In this age of paparazzi bottle rocket celebrity, you have spurned the spotlight’s glare and could conduct master classes on the subject of remaining grounded and true to oneself. Your 50-year marriage to actress Joanne Woodward in a business where 50-months seems the maximum milestone is laudatory. You appear to be ill and reports troublingly conflict and try to outdo each other over the seriousness of your malady. Cameras show someone dealing with something serious, very privately, so how does one respect that privacy and honour your considerable achievements?

Living quietly in southern Connecticut, you starred in some of Hollywood’s biggest films – Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The Hustler, The Verdict and your last role, a voiceover in the Disney/Pixar Cars – yet you remain quietly grounded and living about as far away from Hollywood as one can get and stay in the USA.

Wandering one day through the village shops of Westport in the early 90s, I was frozen in my tracks to see you and Ms. Woodard walking towards me on the sidewalk of the main street. Old enough to remember seeing Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid in the theatre, it was astounding to see you there together in real life, holding hands and doing some shopping.

I saw a quote today on a website from a 10-year old asking what the big deal was about a guy who makes salad dressing? Well you were a pretty good actor before making salad dressings. That feels like saying Michael Jordan was a pretty good basketball player. Do understand though sir that I once overheard two 13-year olds say, “yeah, Paul McCartney played in a band before Wings, but I don’t remember the name.”

You and Robert Redford were the Brad Pitt and George Clooney of our generation. In a light-hearted moment you said, “The embarrassing thing is that my salad dressing is out-grossing my films.” Alas, to younger generations you will be better known for your food, philanthropic activities and love of auto racing than your movies, except the voice-over cameo in Cars.

You were goaded by friends into turning your homemade salad dressings into a business in the 1980s and said, “When I realized I was going to have to be a whore, to put my face on the label, I decided that the only way I could do it was to give away all the money we make. Over the years, that ethical stance has given us a 30 per cent boost. One in three customers buys my products because all the profits go to good causes and the rest buy the stuff because it is good.”

That $200 million dollars over the years has gone a long way. “It’s all been a bad joke that just ran out of control. I got into food for fun but the business got a mind of its own. Now - my good Lord - look where it has gotten me. My products are on supermarket shelves, in cinemas, in the theater. And they say show business is odd.”

You seem able to say it much better than me… “I like racing but food and pictures are more thrilling. I can’t give them up. In racing you can be certain, to the last thousandth of a second, that someone is the best, but with a film or a recipe, there is no way of knowing how all the ingredients will work out in the end. The best can turn out to be awful and the worst can be fantastic. Cooking is like performing and performing like cooking.”

And finally, “Twenty-five years ago I couldn’t walk down the street without being recognized. Now I can put a cap on, walk anywhere and no one pays me any attention. They don’t ask me about my movies and they don’t ask me about my salad dressing because they don’t know who I am. Am I happy about this? You bet.”

Get well soon sir. As one who recognized and respected your privacy that summer’s day in Westport, I long regretted not taking a moment to say hello and thank you. Now, I’m just glad to have had the moment.

I’ll say ‘thank you’ now.