It’s the middle of December, 10 days away from Christmas. I’m on a train chugging along the south coast of England, across chilly countryside under a darkening grey sky. It’s almost idyllic but mostly bleak, and so very ordinary – I’ve watched industrial estates and small villages like these roll by a hundred times before. This isn’t where you’d normally go looking for a superstar.
Bournemouth station is my stop, a seaside town with nice Victorian buildings and lots of students. Many of them study at my destination, the Arts University of Bournemouth, where I’m about to meet the course leader of acting. His name is Doug Cockle, but you and I know him better as Geralt of Rivia.
Cockle looks like a teacher, like every teacher you ever saw walking around a campus or school corridor. Nothing marks him as extraordinary. He’s middle-aged, a bit shorter than me and wears sensible glasses. He’s dressed comfortably rather than showily in plain, warm, everyday clothes. His hair is shaved and he has a slight beard. He does not have a mane of flowing white hair.
He isn’t gruff, either, or arrogantly aloof. He is mild-mannered and friendly. And as we walk to an onsite cafe for a cup of coffee we make everyday small talk about students leaving for Christmas and oh my isn’t it getting cold. He buys me a coffee with a handful of change from his fleece pocket. It is an entirely unremarkable situation.
Then I hear his American accent, half growl, half purr, and I remember who he is, like it’s some kind of secret, like he’s wearing some kind of disguise. I realise I know, and I’m not the only one.
“I don’t know when people really clock,” he says, “some of my students I think still don’t know. I do share it when I’m recording something; if the students ask, I’ll tell them. But I was supposed to be very tight-lipped about The Witcher 3 so I didn’t say a lot about it. I got told off once for just tweeting. But the ones who were listening knew.