There's Something I've Been Dying to Tell You (13 page)

We moved on to Herefordshire and there was a wonderful event called the Mortimer Country Food Fair. My challenge here was to make a Welsh cake with a secret ingredient. So we spent a morning at a cider museum, where else? I met a lovely man who introduced me to the wonders of Perry cider. My head was spinning by the time I came out into the sunlight clutching a bottle of pear cider.

It was weird doing this series because I had given up the drink for several years. I’ve gone into a lot of detail in my first memoir
Lost and Found
about my somewhat difficult relationship with the drink: too much of it, basically. Then when I met Michael he too drank way too much, as it tends to go with the life in Spain. There is no doubt it had never done anything positive for me. Michael gave it up under doctor’s orders – ‘Stop drinking or you will have a heart attack or stroke in ten years!’ he was told – and I bravely carried on for six months on my own but realised it would ruin my relationship with Michael. Although he did not exactly give me an ultimatum it was clear he was unhappy with having a girlfriend who would occasionally get legless. So I knocked it on the head and we had seven years of clarity.

Then one afternoon in Tenerife, in October 2012, sometime after
Tasty Travels
– we were having a little break before I started panto in Bradford – we were sitting in the sunshine by the pool, the way one does, and the couple on the next table had an ice bucket with a bottle of rosé in it chilling. The condensation was sparkling in the sun and it just looked so tempting.

‘Do you think we will ever be able to have a glass or two of wine like normal people?’ asked Michael wistfully.

‘Well, let’s suck and see,’ was my response.

We ordered a bottle and slowly took our first few sips, half expecting to fall immediately into a drunken stupor. Oh no, not at all, it hardly touched the sides! It was so yummy. So we fell off the wagon and now drink like the rest of the silver sippers. However, I have a healthy respect for it and am still a little fearful of really getting hooked again, although I don’t think that is going to happen now as I just don’t have the capacity and it often makes me feel sick.

I do worry about Michael because I fear the wine bottle is becoming his solace. I don’t want him to end up a lonely old man staring into the bottom of the glass. However, he needs something at the moment so I leave him be and then have a little nag every now and then and make sure he has two days a week clean. Nothing is easy, is it?

Regarding the pear cider, though, it had to be added to my Welsh cakes as this was to be my secret ingredient. The local hero, or heroine should I say, of Welsh cake making came to see me and seemed very friendly, but very confident her crown would not topple. I set up in a field next to the fair with the trusty hotplate and griddle. As usual as soon as I started cooking the rain came. After my disaster with the Victoria sponge I was really quite nervous, but God was kind that day, and I produced some real crackers. They were perfect. I carried them with care in a little basket covered with a red cloth across to the judges where my competition had already set her basket down covered with a blue cloth. The idea was the local band would do the tasting with the local celebrity, the wonderful John Challis from
Only Fools and Horses
.

It was such a lovely surprise to see him. We spent a happy hour going through old friends and then he was dragged off to perform country fair duties. He seemed to have the perfect life, I was rather envious. In fact all through the filming, as Michael and I saw more and more beautiful houses and picturesque settings, we talked about moving out of London and going back to Somerset, which is Michael’s stomping ground.

I was also brought up in the country, and seeing all these wonderful villages and communities I was reminded of how life could be so much gentler and kinder than fighting one’s way round London. There is so much talk these days about what is British and I think we are not proud enough of our culture. However, if you live in a city like London, or Paris, or New York, you can never really see the real culture because all these cities are global enterprises, full of every race and religion and culture from all over the world. All big cities are the same. Which is fine, but there is an attitude sometimes from city folk that somehow they are at the cutting edge, and all life experience is about them.

I say go back to your roots. Go back to the countryside and see what beauty there is. I think it would be wonderful if all children from inner city schools could spend a summer holiday on a farm. They could learn about the food they eat and where it comes from and they could learn too about life and death from the animals. Watch a lamb being born and then understand how to cook and eat it! I honestly think that if you showed some of these young people – the kids who get caught up in gangs and carry knives without understanding the damage they cause – a real slaughter, it would make them think twice. A knife into flesh for real is not like the telly or a PlayStation game. Life is cruel and animals can show children the good and the bad sides of their nature. Teach these children real respect for life, not the empty words they spout for effect in the streets. Show them fish in the sea and wild fruits and vegetables. That is our heritage and we should be so proud of it.

Enough of the sermon but I was so lucky to spend those weeks meeting people who strive every day to make a living from the land, people who love this country, and want to preserve it, in all its forms.

So back to the Welsh cakes, and blow me down my cakes are a huge success and myself and the Queen of the Welsh cake tied. What better result could there be? I hopped into Batty, my trusty camper van, and drove into the sunset to fight another day.

Things were not so jovial when we arrived in Cadgwith in Cornwall. This was an amazing community of fishermen. It is a tiny village literally on the edge of the sea. As we drove in, it is one way in and then straight out the other side. At the bottom of the winding hill sits the tiny cove with its array of fishing boats, each one with a tale to tell. There is a pub and a shop of all sorts and that is about it. Every window box, in every brightly painted house, is bursting with fresh flowers. It is magical. The idea was for me to go out and catch the fish of the day and enter in the competition that was held every other Friday night to raise money for fishermen and their families. The man who was taking me out was actually blind, and was incredibly knowledgeable about his work, and his life on the sea.

Unfortunately this episode was being directed by the one man who just should not be on the job. Not only did he think he was filming
Ryan’s Daughter
with a cast of thousands, he was rude and insensitive and had no idea what he was dealing with in this very tight-knit community. To give you an example, as we drove in it was obvious there was nowhere to park. We had his car, the crew car and Batty, the camper van. A local man was just getting out of his car by the shop and our director ran towards him waving his arms and shouting, ‘Excuse me! I say! We need your parking space, can you move your car? We are a film crew and we are filming here today so it is important we can park.’

The man paused only for a moment and then carried on past our ranting director into the shop. We were all cringing with embarrassment, and our lovely stage manager got hold of our man and dragged him back to his car and we all set off up to the top of the hill, where there was parking available. Word of this invasion quickly spread through the village and we got several rather unfortunate looks as we arrived on the beach for the fishing competition.

I tried hard to stay away from the director and went and met my lovely fisherman and his wife. Unfortunately I had my own huge problem to solve. I get seasick! I had discussed this with the producer and we agreed I would give it a try, but if things got too uncomfortable for me I could return to shore. Well, you can imagine how I was feeling as I climbed into this not over-large fishing vessel. I had had the pills, and was stern of heart, but as the clouds rolled in and the drizzle stung our faces and we bounced out to sea, I knew I was in trouble. Almost immediately my stomach started to heave. The director was having none of it and told me to make conversation with the fisherman while he filmed. I tried, oh how hard did I try, but every time I opened my mouth I was expecting a Technicolor rainbow! I was whimpering now and begged to be taken back. Finally the director relented, and I was unceremoniously dumped on the beach having had to walk the last few feet in the water to dry land.

I never really recovered for the rest of the night, which proved to be a nightmare, as our director went on to upset everyone. The catch of the day is weighed to great interest from the crowd, who were by now well-oiled and ready for their dinner which is cooked by all the women. People obviously pay as it is a charity event. Well, suddenly a man behind me says very loudly, ‘I hope you people are paying for all this. When the BBC came here they paid us handsomely.’

‘Oh, come on now,’ replied Mr Diplomatic, our director, ‘We haven’t got any money, mate. Be grateful for the publicity.’

‘We don’t want the publicity,’ chimed in another voice. ‘We certainly don’t want to encourage berks like you to come and soil our beach.’

I turned to Michael and whispered, ‘How much money have you got on you?’

‘Sixty quid,’ he replied.

‘Well, let’s go and give it to the couple in charge and get out of here.’

Which we did, but as we were trying to leave without any fuss Herr Director rushed over and announced he needed me to do a piece to camera to finish the scene.

‘I really don’t think it’s a good idea. People are getting quite hostile,’ I said. But too late, the camera was rolling and there I was, standing in the dark with a bright camera light in my eyes, while behind me I could feel the group shoving and hustling, and making rude comments. I did my best to rush through it and then Michael and I literally took hold of each other’s hands, and ran up the hill towards the car, leaving Mr Director to talk his way out. It was a nightmare. I felt so embarrassed by the whole episode, and I apologise if anyone from Cadgwith reads this – highly unlikely though it is – once they see my name!

Most of the series, though, came and went without any grief and I really did spread my wings and learn so much. From boat building in Lyme Regis to carriage racing in Wales. From Cornish pasties to high tea at Burton Court, an incredible house. The Cornish pasty episode ended in a most bizarre way. We met up with a lovely man, who had, arguably, the oldest Cornish pasty bakery in Falmouth. We made a huge giant pasty to take to the opening of the Falmouth carnival. When we arrived at the pub, celebrations had obviously been going on all day and the packed pub was up for a good time. It was quite daunting presenting my huge pasty to a discerning crowd. Well, I presume they must have been quite discerning as most of them came from the area and had probably been weaned on a pasty. After the judgement which seemed to go my way I was asked by the landlord if I would lead the pub in the carnival.

‘I would be honoured,’ I replied, envisioning myself aboard a fabulous float with a crown and long dress. An ageing carnival queen, but then again, I had just played the Fairy Godmother in the Birmingham panto, so I was well versed in waving! Oh, dear me, how deluded can one be. Health and safety had banned floats because one year there had been a tragic accident, where a child had fallen off a float and been run over and killed. This must have been devastating for the parents, I understand, but it was an accident and there had not been an endless series of similar incidents. Does it all have to stop because of one accident?

Anyway the good folk of Falmouth refused to lose their wonderful carnival so instead they do the whole thing on foot, starting from this pub. When we adjourned outside to join the festivities I was presented with a view of a field covered with hundreds of bodies all dressed in fancy dress. I, too, was dressed with the rest of the pub ready for action. But forget pretty dresses or crowns, I was dressed as a moose. And on my moose’s head someone had kindly pinned a large badge on which was written in huge letters, ‘OXO’. Oh the humiliation and yet more free advertising for Oxo, not something I encourage as they had dropped me from their campaign in 1999.

Anyway off we trooped and I walked with the group for about half a mile and then quietly veered off to the left and back home to London. Well, I had been up since five that morning and no one would really know it was me as I was covered with a moose head. It was great fun, though, and just lovely to see families all together out and enjoying themselves on a hot summer’s night.

Talking of tea, I even got to create my own brand on a visit to the Tregothnan Estate. I added some manuka leaves (like the honey) – it was delicious, though I say so myself. It was extraordinary to drive around this beautiful wooded estate and suddenly come upon a hillside with tea plants growing and feel as though one had arrived, suddenly, in Ceylon. I made gin in Plymouth, and gave a 1930s dinner party on a train. I must say here that I learned to make a cabinet pudding, as it was very much of the thirties era, and it was delicious. I recommend you take a look in your mother’s Elizabeth David cookery books and have a go.

We also visited some incredible gardens and the one that has stuck in my mind is Barrow farm. Mary Benger, the owner had spent fifty years creating this beautiful garden. Around every corner you were assailed by yet another scene of green and lush shrubs and huge trees standing guard across a perfect lawn. In another corner there was a bench to sit and reflect, and running water from a secret stream leading to a pool surrounded by fragrant wild flowers. It was the most extraordinary accomplishment and so full of vision. I even got to plant a shrub with her that she had recently been presented with as a prize. That is the one thing that struck me most about all the gardens like Painshill Park, and Dillington House, someone had the vision to plant these gardens for future generations to enjoy. They would never see the end product themselves except in their mind’s eye.