How our film about the occult side of Hastings told us what it wanted to be about, and we just did what we were told…

In a traffic island marooned off the messy 60s junction that guillotines the town centre in two, there is a block of diddy modern granny flats plonked incongruously between the grander remains of the Regency front, with an even more incongruous Blue Plaque hidden behind the wheelie bins that nobody is able to read. Michael Faraday, it tells you in very underwhelming and matter-of-fact language, stayed in a cottage on this site the summer before he presented the Royal Institut

Nothing says Hastings like Jack in the Green: clog-dancing maidens, stomping steampunk drummers, Morris dancers a-leaping with their knee bells and handkerchiefs, happy LGBTQ+ samba troupes, beardy blokes with owls perched on their arms, a long procession following the presiding deity of the rite, Jack, the spirit of Spring, making his way up the winding cobbles of the Old Town