OUR FAMILY holidays were almost always centred on Dorset, where my parents rented a house. They were idyllic summers, spent rock-pool hunting and flower-pressing. I knew everything there was to know about the surrounding countryside and its inhabitants. I’d even make scrapbooks of what I got up to and the things I’d discovered. They were true old-fashioned English holidays and we had blissful times.

I do remember once being carted off to Grosseto in Italy as a seven-year-old. My father doesn’t like flying, so he insisted we take the train and it was the most horrendous journey. Dad always likes to dress up for any occasion, so he travelled, in the height of summer, in a three-piece tweed suit, large overcoat and brogues. Then he started smoking his cigars and it all became too much, so mum and I found ourselves another carriage to occupy. But then we were accosted by a heroin addict, who clearly had designs on mum’s necklace, so we had to make a hasty retreat back to dad. By the time we arrived in Grosseto, we’d already vowed never to be disloyal to Dorset again.

I wish I could say that was the worst journey of my life, but a trip back from Russia a few years ago far superseded it. I’d been filming in Moscow and was travelling back to London when I was stopped at security and they began to search every piece of luggage I was carrying. “Do you have any money?” the guard asked in broken English. “A bit,” I replied, anxiously watching as he examined the medical kit my mother had lovingly packed for me. In the aftermath of September 11, she’d wanted me to be prepared for every eventuality and it contained syringes and anti-biological-warfare drugs. I didn’t think it could get any worse, but then they started finding money stuffed into every pocket of my luggage and accused me of being a money smuggler. I’d been given $100 a day food allowance and it had amounted to quite a vast sum of money.

I was then subjected to a humiliating strip search before being thrown into a cell-like room. I was terrified — I couldn’t understand what anybody was saying and they weren’t trying to listen to me. I was convinced I was going to spend the rest of my days in a Bangkok Hilton-like existence. Then my mobile rang and this booming voice said, “Hi, Emilia, I’ve just arrived in Moscow, where are you?” I hadn’t a clue who it was and in my hysterical state just screamed back, “I’m in Russian customs and I’ve been arrested,” before switching the phone off.

I’d been held for seven traumatic hours when the most beautiful woman entered the room, looking like something out of a Bond movie. “Hello, Emilia,” she said, “Ralph says you’re in trouble and need my help.” It had been Ralph Fiennes who’d called me, and instead of ignoring my rudeness, he had acted upon it and sent along a British Airways representative to sort out my mess.

In contrast, the time I spent in Romania a couple of summers ago was probably the closest I’ve been to paradise. I’d finished working out there and the people who’d taught us to ride for the film invited me on a day out with the horses. It was a beautiful Sunday morning and we trotted off and headed for the lake, where the experienced riders stripped off as the horses walked into the water. In the blistering heat, and in true family tradition, I was dressed in corduroys and a heavy knitted sweater. But once we hit the cool lagoon, it didn’t really matter. I could feel the ground fall away from beneath my horse’s hooves and she started swimming. I held onto her mane and swam alongside her — it was breathtaking.

When we headed back to the house, my horse was keener to return than most because she had a foal waiting for her. As I galloped into the paddock, praying to God to keep me in the saddle, the father of our host presented me with a beautiful garland of wild flowers. “For the prima donna,” he said, “the first lady to return.” I could have married him there and then and lived quite happily in Romania for the rest of my life.