The Edinburgh Fringe Festival

Writer Helen Jamieson immerses herself in Edinburgh's Festival season and comes up dripping with inspiration.
I've never been to Edinburgh before. When I first began my OE twelve years ago, I got as far as India, had a wild time, did lots of personal growth, spent all my money and came back home. Now, I'm kind of glad to be doing this stretch of it with more of a sense of purpose.

I'm here to cover the festival for a number of publications, but I'm also here for myself: to step outside my life for a brief time and experience something new; and to nurture my creative self with an indulgent bath in the arts of the world.

So here I am in Scotland, where my ancestors built the cairns and forts I see dotted across paddocks. There are cobbled streets and grand old stone buildings; plumbing that gurgles almost incessantly; brown hills blotched with purple heather; double-decker buses and standard black taxis; haggis, whiskey and kilted pipers. No butter conditioners and no eftpos, but this Dunedin born and bred lass feels very much at home in Scotland.

And it's Festival time! The streets are clogged with coaches and teeming with tourists. Flyers, forced upon you by fanatic thespians, later flutter along the flagstones. The beautiful city disappears beneath the pandemonium of publicity hype. I can't walk down the street without being begged and courted to see half a dozen shows.

Street performers jostle each other and buskers vie for audio space. Yamoto, a deafeningly energetic group of Japanese drummers, are definitely the winners, although the bagpipes on every corner and those with amplified sound put up a pretty good fight.

I'm making the most of my press pass; three or four shows a day is about enough, and even then they all begin to merge. I spend the day tramping from one venue to the next, and at night fall into an exhausted sleep, my dreams bursting with competing images.

Surreal clowns and impish angels drift across strange landscapes, followed by a procession of costumed freaks. Then a raw solo actor leaps into a spot-light to disclose a heart-stopping tear-jerking true-life tragedy. Fortunately a chorus of youthful singers takes over with a soothing Gaelic song. This is followed by a frenetic tap dance performed by male and female impersonators, who in turn are rudely interrupted by O.J. Simpson arguing with Macbeth about who has seen the most convincing ghost. I wake sweating with the sound of bagpipes ringing in my ears.

Yep, I've seen around 50 shows in less that 3 weeks, not counting the buskers, street performances and real life entertainment. The whole city has become one giant fringe show. Ambling along the alleyways or sitting in the park, I am surrounded by inspired madness. Thank god there is so much stone weighing down the city, otherwise the buzzing energy might lift it off the ground and carry it out to sea.

While it's an exhilarating once-in-a-lifetime not-to-be-missed must-see spectacle, there is the need to escape occasionally. A trip to Loch Ness to photograph the monster gives me two completely show-free days. Time out to let it all sink in, scribble in my diary, catch up with old friends, and gaze at ancient monuments.

Back in town, the concurrent Book Festival is another source of relief from the chaos. A secluded cluster of cool white tents nestle within iron railings, inwardly facing and serenely quiet. The rustle of pages and soft murmur of voices is only sometimes broken by appreciative clapping after the authors read and discuss their work.

The International Festival of the Arts and the Edinburgh Film Festival are also taking place simultaneously, but having trouble asserting themselves in the face of over 1000 fringe shows. This year, the Fringe Festival has caused controversy by starting a week earlier than the others, and debate rages over the merits of this cheeky move.

Choosing what to see is my greatest dilemma; at first I take pot luck and see anything that sounds remotely interesting, but by the third week I'm almost sated and won't go to anything that hasn't been highly recommended.

Everyone wants to know everyone else's recommendations. I instruct the few people I know to go and see "Once" by the Russian group Derevo; it's a beautiful, imaginative, magical, enchanting, romantic, funny fairy story that will transport you to a world you forgot existed. What more can I say? "Once" is definitely my pick of the fringe.

Another exciting production is "Gargantua", an exploration of bodily functions that leads the audience through a dusty labyrinth beneath the city's central library and travels from mythological times to the oppressive present via a smorgasbord of language, imagery and art.

"Disco Pigs" is an Irish play about the depressing existence of two working class teenagers, but set in the semi-fantasy world they inhabit. It takes me a while to get the hang of their rapid fire lingo, and their uncontained energy is exhausting, but it's a passionate and moving performance.

Australian band Ruby Fruit Jungle are an incredible experience, performing original music that draws on traditions from around the world with a combination of personal styles and talents that makes them fascinating to watch.

There are too many other fantastic shows to mention them all. I've been pleasantly surprised by the quality; even the small companies that have struggled to be here, made compromises to fit into strange little venues, and whose flyers barely stand out from the crowd still manage to impress.

Less than impressive is the weather, careering from near heat wave to gusts of icy rain in the space of a few hours. The locals assure me it's an unusually "shite" summer, but I don't think people come here for the climate. But hey, who cares if it rains or shines when I'm spending most of my days and nights in the darkened theatres?

Out in the light, the galleries and museums offer an enormous range of exhibitions including jewellery, architecture, computer art, craft, photography, and "Southern Lights" - 150 years of art from the Scottish settlement of Otago.

I'm under instruction from a writer I admire to check out some ancient silver Celtic chains at the National Museum, but a thorough search only reveals one possible chain, in a small "exhibition coming soon" display. Can this be what she meant? I'm staring at it, struggling to find something deep in it's heavy round links, but alas, there is no thunderbolt (never mind, Keri, I'm going to see Manic Opera on Friday).

Away from the venues, there is a plethora of cafes, bars and nightclubs waiting to relieve you of your pounds in return for a session of socialising, analysing, reminiscing, drinking, dancing and pondering (I wonder how many of these cafes survive outside of festival time). I begin to run into people I know in bars; I'm starting to feel like a local!

Three weeks of art and theatre indulgence, with plenty of socialising and a trip to Loch Ness thrown in - it's got to be good for the soul. Away from the strings and knots of my "real" life I can set my self free, allow my self to be inspired, provoked, teased, admired and motivated. As I wind down and prepare to move on, the challenge is to hang on to it all and keep it alive within me.