It had to happen eventually. The call of the city can no longer be denied. Some might feel it a little late, at 90, to decide to up sticks from an idyllically situated Georgian house deep in the Somerset countryside and relocate permanently to London.
I strongly disagree. And so, thankfully, does my wife Hilary.
We have always had a foothold in the city. When we met I was already in my mid-sixties and had lived for many years in my little flat in Covent Garden, close to the Royal Opera House and to the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, where we ultimately married, and where we celebrated my 90th birthday.
So it was quite a shock when I started a new life with Hil, to find that she came with a rather large and very old house miles from anywhere, or so it seemed to me, with a huge garden and a field.
Now, I’ve never looked good in a Barbour. And I had previously always considered the countryside to be an alien place full of green dripping stuff.
But I came to love the house in the countryside, of course. Particularly when Hil built a swimming pool which is kept at a distinctly non-eco temperature, just for me.
Still, we both felt that the older one grows the more desirable life in the city, with all amenities close at hand, becomes. Though we did take an inordinately long time to do anything about that.
So what changed? What has led us finally to take such a massive step, and put our lovely house up for sale?
The answer, of course, is that we reluctantly came to admit that we were ageing.
We may seem to have had the best of both worlds, and in many ways that is true. But the upkeep of the house, whilst still travelling to and from London, seems to have become harder with passing years. Hil has even begun to grumble about her garden, which had always been her great joy. In spring, when her 34 hydrangeas all have to be pruned, she sometimes now wishes she hadn’t planted quite so many.
I’d always known I could not cope in the country alone: for a start I don’t drive. And, unlikely though it might seem at my age, I still want to work. Which means pulling myself together. And I do deteriorate in the country. I swear my roots grow out faster (maybe it’s all that fresh air), and I’ve yet to find any wellies with heels.
Therefore, it was always more or less accepted between us that one day we would move to London full time.
Then came Covid. And lockdown, spent entirely in Somerset, was the most fabulous sabbatical. The weather was glorious, the world had closed shop, and there was never a hint of that nagging anxiety we both suffer from – that we really should be doing something important somewhere else…
We loved every minute of our lockdown, and it was a while before we even mentioned again the prospect of leaving Somerset.
Yet London always lurked. I believe, as does Hilary, that it remains one of the greatest and most exciting cities in the world. I come from Greater Manchester and Hilary grew up in North Devon, but for us both everything that our lives became began in London – for me as an actress and her as a journalist.
Our flat is at the heart of theatre-land, and is a stone’s throw from Fleet Street, centre of a once great newspaper industry, where Hil spent much of her working life. In Covent Garden, we swap the morning cry of cuckoos for the toll of Big Ben, the rumble of a passing tractor for the welcome purr of a black cab, our three mighty oak trees for a plane tree called Amy. It’s still flourishing opposite the Royal Opera House – and, in its infancy during the drought of 1976, I kept it alive with my bath water.
I amble down to the antique market on Monday mornings along streets walked by Charles Dickens and Nell Gwyn. I feel very English.
We both think of London as home. But Somerset was not only Hill’s home for nearly 40 years, it also became mine. And there is much I will miss dreadfully – the swimming pool of course, the log fires, the glorious views across the Blackdown Hills, and the space. I also have to say a sad goodbye to the outrageous wisteria which threatens to annually engulf us.
Then there’s the vegetable patch. Living in Covent Garden since the 1950s, I was familiar with fresh veg left in the streets for we locals to collect. But they came out of the gutter rather than the ground, and I did have teething problems identifying growing veg in Somerset!
I learned a lot though. I’ll never be able to buy corn on the cob again, in shop or restaurant, because I now know what it tastes like ten minutes after being picked.
I am, however, starkly aware of how incredibly privileged we have been to have shared two such wonderful homes – particularly when half the world now seems to have been disrupted by acts of violence and so many people are living in tents.
I am also aware of how privileged I am, aged 90, to be still able to look forward to a new adventure in our capital city.
This week I have been…
Partying… We were honoured to be invited by the Speaker of the House of Commons to a party at Parliament. And how magical it was to walk to the Speaker’s House though ancient cloisters, a luminous Big Ben towering above us.
Later, whilst still wondering at the historic splendour of my surroundings, I was approached by a very important person who shall be nameless – not The Speaker! – who asked me, as the eponymous lead of Carry on Cleo, to pose with him for a photo.
This did not entirely surprise me as Carry On fans are everywhere. But I was mildly surprised when he then asked me to sign his Kenneth Williams doll – which talked! In a terrifyingly accurate voice.
Working… I pre-recorded a radio interview to promote my latest memoir, I’m Still Here, ghosted by Hil. I also filmed a comedy sketch for the BBC. And I returned to Parliament having been asked to attend an event there for Heart Valve Voice, a charity promoting the early diagnosis and treatment of heart valve disease, which I support.
This charity is, literally, close to my heart, as last year I underwent at Barts Hospital a quite revolutionary procedure called a Tavi (transcatheter aortic valve implantation), when my dodgy heart valve was replaced without invasive surgery. I was discharged the day after, and my life was transformed. Most noticeably, the perpetual weariness I had put down to old age disappeared.
Theatregoing… Two West End theatre visits in one week – a great play and a great musical. Easy when you only have to walk down the road.
Woman in Mind, at The Duke of York’s Theatre, is classic Alan Ayckbourn, full of humour but with a distinctly serious side. This is a brilliant energised production, and what a joy to see in Sheridan Smith a true star at work.
Also such a joy to see The Producers again, at The Garrick. It is one of my all-time favourites. Having been a wartime baby, seeing Hitler reduced to a comic figure never ceases to delight me. The Producers is a work of pure timeless genius.
‘I’m Still Here’ by Amanda Barrie is out now. Amanda and Hilary’s house in Somerset is for sale with Stags of Wellington for £750,000.
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