It's lunchtime when we arrive at Upcote Farm. Situated in the idyllic Gloucestershire countryside near Cheltenham, the farm is dotted white with sheep and the smells and sounds of agriculture fill the July air. A tractor trundles off behind a hedge in the distance. Some cows gather on the other side of a dry stone wall, gazing quizzically at the unfamiliar car.

Cinema has changed a lot in the last thirty years. Sequels and reboots and vast comic book universes have become dominant. We experience movies differently too. A whole generation now knows only streaming. Memories of the recent past seldom seem more quaint than in the searing glow of the lights of the video store.

In 2000 I started earning my own money for the first time. Through some obscure connection of a family friend I landed a plum job as a porter at Bournemouth’s Durley Hall, a shit-to-middling seaside hotel where wedding receptions were hosted every Saturday and I nearly lost a finger.

Despite a life of relative contentment I am not a restful man. In my mind doubt and pessimism reign, a perpetual fury of this and that, seldom at ease. The Isle of Bute – whether I’m there in body or spirit – has always been my sanctuary.