Ah, Craster’s Keep. Deep in the woods of a private estate north of Belfast, in at least six feet of mud (OK, inches), is the resilient set of the last wildling outpost before the Wall. It’s a strange set – with semi-permanent snow dressing, you do feel as if the temperature has dropped once you walk into the white-washed trees, even in the rare sun of late summer.
We’re shooting nights again this year and sometimes that leads to unusual early-hour conversations.
"Just be aware there are two bodies in the car, yeah?"
"Careful where you step, you’ll rip the snow."
"They could really have their own show, ‘Chickens on Tour.’"
"Anyone seen the sword blood?"