off the week: The Merlin Young Company presented their production of Fame, unbelievably well choreographed and performed after an incredible two-week-only intensive workshop. A full auditorium laughed and wept and cheered the huge cast of energetic youngsters who sang and danced their way through this iconic 80s story making it fresh as tomorrow, the hiphop dancers adding especial vibrancy. Ensemble sets fantastic, and especially moving performances from young Dillon Berry, Matt Graham as the shy thespian, and Kara Horler as Carmen. Claudia Pepler, who directed the show, should be proud as well as delighted. (Thanks Mike for the pictures)
And on the way home we called in at The Cornerhouse, Frome's favourite live music pub, where the John Law Trio were making amazing jazz with luschious singer Emma Harris.
This is Frome on a Friday night - nothing bought in, all local produce.
Now I don't mean to be boring but honestly, where else in the world.....