Writing the script for the BBC's new Robin Hood series was the easy bit. Much harder, says Dominic Minghella in his on-set diary, was trying to keep his merry band of men in check

March 22, 2006, Budapest
Spring in Budapest, famously, lasts a weekend, but you have to see it to believe it. The weather switches from brutal winter to short-sleeve summer in an instant. And here it is, happening before our very eyes.

It is not convenient. Because today we have our read-through of the scripts for Episodes One and Two, and the world and his wife from London descends upon us for the occasion: the controllers from the BBC; our colleagues from Tiger Aspect and a host of important stakeholders. We have been complaining for weeks now about the non-arrival of spring. We have sent daily photos of our construction crew, building an entire Locksley Village on a snowbound police rifle range near our studios, trying heroically to dig ground frozen at minus 14 degrees. We've told true stories of paint for the exterior of Nottingham Castle freezing on the brush. We have explained that this extraordinary winter will seriously hamper our ability to create on-screen the world of Robin Hood we think our audience expects. It is going to look bleak. The greenwood is not going to be green. Our rising panic has turned, inevitably, into a plea for more time. Which entails more money. But now, suddenly, spring is here.

Our visitors from London will think we were bleating. Sure enough, here they are, spilling out of a minibus, flight-weary but full of anticipation, and joshing: so where's the snow, then, Dominic?

March 23
Look out of my office window at the backlot, and hear cheering. Joe Armstrong, who plays Allan A Dale, has hit a bull's-eye. This is 'Hood Academy', our two-week rehearsal and training period. We want our boys (and girl) to be convincing when they shoot, fight and ride. They have to get to know their stunt horses, and our stunt master has to get to know their limits. We planned this, but I somehow thought it would never happen. Budget would prevent, or availability. But there's my cast. They are really here and we are really doing this.

I wander down in the hope of getting a couple of shots in myself, but as ever, there is no time, and I'm exposing myself to the relentless hail of questions. (Actually, they amount to just one question: where are the effing scripts? They will put that on my gravestone.) Big Gordon Kennedy, who plays Little John, scowls at me. Where's my weapon? he asks. Everyone else has a sword or a dagger or a bow or a mace. He shakes Little John's staff at me in disgust. And what have I got? A f---ing stick! I think he is joking.

March 24
It seems I am married to a man. That man is the gifted Foz Allan. We are creating and executive-producing Robin Hood together. It is an all-consuming business, not least because we are starting with 13 episodes. That is a big deal for a first series. Traditionally, in British television, we do a six-parter and then graduate to eight episodes for Series Two, when everybody knows the tone, the milieu, the world in which they are operating. This time, we are starting with one script and a vision in our heads. It is terrifying. I have decided to stick to Foz like glue, so that the myriad decisions made expressly or by default through the day are ones we both know about and share. I realise that for several weeks now we have even begun to go to the loo at the same time. It means we do not have to explain to each other what was agreed while one of us was out of the room. It is absurd.

No surprises then when Rita, our production secretary, calls me Foz. I do not bother to correct her. The truth is that my Robin Hood 'husband' (or is that 'wife'?) could not be more different from me. He is alpha-male. I am, I guess, beta-male. Maybe gamma-male. He is, in his bones, a 'series telly' man, brought up on The A Team and The Six Million Dollar Man. In my bones, I am a Play for Today boy. I do understand that telly is about big audiences … but in my youth I loved the single plays, knew they were special, loved that sense that the author was 'speaking' directly to me. Perhaps these DNA differences between us make for a good fusion, a good marriage. There is common ground, of course – because 'authored' series television is entirely possible. We both love The Sopranos. If we were courting, we would rest a TV dinner on our laps and crack open a DVD box-set of Tony and the boys. In fact, we have done just that in Foz's apartment. (The Sopranos bit, not the courting bit.)

March 25
One of our great casting coups is Richard Armitage (who plays Sir Guy of Gisborne, the Sheriff's right-hand man), a modest man of sharp intellect and smouldering good looks. He has, shall we say, an impressive female following. Online discussion groups have been known to crash under the weight of his virtual fans' effusive admiration.

Today, he knocks on my door with a pencil and pad. Can he ask me some questions about his character? I tell him, truthfully, that I can't believe he is here – an actor of his talent, sitting on my sofa, talking to me about playing this part. I feel so lucky. Suddenly I stop myself – do I destroy what little (gamma-male) authority I have by being so candid? I glance at him. My concerns are unfounded. He is blushing. A man of his talent. I remind myself that the only folk more insecure than writers are actors.

March 27
Remind me, please, why I wanted to produce? Today is our first day of filming. And we are already out of time and money. The first stunt of the shoot involves Much, played with verve and vividness by the fabulous Sam Troughton. In the scene, Much is single-handedly and uselessly trying to get into the castle to rescue Robin. He tries a ladder. It is too short. But he cannot climb down because a guard dog snaps at his heels. He is trapped until dawn, when the rest of the gang, led by Little John, has decided to support Robin and comes to his rescue. It is a pivotal moment. It is the moment when Robin acquires his gang.

Little John lifts the ladder onto his shoulders and, with his height, they can now climb over the wall. But we cannot afford either the time to shoot or the safety rigs required to make it insurance-compliant. I am depressed, and settle for a compromise in which we give the audience the suggestion that they will climb over the wall – without actually seeing it.

March 29

Keith Allen's first day on set. Keith, who plays the Sheriff of Nottingham with delicious, amoral aplomb, is a Big Personality. I am anxious that he might throw his weight around. I resolve to be tough with him and anyone else who tries to tell us how the show should be run. In the car on the way to the studios, I share that decision with Foz. If I am asked for script changes by the cast, I am going to say No, even if I agree with the reason for the request.

Immediately - of course - my phone rings. Holly, our assistant director, warns me that Keith would like to discuss something textual.

On arrival at the studios, I steel myself, practise my firm 'No', and head for make-up. Keith explains his reservation about the scene in Episode Two in which the Sheriff mocks Robin's unwillingness to kill. Keith thinks a line of dialogue is misleading. He is completely right, but that is beside the point. I open my mouth … and find myself saying, Give me five minutes – I'll fix it.

When I return with the revised page, Keith is in his trailer. I knock.

'Who is it?' a voice barks. 'It's me,' I mumble. The door is unlocked and opens by exactly one inch. I am supposed to feed the page through the crack. No way. Keith, I say, I cannot feed script pages through the door to you like this. No reply. The gamma-male in me wins out, and I feed the page through the crack, and beat my hasty, shameful retreat.