The stereo dies, bodies return to beds and normal 5am activities resume. Three hours later everyone is awake, re-reading the guide books over breakfast. You see, electricity on Lundy Island is powered by a generator. Every day at midnight someone turns it off, plunging the entire island into a peaceful darkness. It's sensible, if you remember, to flick all the light switches to 'off', avoiding a rude awakening when the generator powers up at 5am.
Tepid drizzle falls with no sympathy for our limited holiday allowance.
Solid banks of steel-grey clouds squat on every horizon. I am spooning glutinous remains of last night's bolognaise into my mouth with a nut key and compass. It's time again. We shamble upright, shake off the dampness that's percolated during our time out and clip into the static ab rope. Abs are always the scariest part on this trip.