We’re exhausted, broke, and a little superstitious now. The sea here feels closer, somehow. Every night it seems louder, like it’s rehearsing.

Our final sequence — the chef preparing his “signature dish” — was meant to be shot inside an old fishing hut. It's been pissing it down for days on end, the tiny stream when scouting is now a raging torrent. The tide it seems now reaches this hut too!. In it came flooding half the set. We carried on anyway, knee-deep in seawater.

The footage looks incredible, eerie.

When we wrapped, the generator cut out. Total silence — except for one last boiling sound. Like something cooking. Sandy now packing up, she won't say why but something else changed last night in her mood and today she said enough is enough she is just the sodding writer.

The dailies are so haunting — the reflections in the water move differently than the actors.