On the anniversary of the flooding of New Orleans I’m reminded of the time when Wellesbourne, just five miles from Stratford, was flooded in August 1968, especially where the old Peacock Inn used to stand.

Flooding had always been a problem for the ‘bottom end’ of the village, with the cellar of our house filling-up with evil smelling water several times a year. But on that August morning thirty-seven years ago the water kept on rising to ooze beneath the cellar door and into the living room.

It had been raining heavily all night and the usually tranquil River Dene (which helps feed the Avon) was, by early morning - due to the failure of several neglected sluice gates - a raging torrent. By first light most of Chapel Street was under water, with the Peacock Inn, in its vulnerable position at the river’s edge, resembling a torpedoed ship awaiting its end.

Not many in Wellesbourne today will remember the Peacock Inn, but those few that do will also recall the pub’s landlord, Teddy Dencer, with a wry smile.

Teddy had been the landlord since the early 1930s when the old place - a typical red brick three-storey building of the 1850s - had been the haunt of the men who worked on the farms, and the flour mill to the east of the village, and the workers of Pritchard’s coal yard next door. And although it was a working class boozer, it was also a favourite rendezvous for the Warwickshire Hunt.

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The much photographed River Avon is a deceiving and dangerous river. It’s not very deep, no more than five feet (sorry 1.5 metres) at its deepest, but the currents are fast, and treacherous.

Watching the river the other morning, its colour a deep orange (after a night of torrential rain) from the top soil washed into it from the fields upstream, I was reminded of a little known tragic incident way back in the summer of 1947.

June 1947 was hot and sunny, and the river clear and much deeper and faster flowing than usual, with an icy temperature that lingered as a result of some of the worst winter weather Britain had experienced in over 100 years. It was a combination that would claim the life of a young 18 year old actor by the name of Albert Forster.

Albert was a promising talent, and his first job in 1946, after leaving drama school, and his native Edinburgh, was with the prestigious Birmingham Repertory Theatre. He was a handsome young man who looked a bit like Gordon Jackson, and by all accounts sounded like him too. His potential was soon spotted by none other than Sir Barry Jackson (who had run the Birmingham Rep, and was now running the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre) who asked the startled young actor to join his company in Stratford the following winter. Naturally Albert Forster accepted and made a very expensive long distance telephone call to his proud parents.

The young Scotsman was not the only young hopeful to join Jackson’s company in 1947.

Joss Ackland had received a similar invitation from Jackson, but was not so thrilled at the idea of working in Stratford (he’d have preferred to stay in London where there was plenty of theatre and radio work, and the chance of the odd film role), but his agent said it was a good move, and would do his image a power of good, so he went.

Ackland remembered that the Memorial Theatre was like an island amidst the winter flood water that freezing February of 1947, and that the only way to get to rehearsals was by rowing boat, and for a non-swimmer like Ackland that was pretty scary.

Albert Forster and Joss Ackland were in good company that season. Donald Sinden and Paul Scofield were both 25 years old, and enjoying their first flush of stardom in Romeo and Juliet, Richard II, Dr Faustus, and Measure for Measure. Albert knew he only had to look, and watch, and listen for some of the magic of Sinden and Scofield to rub off.

The season progressed and the little company of players grew ever closer to one another, with Albert Forster’s genuine talent soon becoming obvious to everyone. And all agreed, over the odd pint or four at the Dirty Duck, that they would do everything they could for each others careers in the future. It’s what actors, good and generous actors, do.

Eventually the floods subsided, and spring turned the Warwickshire countryside into a haven of green, with the Shakespeare Birthday Celebrations one of the most colourful since the end of the war. Throughout the late spring and early summer thousands of visitors came to Stratford to enjoy the river, and eat an ice-cream in the shade of the old trees along the river’s edge. Even Joss Ackland was beginning to enjoy himself.

June the 5th was a particularly hot day, and the morning rehearsals for that evening’s performance of Measure for Measure had gone well, but were exhausting. What better way to cool off than go for a swim? Albert Forster, unlike Joss Ackland, could swim, but not well, but nonetheless felt relaxed in the jovial company of his new friend, assistant stage manager Ernest West, who was a strong swimmer.

The two young men set off in a canoe (dodging the pleasure cruisers taking visitors to the weir and back) for the ‘safe’ bathing area of the river alongside the town’s camping ground slightly up river from the theatre, and a spot which is today a haven for caravan holiday makers, and hundreds of Canada Geese that have made Stratford their home. When the two young men reached the bathing area Ernest stripped and dived yelling into the achingly cold water, leaving Albert messing about in the canoe pretending to be a Red Indian.

Suddenly Albert’s war cries stopped and there was a splash. Ernest turned and saw his friend floundering in the water, the canoe upside down. The young assistant stage manager then struck out for the canoe, but Albert was gone. Ernest dived frantically again and again in a bid to find his new friend, but to no avail. He never saw him again.

The police found the young actor’s body several hours later over a mile downstream.

That evening’s performance of Measure for Measure went ahead as planned as something of a memorial to Albert Forster. Joss Ackland remembers it as a very subdued and tearful affair.

Early next morning Ackland arranged to have swimming lessons, and vowed never to return to Stratford.

“You’re good with horses I believe…”

In the summer of 1996 I managed to get a job as an extra in the Cromwell Productions film of Macbeth, starring Jason Connery, Helen Blaxendale, and Hildegard Neil, with that old survivor, John Corvin, cast as King Duncan. It was, for me, a valuable lesson in the art of making a little go a long way, and a realisation that a couple of fields in Warwickshire, shot in a particular way, can be made to look like, well, anywhere.

A large charming Scotsman by the name of Bob Carruthers started the film company in a small suite of offices in Cook’s Alley, which is just around the corner from Shakespeare’s Birthplace, and a million miles away from Hollywood. Over the years Bob has created a body of work that has stood the test of time in terms of integrity, scope, and sheer professionalism. Most of his films are documentaries dealing with historical subjects (including a lot of military history), many of which can still regularly be seen on the Discovery and History channels with virtually his whole output now available on DVD.

Macbeth was to be Bob’s first move into feature films, and an experience that must have aged him considerably, weakened his bank balance, and probably, in the early hours, made him ask the question: Why?

Anyway, the few days I spent on the set dressed as a Scottish soldier (in very itchy sack-cloth and wobbly helmet) were an eye-opener to the intricacies of film making, what seemed to be the despair of a young film director who looked as he might have chewed off more than he could swallow, and the ability of the film’s producer and writer (Bob) to step in at a particularly crucial moment and get the film back on track with the help of chocolate and a very loud voice.

Many of Cromwell Productions films were made on a farm close to the village of Bearley, just a couple of miles north of Stratford. The farm is about a mile up a rough drive and nestles on the top of slight rise that isn’t quite a hill, and is surrounded by a good selection of other natural undulations, plus a couple of woods, a stream, and several ancient farm buildings that were then near to collapse. But it didn’t look anything like Scotland.

The main farmhouse is a beautiful 18th century red brick building, with several outbuildings that were used by the costume and make-up departments.

Several of the fields surrounding the house were marked out for specific scenes in the film, with one field (a particularly rough and grassy one that sloped down to the stream) full of large medieval looking tents that represented the camp of King Duncan’s Army. In front of these tents dozens of bearded artisans made swords and shields, with several scabby women (the make-up department was very good) cooking meals in huge steaming pots hanging above large fires. Children and assorted livestock ran amok as hundreds of Duncan’s soldiers (me included) drilled, or skulked around as requested, with King Duncan (John Corvin) sitting in front of the most imposing tent drinking wine and discussing military tactics with his generals. And very good John was too.

It took virtually all of one morning for the director, Jeremy Freeston, to get all of this in place and to persaude people like me to talk and laugh, start fights, joke with the women and perhaps steal a kiss or two from the less scabby - in other words create as much movement as possible. We were then told that this scene of campsite bliss was going to be violently attacked by Macbeth’s cavalry who were up for a bit of murder, rape, and pillage. It was a big expensive scene that had already cost around five hundred bacon sandwiches for the extras alone, and, as one can imagine, once the extras have gone off to eat and drink the scene is lost for another two hours at least. So, we were told there would be no more meal breaks until the scene had been shot satisfactorily; but each time Jeremy shot the scene (and it had to be photographed from three separate positions, and he only had the one camera) he wasn’t happy with it, so the whole thing had to be set-up again. We were getting hungry and Jeremy seemed to be getting angry. Around five it looked as if the scene would never get onto film. Then Bob Carruthers arrived.

He didn’t arrive on horseback but in a large car (it might have been a Roller I don’t remember), which he parked, rather incongruously, in the middle of Duncan’s camp. It was fairly obvious he wasn’t happy as he made for his exhausted and seemingly downhearted director. Words were exchanged, as were a lot of expressive arm gestures. Afterwards a clear instruction went out to get chocolate for a much needed sugar boost. After the much needed chocolate Bob started shouting out instructions to all and sundry that had us running around like the proverbial blue-arsed flies. And when the cavalry came charging down that field we freaked out completely as we tried to pull our swords to put up a fight, or ran for our lives (a very wise move as those horses weren’t stopping for anyone), or just screamed and screamed and then ran again for our lives toward, and over, the camera, and across the stream, and up the field on the other side of the stream, and into the woods, and down the field on the other side of the woods, still screaming for our silly lives.

” Cut! Brilliant. Now let’s do it again with the camera over there.” Shouted Bob.

And do it again he did, three more times I think, from different angles, with the finished shot a terrifying close-up of horses, and fleeing, screaming nutcases like me.

I guess that’s something a producer has to do at times.

The following day Jeremy had to film a scene were Macbeth and Macduff (or was it Malcolm?) were seen riding towards the camera across a distant field. As soldiers we were lined up to escort them, by foot, to King Duncan. Suddenly Jeremy Freeston looked at me. I naturally I looked over my shoulder.

” No, you.”

” Me?”

” Yes, you, soldier. You’re good with horses, I spotted you yesterday.”

” Me? Horses, but I‘ve never…”

” What’s your name?”

” Steve.”

” Okay, Steve, now listen carefully. When Jason’s horse reaches this point, ” he pointed at the ground about ten yards away, ” I want you to run forward, take the horse by the bridle and hold him steady as Jason dismounts, then hang onto the beast as the camera pans.”

” But I don’t have…”

” Good. That’s clear then?”

Everyone was looking at me.

” Yes, quite clear,” I said.

With that Jeremy called Jason Connery on his radio to get ready, and then shouted:

” Action!”

I watched as the two riders came out of the distant wood and galloped across a newly ploughed field toward the camera that was just off to my right. I watched in dread as the horses and riders approached, my heart pounding in rhythm to their hooves. Eventually the two riders pulled-up exactly at the point Jeremy had pointed to. I was frozen to the spot, couldn’t move. Suddenly someone gave me a mighty shove from behind giving me no option but to run to Connery’s horse and grab the bridle. The son of 007 dismounted and walked toward the soldiers. I could hear the camera whirring as it panned.

” Cut!” Shouted Freeston.

And being the well trained actor it was, my horse, released from duty, turned and dragged me back across the ploughed field to the distant refreshment tent, and a well earned bacon sandwich.

” Nice horse, good horse…”