Hippodrome–the word means a stadium for horses.

The only horse I ever saw on stage at the Golders Green Hippodrome was at the annual Christmas pantomime–two men filling out a horse costume:

Well, at least it’s a job!

The Golders Green Hippodrome is an enormous white edifice standing on the side of Golders Green Bus and Underground station in north London.

It’s in the news because it has just been sold to a megaChurch. 

It has had quite a history.

I’ve always felt a special connection.

It opened on Boxing Day, 1913 as a variety theatre featuring vaudeville acts.

It was vast–and built before TV tolled the death knell of this kind of popular theatre.

Thanks to the arrival of the Underground, this part of northwest London was expanding into a prosperous suburb, attractive to commuters, offering easy access to the City and West End. The enormous theatre was built to meet their entertainment needs.

The gallery alone (“the Gods”) held 600 seats.

You got a bird’s eye view of the stage, but still heard every word–and it only cost 6 pence (in old money).

We moved to this part of north London after the war in 1946. My parents were young–both 31 that year, and quick to take advantage of an unusual local facility.

From age 4 onwards I was taken to the Christmas pantomime at the Hippodrome–Dick Whittington, Aladdin or Puss in Boots. I sat in the stalls between Ma and Dad, entranced by the wonder of it. (The principal BOY was always played by a female star in black tights and sequinned top.)

But I also remember the dread I felt that one of those loud people up there would try to coax me up on stage to join them, as seemed to be the custom…

“Can we have a couple of volunteers from the audience, please–come on, don’t be shy!”

Oh NOOOOO! Head down! Don’t catch his eye!

Me, an actor!?

I didn’t make it across the footlights until somewhat later.

The playbill in the fifties was rich and varied, featuring many famous names.

I became a regular in “the Gods”.

Ralph Reader’s GANG SHOW attracted charabancs of Boy Scouts and Girl Guides to the annual jamboree.

I spent many happy hours up high watching seasons of the D’Oyly Carte Opera’s productions of Gilbert and Sullivan.

I marvelled at the vocal dexterity needed to sing the tongue twisting patter songs. My favourite:  I am the very Model of a Modern Major General (Pirates Of Penzance) and I fell for the oh so demure Three Little Maids from School are we from the Mikado.

The Hippodrome would be the last stop on the warm-up tour, before opening on Shaftesbury Avenue or the first stop on a post West End tour–with the original cast.

Ten years on, I saw the legendary Broadway couple the Lunts (Alfred and Lynn) in Frederick Dürrenmatt’s chilling play The Visit.

I saved all the precious programmes for years–and wish I still had them.

Tyrone Power in Bernard Shaw’s The Devils Disciple, Edith Evans in Enid Bagnold’s The Chalk Garden and Zoe’s dad, Sam Wanamaker in The Rainmaker. 

Little did I suspect I’d be sharing a West End stage with her, 40 years later!

Sylvia by A.R. Gurney (1996) Apollo Theatre

We lived close to this vast pleasure dome and it featured often in my childhood–no doubt a subliminal influence drawing me into the theatre.

What a treat to have it sitting almost on my doorstep–ten minutes walk away.

At age 17, a friend persuaded me to audition for the school play.

I got the part: Sir Lucius O’Trigger in The Rivals– a lascivious rogue, with his eye on Lucy, the maid.

A couple of laughs, and suddenly this bashful, blushing, sports-loving introvert knew that without a doubt, he wanted to be An Actor.

Never managed to play The Hippodrome, though–missed my chance, aged four.

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Little Amal is a Syrian girl in the guise of a giant puppet who has been charming young and old these last few weeks as she’s journeyed from the Syrian border to the shores of the UK in search of her mother.

Three-and-a-half meters tall and operated by teams of gifted puppeteers, she makes an impressive emotional impact as she passes, fluttering her eyelashes and beaming out a gentle humanity, which is difficult to ignore.

She arrives in the UK tomorrow (19th Oct) in Folkestone, Kent, on England’s South coast.

She will be visiting Canterbury, London, Oxford, Coventry, Birmingham, Sheffield and Barnsley and Manchester.

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2021/oct/17/little-amal-in-britain-giant-puppet-of-syrian-girl-reaches-her-journeys-end

Brother Jack’s partner, Claire Béjanin, is bidding her farewell after a hectic few weeks overseeing the journey through France.

Catch Amal if you can–she gladdens the heart.

See Amal in action here: https://fb.watch/8J4blbwZwy/

Timeout‘s article has the London itinerary details for Amal–where and when you can see her, which starts Saturday outside of the grounding gates to Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre (1pm Sat Oct 23).

She visits the Southbank Centre as part of the London Literature Festival, which features a novel about refugee children and then at 5:30pm, a choir welcomes Amal to the National Theatre terrace.

At 7pm, A special dance will welcome Amal to Somerset House.

Sun Oct 24 is Amal’s 10th birthday and the party takes place at the V&A Museum. (Free, but book tickets in advance.) Highlights include a massive cake from Yotam Ottolenghi that will be shared with the audience.

A special birthday concert takes place at the Roundhouse that evening at 7pm. Book early! Tickets £20-£35.

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I sprinkled a dessert spoonful of sunflower seeds on the tuna salad for lunch yesterday without immediately making the connection with what is happening in the fields around us.

Toasted sunflower seeds

Giant harvesters are scything the blackened flower faces and spewing the processed seeds into large rectangular skips.

It has been an exceptional year for sunflowers. Great painterly swathes of yellow covered the countryside for weeks before succumbing to the heat of the sun and bowing their heads in submission.

Their span has always suggested soldiers to me–from green recruits through seasoned professionals to weary veterans–a life in the field.

Witnessing this pattern repeat itself each year is one of the many pleasures this old townie looks forward to, living as we do, en plain campagne [in the heart of the countryside].

The thrilling cycle continues–the ever-changing face of the countryside ’round here.

Now’s the time to “plough the fields and scatter”–a hymnal phrase from my childhood. Never much thought about at the time, but now it’s happening outside my front door.

Never too late to learn.

Also, a scene in an early episode of POLDARK episode comes to mind.

Exactly what I was doing on a cold autumn day 40 years ago with Jud (Paul Curran ) by my side.

Too chilly for baring the chest 😉 !

Field-to-table–a connection not always made by city-dwellers.

No sooner has the seed spewer done its job than a smaller niftier tractor with plough attached behind starts in to turnover the stumps and transform the field into a plantable plot again.

Garlic this time around perhaps; l’Ail Rose de Lautrec (our very own pink garlic).

Lightly toasting the sunflower seeds over a lowish heat makes them even more delicious–but keep an eye on them, or they’ll quickly burn.

From my third cookbook, Mediterranean Cooking for Diabetics

Tuna Salad

A handy, quick standby, when you feel at a loss for something to serve for a light lunch. 

for 4

2 tbsps dijon mustard

4 tbsps tarragon vinegar

300 ml olive oil

4 tbsps plain yoghurt, drained through a sieve (to thicken it a little, and extract the liquid)

2 tbsps parsley–chopped fine

2 tbsps chives–chopped fine

2 tbsps chervil–chopped fine (optional–a plus, if you can find it!)

Salt & Pepper to taste

1/2 a cucumber–peeled, quartered, deseeded, and chopped fine

2 spring onions– cleaned and chopped fine

1 tbsp  sunflower seeds– lightly toasted in a dry frying pan

2  200gms/7oz tins/cans of tuna–drained and flaked (I like it best when packaged in olive oil.)

a little extra parsley– chopped fine

1. Place the tuna in a favourite serving bowl;

2. Whisk the first eight ingredients together into a thick sauce;

3. Add the cucumber, onions and seeds;

4. Pour the sauce over the tuna;

5. Mix carefully;

6. Sprinkle over the remaining parsley;

7. Serve with a crisp, green lettuce. 

I often serve them on “little gem lettuce” which serves as “boats” for the cargo–and in this case, with hardboiled eggs.

Spot Lucette in the corner, ever hopeful..!

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It’s nearly nine in the morning; Lucette and Maud are up and ready to face the day, but seem in no hurry–content to scuffle around, chatting to themselves, making the usual plans.

They have passed the night in their little house nestling in the coop between buttresses on the northwest side of the church.

Our friend Thomas built the coop while the little split-level house inside was a gift from our friends Flo and Thierry. (Foxes, weasels and buzzards are a threat!)

Lucette has the upstairs, Maud the ground floor.

Maud hesitates as I open up and waits for Lucette to descend to ground level before shooting through the opening to the day beyond. Lucette follows at a more measured pace.

She is the larger of the two and usually leads the dance, with Maud content to follow in her wake.

Our pair of chickens, each with her own likes and quirks, ways and daily rounds, begin another day, mirroring all the days that have gone before, since the odd couple arrived here about one year ago. They are creatures of habit.

I secure the doors and watch two bobbing feathered behinds pecking their way up the path, past the tomato patch.

The pecking order operates only by virtue of Lucette’s longer legs; Maud, if it really matters to her, will put in a spurt of her short-legged bobbing waddle to outpace Lucette to that tasty morsel.

The odd two were three; but one day, when I went to close up in the evening I found a flat pancake of feathers near the door to the pen.

Poor Amber had hit red–she was dead.

No sign of an attack or any aggression, simply the image of a life departed. The end.

It was distressing–but also a relief that it appeared to have been natural and peaceful.

The magnificent Amber

The three hens came from a life in Montpellier on the Med, to the southwest of us.

They are breeds called Negra Soi or Silkies (Maud) and Araucana (Lucette).

Lucette, the larger one, is supposed to lay beautiful blue eggs.

In her time here, she has produced only ONE, small egg–albeit BLUE!
I made the smallest omelet in the world which Meredith and I shared.

Eggs are not the reason we delight in our odd couple. It’s simply THEM and their ways.
Lucette is always on the lookout for handouts–tilting her head coyly as she catches my eye.

“I’m here…”

She’ll take advantage of an open front door, nipping in to sample the cat food, which she relishes, and knows is often leftover–no flies on Lucette.
Graciously she shows her appreciation by leaving evidence of the visit.

“OOMPH!–delicious thanks so much.”

She is the more companionable of the two, often just hanging out with us.
Maud keeps her counsel, content to peck her way to a full stomach in the courtyard.
They usually siesta together under the old henhouse–hens with a sense of the past.

It’s perfect shade, and a place of safety from circling hawks and buzzards.

The cats keep a wary distance and are no threat to Lucette and Maud, who early on made it clear–with a fluttering of wings–that they would take no messing.

Ben–on higher ground–keeps a wary eye

None of the six cats have ever shown any inclination to “mess“.

At dusk, they retrace their steps and head for the tomato patch where they have a soft earth bath in a favourite place, nicely warmed by the afternoon sun.

“Lovely”

Then, in a leisurely fashion…

“No sense in rushing, you understand, being hens of the south….”

…they head for home, and after a little desultory pecking, turn in.

Lucette upstairs and Maud downstairs.

Another day well spent!

What a life!

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I want to share a timely piece published yesterday, by Heather Cox Richardson…

 …a professor of American history at Boston College, specializing in the American Civil War, Reconstruction, and the American West. She previously taught history at MIT and at Amherst.

She also writes what she calls “Letters from an American” six days a week on the US political scene. She takes notice of history, which many people don’t! (It’s highly recommended and free–though contributions are welcome.)

“Today, Americans across the country marched for voting rights.

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