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

by Lynda Bellingham

  Needless to say, I lost and the ladies of the WI shook my hand with glee.

  ‘Bad luck,’ said one woman, hardly able to contain her delight.

  Oh well, onwards and upwards. It reminded me of my school report: ‘Lynda tries hard but could do better.’

  One of the days that stick in my mind during the filming of Tasty Travels is the Watercress Line, when I got to drive a railway engine. I had no idea it would give me such a kick. This special line, which used to carry the watercress from the fields to the centre of London, is an obvious hit with the tourists. It is so beautifully cared for, right down to the period train station, waiting room and little café. I climbed up front and was blasted by the heat from the furnace. A very handsome young man was doing a great job of stoking the engine and another very handsome young man took me through the ropes. As we whizzed along the track I really felt the engine belonged to me. All these fanatics talk about the engines like their beloved mistresses. How they respond to the gentle, but firm touch, blah blah blah . . . but believe me when I hoisted the brake off and pulled on the throttle, it was like talking to a friend! I loved it. I swapped places with the stoker for the return journey and got very hot and bothered throwing the coal in. I cannot imagine what it must have been like for hours on end. But it left a lasting impression, and I intend to take my grandson, Sacha, if possible one day.

  We went to Wales which was incredible. The sweep of Cardigan Bay and the ups and downs driving through the valleys was so impressive. It was like a film set. I am not a good sailor but managed to keep it all together when I was taken out by the local rowing club. I had to shout the instructions as we bounced over the waves. The Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race it was not!

  They hold a huge seafood and fish fair on the quay in Aberaeron, and my challenge was to make a whole load of mackerel butties and chocolate brownies and sell them to make money for the rowers club. I did incredibly well and was down to my last three brownies. I told the director that maybe we should film me selling the last three as quite a crowd had gathered and it would make a nice ending. Instead she hauled me off to try every bit of fish on every stall in the market, which took forever, so by the time we went back to sell my last three brownies the crowd had gone home! There was a very nice lady with her daughter who offered to buy one, and Michael paid for the other two to get rid of them.

  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 c
ommunity 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 en
d product themselves except in their mind’s eye.

  I have so many memories from this time and writing about them has made me feel a little melancholy. I suppose I know I am so much luckier than many people, to have had the opportunity to see so many different sides of life, so I can look back fondly.

  I just want to share one last adventure with you. We were down in Devon and visited Cockington Court, yet another beautiful establishment with exotic gardens. They have turned the stables and outhouses into studios for private businesses, like jewellery making, and wrought ironwork.

  We went round and looked at all the different trades with an old friend of mine, John Labanowski, and his Mrs, Brigit. He played my husband in Calendar Girls for the four years we were on tour. It was great to see them again and we had lunch in the restaurant there and shared happy memories in the sunshine. It was just lovely to see all these master craftsmen and women working away.

  I was immediately drawn to the rocking horse man. Oh my goodness all my dreams came true at once. I know it must seem ridiculous, but all I ever wanted as a child was a rocking horse. I had this old tin thing which I made do with and, of course, on my tenth birthday I was incredibly lucky to be given the real thing. My pony Tiddlywinks! I have talked about her very often and very fondly. She dominated my life from ten to thirteen, until I tragically developed hay fever meaning that I could not go near her without breaking out in hives or peering at her through eyes partially closed and swollen. However, I never lost my desire for a rocking horse, and seeing the perfect specimens on display in the studio at Cockington Court just made me more determined. I announced on camera that all I ever wanted was a rocking horse, and pulled Michael into shot and shamelessly begged him to buy one.

  ‘Look on it as an investment,’ I announced. ‘It is going to be an antique one day and our grandchildren and their children will cherish it forever.’ I was being honest. These creations are quite something, and what the maker had done with these particular horses was build in a time capsule, so a child could put treasures inside their horse, and keep them secret for years. Oh how I wanted one!