Ole! Lorca comes to Norfolk

THE AFTERNOON was hot and still, and the pretty village silent and apparently empty. Perplexed and lost, we had stopped the car when a small boy rounded a corner on his bike and skeetered to a halt. We asked him the way. After a moment's thought, he decided it was easiest to show us. Just then, his little sister rolled up on a tricycle. "Keep up," he commanded. "We're taking 'em to the theatre."

Our little procession set off slowly down a narrow lane. At the end, several cars were waiting at a farm gate. This was it. We thanked the children, joined the queue and drove into a big farmyard. People unloaded picnics and trotted through a lofty flint barn, so we went too. It was a revelation. North of Swaffham, in the depths of rural Norfolk, lured by a single sign, we had stumbled upon the Westacre Open Air Theatre.

In the middle of the 12th century, an Augustinian priory was built here. Though it was once enormous, only ruins remain. We crossed a narrow river - fast-flowing and full of weeds, rippling like the hair of a drowned Ophelia - and climbed a small hill. There, casting a long shadow across the golden afternoon, stood the tallest wall of the old infirmary, which was made from flint and bits of brick, and pierced by a couple of ragged arches and slung about with creepers. From its base projected an apron stage, ready for a new production of a high-camp play. Set in the Seventies, in a Fawltyesque seaside hotel, with words by Shakespeare, it was The Merry Wives at The Windsor.

We'd have loved to stay but the performance was sold out, so we booked for the following Tuesday, took directions from a friendly usher, and left.

By Tuesday, the weather was beginning to crumble. There was something more monastic, less Glyndebourney about the place when swept by drifting drizzle. But the weather has never halted a performance in 10 years, and a tent kept our picnicking jocund. Besides, though the stage is open to the elements, the seating is under cover. We'd be all right.

And so we were. The rain eased, a peremptory, staccato drumbeat silenced the crowd, the stage filled with Spanish peasants and the first night of Lorca's Blood Wedding began.

Though most of the cast are amateurs from village families, you wouldn't have guessed it. So polished was the production, so committed the performance that, by the time the interval came, we had completely forgotten the damp water-meadows, the munching cattle and the slow English dusk. We were sweltering in the heat of Andalusia, witnessing the passions of a doomed marriage, a faithless bride and the inevitability of a dreadful denouement. So caught up in it all were my children, that they were only half-joking when they asked to join the stamping, chanting wedding-procession, winding its way among the ruins in the twilight.

By the start of the second half, it was nearly dark. The rain was beginning again and plastic sheeting had appeared around the drumkit. The front row was tucking blankets round its knees; someone jokingly promised us Ovaltine in 10 minutes. Yet once again, within moments, we were back in Spain. The largely farming audience found much to identify with in Ted Hughes's sinewy translation. They sympathised audibly with the bride's father's hopes for his alfalfa crop, and laughed knowingly at his desire for grandsons: "This land needs strong hands that cost nothing, against the weeds and the stones." "As bulls go," the groom's mother retorts, "my son will be a good worker."

Afterwards, in the bar, I talked to Isabel Smith. A fine actress, she is also the administrator of Westacre. She and her neighbour, the actor/director Andy Naylor, started it in 1990, and despite its rapid growth, it remains a largely local affair. Isabel's husband, Andrew, built the stage, her son, Joseph (who works at the National Theatre), takes many leading roles. Fewer than 150 people live in the village, but the tiny community enthusiastically supports this serious drama festival that lasts nearly a month, fields three new productions a year, and grows more ambitious every season. There is only, apparently, one dissenter - a slightly fey woman who blames the actors for the death of her ducks.

We were lucky to get the last seats that Tuesday: there is a waiting- list for returns most nights. And it's not really surprising. People who live in the country are forced grimly to endure the loss of jobs, post-offices and schools, but the human need for drama is very deeply rooted. We came away with a buoyant conviction that theatre, like ragwort, will always survive.

Westacre '99 ends tomorrow. Box office, mailing list and enquiries: 01760 755800