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First day’s filming today, on the NEW POLDARK.

The twittersphere is alive with anticipation as the cast and crew embark on the journey.

I’m looking forward to joining the caravan in May.

Jacqueline, make-up supremo, emailed this morning with ideas and images (facial hair!) and I’m already experiencing moments of anxiety about my first day.

First days are fraught.

My first day at my pre-prep school, aged 4, I left the school mid-morning and walked home– a mile at least.

A couple of days later, I’d fallen in love with beautiful Miss Rosemary and nothing could keep me away–much to my mother’s relief.

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From my memoir, Making Poldark, the first day’s filming in 1975 –a typical spring day in Cornwall:

It was bitterly cold and dank.

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Another bitterly cold and dank day!

We were in Towednack churchyard near St. Ives. I remember it well.

Contrary to rumour, I was born without a scar–so on went the first scar of many, made unromantically of glue; on went the make-up and the back-piece of hair.

My hair had been dyed darker with copper tints for the part.

I put on my black mourning coat–the scene was Uncle Charles’ funeral–and my specially-made boots and there I was: Captain Ross Poldark.

But as the day wore on and they still didn’t get to my bit, I began to wonder. I saw the director looking worried and thought at first it must be the weather.

Then I thought maybe it’s my hair, then my scar, then my FACE.

Then I thought: my God, it’s ME!

They don’t want ME!

They think they’ve made a mistake. They’re re-casting–the lines are hot to London and actors are streaming into the producer’s office with the sun in their eyes–it was fine in London–and they’re all Olympic equestrians.

Robin, will you come to the graveside please?’

Of course, I’ve got it–I mean–of course I will.’

I’d started at last.

 

Good luck to Aidan and Eleanor and everyone–(me included)!

 

LUNCH today:

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A sparklingly, fresh salad to complement and cut the rich oiliness of the stuffed mackerel fillets.

Just one large fennel bulb (outer leaves removed), one large spring onion (outer layer removed), one long celery stick (sliced thinly), several large red radishes (sliced thinly) and some chopped parsley to sprinkle over.

Add some lightly pan roasted sunflower seeds–if you have them and a dressing of the juice of a lemon, some salt and pepper to taste and three or four tablespoons of the best olive oil you have, whisked in.

Turn everything over carefully so the dressing gets to visit all corners!

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Cast!

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That was then!

The BBC have just announced the news–Mammoth Screen have offered me a cameo in their new production of Poldark.

Poldark has brought much joy to my life–I’ve often called them Poldark Perks–which doesn’t do them justice.

It continues to deliver.

I am delighted to be invited to play a role in the new venture which has got off to a flying start with superb scripts from Debbie Horsfield (I have just finished reading them) and a tremendous first tranche of principal casting.

I am cast as Dr. Halse–the clergyman with whom Ross shares the coach on his journey home to Nampara from Truro in the opening scene of the first series. Back then, a benign figure–in the new series he comes over as rather less so!

I fear I’ll be exchanging the marvelous leather coat and boots for drab, black church cloth and a sneer.

Joining the Cornish establishment that Ross so despises (though he was born into it) will be a challenge!

Joining the new Poldark will be exciting–but also poignant for me, bringing back many wonderful memories of 40 years ago.

Not least in my mind will be fellow members of the original cast–especially those no longer with us: the beloved Angharad Rees, Ralph Bates, Richard Morant, Frank Middlemas, Paul Curran and Mary Wimbush.

I’ll be there for their memory–and for the late Winston Graham–as well as for the intriguing prospect of acting with the new cast to help bring this wonderful saga to a new audience.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first asparagus spears were on the stalls at Castres market on Saturday at 9 euros /kilo– steep I thought–wait a week or two and down they’ll come.

Then last night Meredith and our friends Tamsin and Stephen–here for a weekend visit–returned from the annual Réalmont Agicultural Foire (fair).

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Deciding our garden was on the small side for this magnificent specimen;

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they settled instead for a large box of oversize strawberries,

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and a couple of bunches of Spanish grown asparagus!

OK–a starter for our hazelnut pasta supper last night!

I roasted all but ten spears–thinking lunch today– with thyme and olive oil.

It was good to have it confirmed that the asparagus season is about to start but the spears from over the border were not as tasty as the locals will be in a couple of weeks.

Lunch today then.

I’m poaching a couple of eggs each and laying them on top of the remaining asparagus for the yolks to break beautifully and Spring-like–yellow on fresh green–over them and make a superb light lunch with a salad.

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Heat the oven to 220C/430F

Arrange the spears in a single layer on a shallow oven tray.

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Pour a little olive oil over the tips and sprinkle some salt and fresh thyme .

Slide the tray onto the top oven rack and roast for 10 minutes–test for doneness.

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Arrange equal portions on two plates.

Bring a saucepan of water to the boil and add a tablespoon of red/white vinegar–this helps gather the egg white.

Break the eggs into the water trying not to burst their yokes.

They’ll be ready to take out in about three minutes–depending on the thickness of the spears..

Carefully remove them from the water with a slotted spoon and drain them.

Place them decoratively on the asparagus and season with a little salt and pepper.

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Cauliflower soup

This may be a difficult sell….

Cauliflower is not everyone’s first choice as a vegetable, let alone as a soup.

This recipe is in my new book, Healthy Eating for Life, and we had it for supper tonight–we liked it.

Well, like is too mild–we adored it and–as we always do–marveled that something SO delicious could have only these five simple ingredients:

Cauliflower-onion–garlic–a smidgen of smoky bacon–a couple of bay leaves

Here is the recipe, reproduced from my new book:

 

Meredith asked, “What is this, it’s so creamy? It’s not potatoes is it?  It’s delicious.”

Cauliflower soup,”  I replied, somewhat sheepishly. Somehow cauliflower is not a vegetable that’s easy to own!

This recipe is adapted from one by Nigel Slater.

The key ingredient is smoky bacon.

1 large cauliflower--broken into florets

2 cloves of garlic–chopped

1 medium onion–chopped

2 oz smoked bacon–chopped

1 tablespoon olive oil

bay leaves

1 litre/2 pints stock

salt and pepper

  • Gently heat the oil in a pan and sauté the bacon bits until they colour a bit.
  • Add the garlic and onion.
  • Cook the mix on for five minutes until the onion has softened.
  • While this happens break up the cauliflower into florets and add to a large saucepan.
  • When ready add the onion and bacon mix to the cauliflower pan with the bay leaves and the stock.
  • Cover and bring this mix up to the simmer and cook until the cauliflower is tender.
  • Lift a couple of tablespoons of the mix out of the pan and into a bowl with a slotted spoon letting the liquid fall back in the pan
  • Liquidise the contents of the pan and test the seasoning.
  • Use the set-aside florets to garnish the soup and serve the soup hot.

We went back to the same voting hall to follow the count last night.

We found a crowd milling outside…

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close-packed and tense in the room.

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It feels timeless–only the clothes people are wearing defines the century we are in.

Two tables, fenced off with barriers, on either side of the room with four tellers seated round each.

People hanging over the barriers listening intently to the low mumbling of the tellers announcing each vote.

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Bardou, Bardou, Bardou, Gros, Bardou, Gro and on and on…

The atmosphere is charged, expectant.

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People greeting each other with brief handshakes, a quick double kiss. Few conversations ensue.

The incumbent Mayor, Monsieur Gros, the only person in the room wearing a suit, paces back and forth between the tables, occasionally disappearing into a side room with a pile of blue envelopes. Displacement activity–something to do while he waits with the rest of us for the tellers to complete their task.

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Bardou, Bardou, Gros…

It is surprising how long it takes to count just over a thousand votes.

I’m unaware that a third count has happened at the school below the village and the result has filtered back up to the crowd gathered outside the hall.

I am feeling increasingly pessimistic and the expression on M Gros’ face does nothing to reassure me.

It’s hot in the room–fetid even.

As I turn to open a window the woman standing next to me shakes her head and I remain rooted to the spot not daring to break the tension and pull the focus–if only briefly–my way.

I ask her if she can point out M Bardou to me.

His family tomb is in the cemetery adjacent to the house and I know he is the chef/owner of a restaurant just up the road but I have never met him.

“There, with his back to the door” she says, pointing out a tall man wearing spectacles huddled by the exit–looking pale and nervous.

Neither side is acting as though it’s in the bag.

After half an hour, our friend Sylvie squeezes past me–she’s been monitoring the table to my right.

She shakes her head–”c’est cuit!” (It’s cooked i.e. lost).

“The count at the school below went M. Bardou’s way by over 30 votes and here it’s neck and neck but there won’t be enough votes for M.Gros to turn it.”

I edge my way out of the room and into the street where Meredith confirms what Sylvie has told me.

M. Bardou has won–he got out the vote.

Lautrec will have a new mayor–after twelve years.

A 92% turn out is impressive–local democracy at work.

Spring is in the air–it’s April the first tomorrow.

A time of change and transition.

 

 

 

 

Every VOTE counts!

We are heading up to Lautrec to do our civic duty and vote in the second round of les municipals–the local elections–to elect the mayor who will serve the village with his team for the next six years.

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The first round last Sunday ended in a sensational dead heat (egalité) between the two contesting “lists“–512 votes apiece–so a second round plays out today.

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According to our friend, Myriam, this was national headline news on French TV, radio and the newspapers. Only one other village in France, Dannemarie in Haute-Rhin, voted a tie.

Turnout in Lautrec was an impressive 85%!

Every vote counts in a small village–and unfortunately as we were still in the States, we weren’t able to vote in the first round.

We had tried to arrange to vote by proxy–the French system of absentee voting–but when we turned up at the gendarmerie as instructed, it was closed, with no notice posted about when it might be open or how we could proceed.

Dommage!

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Second time lucky!

Though not French citizens, we are entitled to vote in local elections, though not in national ones–despite paying  taxes here. Makes no sense to me, even less to Meredith–proud citizen of a country that fought its way to independence to escape paying taxes without representation.

There are 37,000 mayors in France and they wield real power.

They have a tendency to run and run, as there is no term limit. When we arrived here in 1990, the mayor,  the local doctor, had been in  place for over forty years!

The voting today ends at 6pm and we’ll go watch the  count in the village hall.

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A toute a l’heure, alors!

 

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