My friend pulls up his hood as the rain intensifies. “Normal people wouldn’t come up here in this weather,” he groans. “So why have we? It’s so wet, it’s almost Irish.”

“Because we’re not normal people,” I tell him. “And neither were the people filming hereabouts last year.” Then I correct myself. “Actually, one of the actresses was. But that’s not the point. It was a bold move, and I want to honour it.”

Then Friend points out that other film crews also have worked on this moor, which is part of a national park. Sixteen years ago one of them restored an abandoned house half a mile southeast of the 1,148ft summit on which we stand.

“Who lived there?” I ask. “You know, in the film.”

“A horse,” Friend says. “Among others. Let’s take a look.”

I don’t want to go to war with him about it, so we drop down to the house, which stands empty once more.

“It’s pretty desolate,” I tell him when we get there.

“But a lot less desolate than the Western Front,” Friend says. “And it’s drier than your summit too.”

At this point I remind him that the weather’s clearing. If we go back up, we might see the sea — and also a port city, whose large aquarium stands nearly ten miles southwest of the house.

“There’s no sense in going back,” Friend says. “Besides, I want to see the sharks.”