Some love him best as Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham, in Downton Abbey. For others, it’s as Mr. Brown in the Paddington films. And then there are those who revere him as Douglas Bellowes, a respectable news anchor brought down by a sexist joke in the ITVX series Douglas Is Cancelled. But there’s no need to quibble—we’ll watch Hugh Bonneville in just about anything. Next up: he plays a police officer in The Gold, a crime drama that revisits Britain’s biggest gold heist of all time, which will air on Masterpiece on PBS this summer. And then, on September 12, Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale will arrive in theaters. But first: Bonneville shares his key components to the good life. —Ashley Baker
Airline: Where the welcome is genuine and your neighbor has mints.
Airport: Any airport where the wait for baggage to come through is shorter than the flight.
Bag: I spent months hunting for a replacement for my decaying, much-loved bag—big enough for a script, a laptop, and overnight stuff. And lo, as I was walking down the Rue Faubourg Saint-Honoré in Paris one afternoon in 2014, through a shop window, a Berluti bag waved at me coquettishly. It was ludicrously expensive, but it’s been over my shoulder on every trip since, although it’s now looking as knackered as its owner.
Bedtime: Box breaths. I never get beyond the thir—…
Bike: As a kid I used to envy the boys in my street who had a Chopper, or its younger relative the Chipper. Long seat, handlebars like a Harley, usually with tassels flapping off the end. One year, as a birthday present, I was given a racing bike with drop handlebars. A Raleigh. Ten gears, built for serious cycling. I was not a serious cyclist. I accepted it with what little grace I could muster, as Dave Boris sped past on his purple reclining stallion. Nowadays, something electric, thank you very much.
Breakfast, weekend: Yogurt, mandarin, dates, granola, pomegranate. Splash of honey.
Car: I ditched my Tesla before it became fashionable to do so. Back in the 70s, I used to covet my aunt’s Triumph Stag. She looked effortlessly cool at the wheel. But then she sold it before I even passed my driving test. I was furious. So I transferred my affections to the Mercedes W113 SL—the Pagoda. If anyone has a spare one going cheap, I’m your man. I currently drive a VW Golf, and I keep being e-mailed that I could have a court case in my favor. Then again, the lawyer of a Nigerian prince keeps telling me I have money coming my way. What to do?
Child: One who replies to your text within a week.
Cocktail: On the cast’s first trip to New York to publicize Downton Abbey, we went straight from the airport to a screening at MoMA, supported by Ralph Lauren, who was an “early adopter” of the show. Graydon and Anna Carter were there too, I think. Not being a seasoned transatlantic flyer, jet lag hit me like a sledgehammer just as we were about to go in to the Q&A. The barman in the lobby was clearing up the pre-show drinks. I asked him for a shot of something to perk me up: tequila. Did he have a mixer? All he had left was ginger ale. Talk about rocket fuel. I bounced onto that stage convinced I was the wittiest interviewee ever. As I was Downton’s patriarch, someone that night christened the cocktail that set me on fire “The Daddy.” One picks you up, two make you fly … a third makes you the most boring person on the planet.
Couple: Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. Passionate, unpredictable, and monstrously talented.
Diet: The one where you eat a massive amount of roast chicken with English mustard, bread sauce, Brussels sprouts, and potatoes, followed by sticky toffee pudding and ice cream, and you’re guaranteed to shed 20 pounds.
Dinner, weekday: Spag bol.
Disguise: When I was 18, I traveled abroad before university but came home early to do a play with the National Youth Theatre. I didn’t tell my parents of my change of plan and flew in to Belgium, where I knew they were due to visit friends—medics, like my folks—who I’d brought in on the surprise. I arrived at the house in Ghent, donned the jalaba I’d bought in Sudan, stuck on a false beard, and adopted a dodgy accent. My parents arrived. Dad was completely taken in, surprised to be introduced to a strange young medical student of indeterminate origin, speaking broken English. Mum called time about 30 seconds later. Mums just know. She was even more surprised when, a couple of years later, I floated the idea of becoming an actor.
Drive: The length of the A272, a road that ribbons across the South Downs of England. A Dutch bloke even wrote a book about it.
Enemy: Probably my best friend. They know who they are.
Escape: We filmed some of the second Downton Abbey movie at a villa in the South of France. There was a precipitous pathway down to a secluded bay, where Mediterranean waters lapped onto rounded rocks and a soft sandy beach. Heaven. For those who know the show, it’s where Branson and his intended have a dip in the sea.
Flaw: Honesty.
Friend: He knows who he is. And that’s all.
Good-bye: “Let’s definitely stay in touch.”
Hideaway: That would be telling.
Hotel: Not gonna share my favorite, but my second favorite is the Bond villain’s lair known as Amangiri. Bonkers location, cut into the rock of southern Utah.
Insult: My co-star who asked our director, “So he’s doing it like that, is he?”
Jacket: A coat I liberated from the set of To Olivia, a film about Roald Dahl. I only wore it in the first scene. Originally it swamped me, so after filming I had it taken in. Five years later, I need a tailor.
Last Meal: To have chef Ken Hom tell me stories about his life while cooking stir-fried prawn and broccoli with his exquisite sweet and sour sauce. And please can the guillotine have a sea view over Tamariu on the Costa Brava?
Match: Liverpool playing whoever Messi’s playing for, but Mo Salah scores the winning goal.
Movie: In 2001, the actors Iain Glen, Sarah Parish, and I were filming on location on the Isle of Man. We went to a bar. As Iain went off to get the drinks, Sarah clicked her fingers and said, “Favorite film. Don’t think about it, just answer.” “You won’t have heard of it,” I replied. “It’s a Swedish film called My Life as a Dog.” She looked at me, astonished. “No! That’s my favorite film, too. No one I know has even heard of it.” Iain arrived with the drinks. Sarah dived in. “What’s your favorite film? Don’t think about it, just answer.” “Oh, no one I know has seen it, but I love it … ” You can guess the rest. We were becoming friends anyway, but I like to think our shared fondness for Lasse Halström’s Oscar-nominated film accelerated the process.
Name: Felix, my son.
Neighbor: The one who asks you to play table tennis rather than to ask you how you learn your lines and what Julia Roberts and Maggie Smith were really like.
Pet: A slow loris. We are destined to stare at each other for hours on end … then stretch … ever so … slowly—then roll over and take in the view.
Podcast: Sherlock Holmes Short Stories. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote brilliant tales. And now I’m narrating them, folks.
President: Being an actor, I’m often told to shut up and stay in my lane rather than comment on anything to do with the public discourse. If Volodymyr Zelenskyy had stayed in his lane he would still be providing the Ukrainian voice of Paddington Bear.
Restaurant: J. Sheekey, in London. Wonderful fish, best fries in town, great service. It’s in the heart of theater land, where photographs of actors from down the generations adorn the walls. Mine used to be in a prominent position. Then it was moved to outside the disabled toilet. Now it’s gone altogether. Maybe I don’t tip well enough.
Saying: “Do it now.” My friend and mentor, the actor Celia Imrie, passed it on to me from her mother. It’s sometimes landed me in hot water, let’s put it that way. It’s certainly made me more decisive.
SHOES: R.M. Williams.
Storm: Donald Trump interviews Jesus Christ without prompts from Project 2025.
Television series: Batman, with Adam West. I hope Hollywood will reboot it in time for me to have a role in it somewhere.
Time of day: The hour before dawn.
Toast: “To absent friends.”
View: Anywhere on top of the South Downs, a chalk range that ribbons its way across the southeast of England. It’s where I breathe best.
WRITING IMPLEMENT: For my 40th birthday, my late mother bought me a Cross fountain pen. Whenever I write longhand, that nib is my nib. Please don’t ever ask to borrow it. It’s that personal.
Hugh’s Essentials
