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We have come to Falcon Field, in Mesa, 20 miles east of Phoenix, Arizona, in search of my father, Anthony Gerald Ellis.

Dad trained to be a fighter pilot for the Royal Air Force (RAF) here in 1944 under a scheme started in 1941 to help shore-up the war effort in Europe.

Many young British pilots had perished in The Battle of Britain in 1940.

Falcon Field was one of several airfields in the USA where members of the RAF—in my father’s case, a flight technician–could train in safety, get their wings and return to the war in Europe.

Dad is standing on the far left under the numeral 2 on the fuselage.

The story of Dad’s American odyssey had long been a part of our family mythology.

His almost permanent tan marked him out as someone who had spent many months in the notorious heat of southwestern United States.

I remember looking in awe at the colour photos in the magazine, Arizona Highways, that would arrive monthly all through the fifties.

Tony, as he was called, was “adopted”—as were all the young fliers—by a family in Phoenix for the duration of his stay.

In his case it was the Smith family whose mission was to make him feel at home at weekends and American holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas–far from his wife (my mother) and me (a two-year-old) back home in war-weary Britain.

(We would love to locate that family–but their name was Smith! They had a daughter named Polly who might be alive still and remember Tony Ellis.)

Meredith and I and our friend Katie Solon arrive at the museum at 9am and the two volunteer receptionists greet us warmly.

When they hear WHY we have come—to find evidence of my father’s time at Falcon Field–they are immediately interested.

“We need to find Dennis Lemon” they agree, “He’s your man—Dennis knows everything there is to know about Falcon Field and its past.”

A promising start, I am thinking, with a rising feeling of hope and expectancy.

For the next two hours that feeling does not evaporate in the intense heat—already 100 degrees! Rather it grows in strength, thanks to the skills of Mr. Dennis Lemon.

Dennis is a senior docent or tour guide at the air museum–and imparts his encyclopedic knowledge of the airfield and its exhibits with charm, humor and authority–and a light touch. He does not rush.

I explain our mission and he is fully engaged–and promises a visit to the archives before the morning ends.

As we start our tour in the first of the two huge hangars that house the museum, a small plane—an F4F Wildcat–taxis out, its propellers spluttering into life with deafening effect.

Dennis explains that it is owned by the pilot who regularly takes it out occasionally for a “run” .

The noise intensifies as the pilot gives us a wave and goes on his way towards the runway.

We spend the morning here in Mesa fascinated by the range of aviation history on show.

There are flying machines from the First World War so flimsy looking that the thought of taking off in one–let alone sparring with the enemy from the cockpit–gives me the shivers.

At the other end of aviation history there is the sinister presence of a Soviet MIG fighter flown here by a Hungarian pilot and gifted to the museum.

In between, airplanes large and small and middling–lovingly cared for–and in some cases prepared for take-off–by a small army of veterans and enthusiasts dedicated to maintaining and growing this remarkable museum as a living and working reminder of the story of war in the air.

Dennis takes us inside the fuselage of a World War 2 Bomber.

With our friend Katie inside the bomber

It is cramped, claustrophobic and unbearably HOT.

The difficult conditions experienced by bomber crews flying into a combat zones suddenly become vividly clear.

We feel humbled–and relieved to get our feet back on the ground.

Poignantly for me, Dennis points out three small aircraft similar to the ones in which my father would have done his training.

One I recognize from a war photo on a wall at home.

A second was involved in a story he used to tell his impressionable sons about his time at Falcon Field.

One morning he took off with others on a training flight going north in the direction of the Grand Canyon.

At a certain point the pilots were instructed to turn RIGHT (east)–and return to Falcon Field.

Dad’s mantra for life was Don’t rock the boat!-but he always maintained that he ignored the order, turned LEFT and flew over the Grand Canyon!

Dennis has an amused look when I relate the story–but confirms that this is plausible.

Dad could well have done it!

HOORAY!

Consequences? He never admitted what happened AFTER he returned to the airfield….

Perhaps the Powers-that-Be let him off with a reprimand—recognising that a sense of initiative in a young pilot should be encouraged in times of war. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking.

At the end of our tour, Dennis shows us the small plane in which a newly-qualified pilot would have celebrated earning his wings.

Not Dad–but looks a lot like him.

I am moved– imagining my father’s sense of pride and achievement as he flew off with his wings on his lapel.

And I feel regret–that I hadn’t questioned him more closely about one of the great adventures of his life.

Now for the archives,” says Dennis and leads us into a nondescript room at the back of the second hangar.

He disappears behind a line of filing cabinets and after a couple of minutes emerges with a pile of cardboard boxes filled with leather-bound notebooks.

We spend the next few minutes examining the files–turning over the pages filled with beautifully-calligraphed names dating back to 1941.

Will we find Dad’?

In the last book– on almost the last page–at the very bottom of the list: THERE HE IS!

A thrilling moment! ELLIS, Anthony G.

He got his wings on April 1st, 1945, age 29 –relatively old for a pilot.

The war in Europe ended on May 8, 1945–which is why he survived when many of the pilots who trained here had KIA after their names: Killed In Action.

Dad had spent 33 weeks at Falcon Field–and developed an enduring attachment to the United States.

I only spent two hours, but it was a joy and a privilege, thanks to Dennis Lemon and the volunteers who keep this museum alive.

The museum is special—full of these gleaming beasts of war, glowing with restored life and looked after lovingly by an army of volunteers.

It was a chastening experience too, spending time close up and personal with them–for this lucky boy born into a war, followed–thanks to the deeds of our fathers and grandfathers–by a long period of relative peace in Europe.

I would recommend a visit–even if you are not on a mission to find your Dad!

P.S. Two days later Meredith and I took off in a small fixed-wing plane–similar to Dad’s–and flew through the Grand Canyon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Just back from Rome where we walked and walked and ate and ate–which was the object of the visit.

I planned this trip–to celebrate my 75th birthday with our friends, Helen and Keith (his birthday is two days before mine)–as four nights and eight meals.

In front of the French Embassy in Piazza Farnese

In front of the French Embassy in Piazza Farnese with my fellow Capricorn.

Worked out very well.

This might seem to undervalue Rome–the Eternal City, heart of the Catholic Church, ancient heart of the vasty Roman Empire.

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Church bells sound on the quarter hour and bits of antique Rome are tucked into walls in unexpected places.

Look at those Roman heads in the wall!

HISTORY is everywhere–writ BIG!

It was unusually cold for Rome--as you can see here at the Pantheon.

At the Pantheon–in the freezing cold; unRoman winter weather we were told.

But so is the Roman love of FOOD.

At Pecorino, a wonderful restaurant near the Testaccio market

At Pecorino, a wonderful restaurant near the Testaccio market

 

Close to our hotel, Campo di Fiori–home to a proud statue of Giordano Bruno, a Dominican friar burnt at the stake in the piazza in 1600 as a heretic–now it’s famous for its daily market.

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Food and history, side by side.

On our last morning, we bought a large handful of prepared punterelle, handily vacuum-packed for the journey.

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Puntarelle is one of the culinary wonders of the region.

A member of the chicory family it is traditionally served in an anchovy, lemon and olive oil sauce.

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On the way to Keith’s birthday lunch we walked through the old Jewish ghetto–where the inhabitants were locked in at night until the middle of the 19th century.

Now there are police sentry posts at the entrances–keeping attackers out.

Restaurant barkers in yamakas–stand outside in the freezing cold, tempting us to try the famous fried artichokes.

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History and food–side by side.

The signature dishes of Rome are on every menu.

I ate an exquisite artichoke fried to a golden finish–the Jewish way–in a tiny restaurant called Soro Margherita (recommended!) in the Piazza delle Cinque Scole on the edge of the Jewish quarter.

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I’d been to Rome with the National Youth Theatre in the summer of 1960 with our modern-dress production of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar.

The following year I returned with a school friend.

Rome was one of our stops on a whirlwind nine-week tour of Europe before starting university.

I remember a single meal from this short visit.

It was a packed lunch of chicken and salad; eaten on location on the edge of what smelt like a sulphur pit.

It was my second day as an extra on a film called The Best of Enemies–starring Alberto Sordi and David Niven plus a galaxy of famous British character actors playing varied ranks in the British army in the Western Desert.

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I’d met this guy in the youth hostel who had already been an extra on the film for weeks in Israel, but had decided to quit.

“Why don’t you take my place?” he  suggested. “They won’t notice if you keep your head down–just say you’ve come from Israel with the others. They pay £11 a day!”

A FORTUNE on our budget!

“Just make sure you are at the studios (the legendary Cinecitta at the southeast city limits) by six in the morning,”  my benefactor advised.

The hostel opened at six, so no chance of sleeping there and making the studios in time.

So I decided to try a bench at the main railway station.

They moved me on.

I don’t remember HOW I got there–but I ended up sleeping on the wall outside the studios and–keeping my head down–coolly signed on.

The first day we shot in the studio.

There I was–hobnobbing with my HEROES–Harry Andrews whom I’d seen playing at Stratford two years before with Laurence Olivier in Coriolanus and Duncan Macrae, the bony Scots actor whom I’d also seen with Olivier in Ionesco’s Rhinoceros in the West End.

I have no memory of what I ate that day!

The second day we were on location outside Rome.

I was a dressed as a Private–khaki shorts and boots–Desert Rats, they were called.

When we broke for lunch I took off my hot, sweaty boots and dipped my toes in a nearby puddle while tucking into my grilled chicken lunch.

By the time I got back to the studio, my left left leg was feeling odd–painful even.

It got worse quickly. Whatever was infecting that pool of water was now climbing rapidly up my left leg!

By the end of the day, I could barely hobble on it–and I had to inform the third assistant director that I didn’t think I could return in the morning.

Then it all came out that I was taking the place of the previous guy–and it got a bit awkward!

They paid me off, but said “don’t bother to come back!”.

As I limped into the hostel, Chris Fordyce, my school friend and traveling companion, looked worried. By ten that night he persuaded me to consult the hostel manager.

He sent me directly to a doctor in the neighbourhood, who by some MIRACLE was still at work .

The doctor examined my leg, shook his head solemnly and said in a wonderfully accented English:

“Eets very lucky you come see me tonight. Tomorrow, I would have to take your leg off!”

He gave me a shot of penicillin and a week’s supply, with a single needle to inject it–brave Chris’ job.

I was in bed for seven days–and the needle got blunter and blunter.

But I kept my leg.

Life might have been so different!

I eventually saw the film at the Odeon Leicester Square and thought I caught a glimpse of a very thin ME clambering over rocks with other desert rats–but I wouldn’t swear to it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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I pass Gaby and Pierette’s farm on my daily walk and scurrying out of my path two days ago were a platoon of ducks and geese.

December the first today. They must be new arrivals in time for Christmas.

Les pauvres!

December the first….

DAY ONE, in the early 1950’s, on the advent calendar and the agonisingly slow build-up to the big day.

Sweet torture!

The decorations are up in our little village of Lautrec and outside Monoprix in the town of Castres, the little carrousel and its prancing horses is doing its rounds.

What to buy so-and-so and and mustn’t forget thing-a-ma-jig….

Christmas is now inevitable and the pressure is on.

Well, I have a suggestion….

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I know what it says on the cover but the recipes a healthy and delicious–good for everyone–and Meredith’s photos are sensational.

If your local bookstore doesn’t have it (in the UK), it’s available on Amazon–and only Amazon or other online book dealers in the USA. It’s also available for Kindle.

Here’s a look behind the scenes!

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All these events are free.

If our paths cross, hope you’ll come say hello!

 

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In New York City:

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In Los Angeles:

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In Palo Alto:

RevisedBooksInc

In Arlington, Virginia (Washington D.C. area):

Arlington

 

Poldark

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MEDITERRANEAN COOKING for DIABETICS–Delicious dishes to control or avoid diabetes.

Published today in the UK–available from bookstores and on-line and as an ebook.

Here’s a visual tour of some of the recipes you’ll find to cook in the book.

All photos by Meredith Wheeler–(bar one, which she’s in—only fair!)

To know how to eat is to know enough….

~ Old Basque saying

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Robin Ellis Med Cooking 01

 

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VeganPlate

 

SeafoodStew

SpinachTort

Spinach&RiceTorte

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Chicken

 

Gazpacho

 

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Bon appétit!

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AT LAST!

Yesterday the audio version of Making Poldark became available for download via Audible, Amazon or iTunes.

http://www.audible.com/search/ref=a_mn_mt_ano_tseft__galileo?advsearchKeywords=Making+Poldark&x=0&y=0

 

Below, I’m re-posting my account of recording it way back in January.

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Just back from UK where I recorded my memoir of Poldark as an audio book–with an extra chapter about taking part in the new BBC/Mammoth version–40 years after doing the original!

 

Two days in a small, soundproof booth in a basement recording studio in Hove in Sussex, while the wind and the rain raged above ground.

I was fortunate to have three helpmates in the studio running the show–and keeping my nose to the microphone.

Chris Daniels, sound engineer, owns the studio and is a member of that fraternity of calm console operators who are never flustered.

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They have seen it all before–and behave as though they read the first verse of Rudyard Kipling’s poem, IF, before sitting down to work:

If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
 
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
    And you’ll be make a Sound Engineer, my son!
(With apologies to Mr. Kipling.)
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My old friend, Constantine de Goguel Toulouse-Lautrec–his grandmother was in St. Petersburg in the October Revolution of 1917 and survived–sat in the producer’s seat and guided a rusty performer through the sessions with grace and years of experience.
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He’s a fine actor and an experienced dialogue coach for movies.
He also runs Spoken Ink–subtitled “The Home of Short Audio“–well worth checking out.
Meredith made up the triumvirate as back-up producer keeping a beady eye on the script and an ear out for things that could be better (like the American pronunciation of “Potomac”!).
Her occasional ripple of involuntary laughter was a morale boost for The Man in the Sound Proof Booth!
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The project is in post production now. When complete, we’ll announce it here.

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