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Yesterday was the last day of principal photography – contracts for most of the crew ended at 5.30 on Friday evening. But everyone is aware of how incomplete the film is – it’s more than days, it’s at least two weeks away from completion. So today work goes on, but without Terry Bedford, Jenny, Simon, Mick the Loader and other familiar faces.

I miss them, though I know Terry G and Julian don’t. They’ve been longing for this day. Longing to be rid of ‘The Circus’ as they call them.

Roger Pratt1 is still there – doughty, reliable, straight and reassuring (not a ‘Circus’ man, I’m told). Julian and Terry G do most everything else, leaping around with the unbounded delight of those from whom a great weight has been lifted.

Terry operates like he so much wanted to do. Julian can organise in his direct and unsophisticated way, which never worked with a full crew.

I feel at last drained and physically exhausted. I want to go home. Just for a couple of days, that’s all I need. Away from dirt, discomfort, cameras and castles. I want to stop being stared at for a day or two.

I begin to harbour murderous thoughts towards the vacuous tourists who cling to the unit like leeches, ordering their spotty, whiny little kids to stand beside me and have their photo taken. ‘Could you sign these for two little girls who are friends of the lady who works Thursdays only in the shop next to the one I work in?’ ‘When are you doing more Pythons?’ ‘What is this?’ ‘Who are you?’ It’s all becoming a big nightmare from which I want to wake up and scream ‘Fuck off!’ from the battlements of Chepstow Castle.

At a quarter to six I run up the stairs as Gilliam films me, for the last time. It’s over. Throw my potato the length of the Outer Bailey – and by 6.30 I’m heading for London in my Mini, with a huge and generous sunset behind me – a final farewell from Wales, for which, despite today, I shall only have the happiest of memories.

Home around 8.30 (praise the M4). Willie, naked, runs down the stairs to open the door for me. Cuddles all round. Even Rachel hasn’t gone to sleep and she welcomes me with a soft, broad grin which warms me no end.

Tuesday, September 21st

All day at the BBC working on pre-production for Ripping Yarns.

Casting continues to provide surprises. Denholm Elliott has agreed to play Gregory in ‘Andes’. Terry H keeps telling me not to underestimate the scripts when I show stunned incredulity at the involvement of an actor of D Elliott’s legendarity

Wednesday, September 22nd

Pouring rain (still rare enough to be remarkable) as I drive out to Shepperton, after a BBC wig and costume fitting, to see the final Welsh rushes and an assembly of the film so far.

The opening castle stuff works surprisingly badly – even Max doesn’t come across as positively as he should – and the chiaroscuro lighting effects, and some quite wretched minor performances, make the whole thing irritatingly difficult to follow. Moment of depression – it’s misfired. But it perks up and lightens and brightens and, by the end (when the editor has skilfully put on some wedding music), the film, despite its ‘Scene Missing’ caption cards and its lack of effects, has grabbed people enough to elicit spontaneous applause. John G and Sandy are very happy. Happier than I ever saw producers on the Grail.

I’m happy too. Deep down, and confiding this only to the diary, I’m pretty pleased with myself— like I never was on Grail. There are only a few moments where I let my performance slip. I was trying hard on Jabberwocky to make up for what I felt were unrelaxed performances on the Grail. God, it’s been a long time since I’ve really enjoyed my performance.

Friday, September 24th, Southwold

Up to Southwold – left London in pouring rain.

Saw Father in hospital. Sitting hunched, huddled and silent with three others. He’s draped in a cellophane sheet under his dressing gown like a chicken in a supermarket. He seems pleased to see me and gets a few words out in the 45 minutes we’re there – something about having a picture of myself (walking) in my