By the time we'd reached our quarry, the impressive Ditchingham Maltings, the skies were low and black. The silos took on an eerie contrast, sheer white against the brooding sky, the huge structures amplified by the unsettling colours.

After discretely parking the car, we briskly hopped fences and ran across uneven, unkempt, litter-strewn scrub to reach the first buildings. In the end our haste was useless: the clouds burst midway through our run and the rain stormed down.

It wasn't the best start to the day. But things were only going to get worse. Because it was also the day I tried to kill myself.