There's Something I've Been Dying to Tell You

by Lynda Bellingham

  I love reading travel brochures and will always manage to find the most glamorous, and usually most expensive, locations in the world. Como was no exception. I knew there was an incredible hotel on the edge of the lake called the Villa d’Este.

  ‘Just ring and see how much it is,’ I said to Michael, as we were surfing the net for a hotel.

  ‘I already have,’ he replied with a sigh. ‘It is fifteen hundred euros a night without breakfast.’

  ‘Oh that is outrageous,’ I exclaimed. ‘No breakfast? We can’t possibly go there!’

  I love to dream, but we did find a beautiful hotel in Bellagio called The Belvedere which was like a sort of baby cousin to the Villa d’Este, with sloping lawns down to a lovely pool and garden rooms with balconies looking across the lake. Sadly, they had all gone and we could only get a room at the back, but it didn’t matter though, we made the best of it, and it was a very pleasant hotel and the staff were fantastic.

  We would walk ten minutes into Bellagio and be transported back hundreds of years. The buildings were painted in all those wonderful Mediterranean colours of ochre and bull’s blood. The tiny church with its solitary bell chimed across the rooftops. It was heaven. The first shop we hit as we walked into the town was a pasticerria and the smell of fresh pastries filled with almond paste and coated in vanilla powder was out of this world. My dream was always to have a place eventually in Italy or the South of France, where I could sit outside and people watch. Mornings would be a cappuccino and a pastry, and afternoon, or early evening, would be a glass of wine and toasted almonds. Not much to ask is it really?

  So every day we would walk into the town, stopping for a coffee and pastry and then continue down the narrowest cobbled streets, filled to bursting with the most gorgeous shops imaginable. Oh dear, it was torture for me. I could have spent thousands of pounds on jewellery, bags and shoes and paintings and all sorts. Michael wouldn’t let me go into town on my own! One day we were in one of these amazing boutiques and the beautiful Italian lady who was serving me asked me if I was famous.

  ‘Not really,’ I said, ‘Though I am quite well known on the TV in England.’

  She was very excited because one of her customers, who was English, had recognised me and told her I was an actress. They love actresses in Italy, they are like royalty. Well, I became a local celebrity because she then told the lady in the cake shop who told the man in the pizzeria and suddenly I was greeted in the streets by complete strangers shaking my hand. I loved it!

  I did keep asking if anyone knew George, and they had all seen him at some point in the town but no one knew him well enough to make the introductions for me. Near the little port where all the ferries came in was a huge hotel with a vast balcony full of tables covered in perfect white linen. It was obviously the place to be in the town, and almost every day as we passed there was a wedding going on with beautiful people filling the terrace with music and laughter. Apparently it is the hotel where all the cast of Ocean’s Eleven stayed, and it was on that very terrace that George copped his first eyeful of Lake Como and thought ‘This is for me’. And who can blame him?

  Sue Latimer and her husband Edward flew out the night before my birthday on 31 May to join us in celebrating. It was also our wedding anniversary, as I keep mentioning. The reason I keep mentioning it, dear reader, is because it is a bit of a sticky point between Michael and myself. When we got married we decided my birthday was a good date to settle on, as that way I would never forget my wedding anniversary. The problem was that after sixty years of waking up thinking it’s my birthday it is hard to re-programme the brain to include a wedding anniversary too. Michael takes all these occasions very seriously and was appalled when we woke up in Venice one year and he presented me with two cards, one for each occasion, and I gave him nothing at all! I forgot, and I know I am selfish and awful but I did just forget. I have learned my lesson well, though, and now I am always ahead of the game. I carry the cards around with me as we approach the date just in case I get caught short! This time we had a great dinner for the celebrations and I had ordered a cake for Michael.

  We made some lovely friends, Ken and Cindy, who hailed from Southern California and were wine buffs. Michael thought he had died and gone to heaven as they took him through the joys of Montepulciano! We started chatting one morning as we all sheltered from a shower or two. Coffee turned into lunch, which turned into dinner and we had a ball. The next day they invited us to join them for dinner in a local restaurant near the apartment they had rented. Ken also wanted us to do a bit of wine tasting.

  When we arrived at the apartment there were six bottles lined up! He sat us down and presented us with a platter of delicious Italian salami and introduced us to truffle honey. He put a little smear on his salami and told us to follow suit. It was out of this world. What a taste sensation. The four of us then tasted the six bottles with no trouble at all. I cannot believe I sat there and sipped away with the rest of them. My poor digestive system went into overdrive!

  Having decided that we were incredibly lucky to find ourselves in such a fruitful wine growing region, with so much to choose from, we descended to the restaurant. We sat in front of a window which ran the length of the restaurant. The view across the lake to the mountains the other side was breathtaking. As the sun went down we watched huge black rolling clouds spread out over the horizon like a velvet cloak. Lightning streaked down onto the water and the thunder followed, crashing like a rolling kettle drum in an orchestra. It was nature at her best, giving us a spectacle I would never forget. Meanwhile we ate superb pasta and Ken ordered a magnum of red wine. Yes, a magnum. It arrived with great ceremony at the table in a beautiful wooden box which was duly opened with great reverence and decanted into a fluted glass decanter. I looked across the table at Michael and raised an eyebrow. This was going to cost a fortune and we couldn’t let Ken pay for it all! When the bill arrived Ken very firmly insisted on paying, and we left feeling very guilty but full of a warm glow of red wine. The next day we made enquiries and found another rather special eatery down by the lake near our hotel. This time it was Michael’s turn to order the wine. He asked Ken about the magnum the previous night and confessed that we were feeling so guilty about all the expense.

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Ken. ‘It is actually cheaper to buy a magnum if you think about it. We were bound to have at least two bottles of wine and as the wine I chose was 68 euros a bottle, two would have been 138 euros, and the magnum worked out at 125!’

  Happy days!

  We had another spectacular meal and rolled home to bed. Every moment of that week is etched in my mind. I could have sat on the terrace for the rest of my life. I’d love to think that maybe one day we could go back, if my fate could be so kind as to allow it.

  9

  TASTY TRAVELS

  June 2012

  After the thrill of Malaysia it was difficult to settle. It is always the same, isn’t it? You come back from holiday and just want to go away again. Well, I was incredibly fortunate to be offered a series for ITV called My Tasty Travels. It involved driving round Britain in a sixties’ camper van visiting wonderful holiday spots and learning about what we all get up to in our country towns. Each episode would finish with me taking on a cookery challenge. Like a typical actor I jumped at the chance, completely ignoring any warning voice in my head suggesting I might not be able to rise to the challenge. Me? Cooking? Pah, of course I was up for it.

  It was agreed that Michael would be my driver and get me from A to B when I was not actually driving the van. Now, readers, the camper van was a piece of work. I had no idea how loved and cherished they are. Indeed, how expensive they are! We were in some market in Surrey and there was a board full of cards with camper vans for sale dating back to the early sixties and some of these vehicles were up for thousands of pounds. ITV had found me a lovely blue VW with all its bits in place, although the brakes left a lot to be desired. I found this out when we arrived in places like Devon and C
ornwall and the director wanted me to perch on a cliff somewhere. I would haul on the handbrake and sit very still with my hand on the door handle ready to jump if necessary.

  So many happy hours did we spend in the narrow lanes deep in the heart of the English countryside, with me driving at thirty miles an hour in front of a queue of very irate holidaymakers who were desperate to get past me. I was sworn at so many times. One day it was all too much and I responded to a driver who was tooting his horn at me endlessly with the finger. To my horror, as the car squeezed through, I realised it was a very jolly family of Mum and Dad, and two kids in the back, who were all waving at me and pointing at the van and giving me the thumbs up. I quickly waved back, furiously hoping my mistake had not been noticed.

  The trouble is the world is divided between camper van lovers and those who just hate the whole idea. But for the duration of the series I was a member of this exclusive club and drove my van with pride. I nicknamed the van Batty, but kept forgetting whether it was male or female, so there is a great game to be had if you ever catch the series repeated on Gold or something, spotting how many times I change the sex of the camper van! It was such fun, though, and the directors would send me off on my own with a camera screwed to the window screen and a microphone up my jumper, and I would sail along these country lanes talking to my van and discussing all sorts of things as they came into my head. I had to try hard not to swear sometimes, and remember not to say anything rude about any of the team I was working with. Lots of different directors worked on the series and only one of them was insufferable, and I am afraid I did pass a few comments about him, but luckily for me the editor was on my side and spliced the offending comments out of the show.

  The series began at Bovey Castle which was very grand. Start as you mean to go on, I say. However, sadly it did not quite live up to its very grand appearance. It was not entirely the fault of the hotel but the classic turn of the English weather. Although it was June, it was pouring with rain when we arrived and absolutely freezing. We were shown to our very beautiful room and did not really notice the chill too much, but by the time we got downstairs to have dinner it was creeping up on us. We were shown into a huge dining room which was incredibly grand, with gorgeous chandeliers and pristine white tablecloths and beautifully folded napkins. The trouble was it was empty but for one couple lost in a sea of white linen and crystal glass!

  ‘Sit anywhere you like,’ said the waiter smiling sadly. We made a beeline for a radiator that Michael had spotted in the corner, but as we sat down and put our hands out to warm them we realised it was turned off! We enquired of the waiter if it was possible to turn it on, and the inevitable response was negative, as the heating had been turned off for the summer. I have never eaten a three course dinner so fast in my life, and we did not bother with coffee. We arrived in our room to yet more arctic conditions. Michael rang down and asked for a heater which did arrive, thank God, and we snuggled into bed in T-shirts and jumpers. In the morning it took too long to heat up the room so I was desperately trying to decide what to wear for filming that day so I could get some clothes on. Doing my make-up and hair in a cold and drafty bathroom was no fun.

  It was while filming this series that I first learned the difference between working on a drama and working for the documentary side of things. This was very much do it yourself, with a small crew consisting of cameraman, sound man, director and assistant, plus the producer who would pop in from time to time. I did my own make-up and hair and provided my own clothes, which proved quite a feat, as we did so many different episodes and the weather drove me mad! The hair was quite a problem as well, as it was always windy or raining and I did not possess hats. Thank goodness a couple of the coats I managed to acquire from Isme had hoods. In fact, I thought I instigated a bit of a coup all round in the wardrobe department by getting Isme to provide me with clothes. I got the benefit of personal shopping and they got the credit. I had a lovely time going to their offices and picking out my outfits. It was a good way of using my contract to the full. We aim to please!

  One of my early challenges was to make a ‘Chicken of the Woods’ pâté. This involved foraging for the ‘chicken’ which was, in fact, a sort of fungi. I met these two lovely young men and they took me off to the woods. The fungi grow on the sides of trees in high banks running alongside the path through the very dense forest. I was very keen to do everything the right way and got very excited when I spotted some, clinging to a branch overhanging the bank. The only way to get to it was to walk round to the top of the bank into a field and then double back and find a hole in the hedge and climb through. I was so busy showing off and chatting to the camera I stepped into a rabbit hole and disappeared into the bush. Take two!

  It took some stretching and sawing to get the stuff off but I did it and proudly carried my stash back to the camper van. One thing I learnt about, and absolutely love now, is that wild garlic can be picked so easily if you know where to look, and it is so delicious, much sweeter and more subtle than clove garlic. I made my pâté on a hot plate by the side of the camper van and managed to keep it out of the rain. I cannot tell you how many times in the next few weeks were spent running to and from the van with dishes trying to keep everything dry.

  We then went to Petersfield Market and I had to persuade people to try my Chicken of the Woods pâté. Actually I did quite well, and thanks to a very pleasant elderly gentleman who had two portions I won my challenge.

  Throughout the series I had one big problem: how to stop myself buying all the produce. Wherever we went I would get very over excited and buy ridiculous things that we would never eat in a million years. I still have cupboards jammed with chutneys and jams, and pickled vegetables. I must say that everywhere we went people were so warm and welcoming and so keen to show off their specialities.

  One episode where I did experience a little hostility, or should I say overzealous competitive spirit, was when I went up against the WI. The challenge was for me to make a Victoria sponge to be served at a local school cricket match. To win, mine had to be judged as better than one produced by the ladies of the local WI. Now do not forget, dear readers, I had spent four years of my life playing Chris in Calendar Girls. This was territory I understood. The first day’s filming I went for coffee with a group of the WI ladies, and the woman in whose house we were showed me how to make a rhubarb cake. We had a very jolly morning with coffee and cakes and then agreed to meet at the cricket match with our respective cakes.

  Well, the crew and I pitched up in this field and set out the little Belling oven, which did not fill me with confidence. I started to make my sponge and guess what? It started to rain! The director Paul Vanesis was getting his knickers in a twist, rain always does this to a film crew. It is what one dreads more than anything. As I put the sponge into the Baby Belling he was already asking me when it would be ready.

  ‘Well, it will take as long as it takes,’ I snapped. ‘About twenty minutes.’

  ‘Well, we haven’t got twenty minutes it must be nearly done.’

  Sure enough, he lunged at the door fifteen minutes later and as we grappled, the door flew open briefly and my beautiful fluffy Victoria sponge was descending to the bottom of the tin as my sad, weedy voice called out, ‘Nooooo!’ and slammed it shut. But too late, disaster had struck, and my beautiful cake slumped to the bottom of the tin. The worst thing was that across the way the ladies of the WI were sitting in a car watching the entire proceedings with glee. In fact, Michael had arrived just before all this, and parked up only to be told, rather officiously, would he mind moving as he was blocking their view. I was in tears and furious with the director, who was not at all bothered.

  ‘Don’t panic. We have got a shop one on the side for disasters like this. No one will know the difference,’ he announced airily.

  ‘Oh yes they will,’ I replied, pointing at the car of ladies waving at me. ‘And anyway, I know it’s a cheat and I won’t do it. This programme should be real and truthful
; I will do my best to make the cake look presentable.’ I stomped off to get my raspberry jam which I had made with the help of a lovely lady in her shop the day before. I smeared the whole pot over a very thin layer of sponge and placed the other very thin layer of sponge on top and sprinkled it with icing sugar.

  I was so upset and stayed away from my competition until the moment of truth.

  Through all this drama the boys had all turned up and looked very smart in their cricket whites. Parents sat around picnic baskets drinking wine and chatting. It was a perfect summer’s evening, except for me it was like a day at the coliseum. Gladiators, stand by your sponges. The WI and I walked towards each other and presented arms. Well, cakes. Theirs, of course, was huge: six inches of perfect sponge. However, if I remember correctly they had used plum jam which is not strictly correct for a Victoria sponge and, I learned afterwards, every one of them had made a cake and they had picked the best one! Six against one, it was hardly fair. While the boys finished their match, the cakes were cut up and labelled red and blue so no one would know which belonged to which party. Then the boys came to the table and each took a slice. I was keeping my ear to the ground listening to the comments. Whether it was because they knew they were being filmed or not, I don’t know, but they were so pompous about it all. They offered up comments like, ‘Mmmm, I like the quality of the sponge on this’ or ‘Quality of the sponge is rather poor but I do like the texture of the jam’.