This was only my second visit to the Hay Festival; my first, back in 2012, was as a visitor. A friend and I spent a couple of blissful days listening to writers, exploring the town and drinking wine in the sun. I remember returning to London after that weekend feeling buoyed, inspired, my notebook crammed with writing tips and snatches of story ideas.
It felt odd, to say the least, to return to Hay-on-Wye on a chilly Saturday evening to do my very own event, to talk about the books which were have been written in the interim, both of which would have been in some small part shaped or influenced by my first visit.
In stark contrast to the weather was the warmth of the welcome – Hay’s deserved reputation as a rather highbrow literary festival, one which welcomes the greatest writers and thinkers, does nothing to detract from its friendliness. The sobering presence of heavily armed police notwithstanding, Hay feels has a familiar, relaxed feel.
At a time at which we are repeatedly threatened with the decline of the book’s popularity, or with the supposed rejection of thoughtfulness, expertise and reasoned debate, Hay is a place of reassurance: writers, historians, scientists and political thinkers speak to full and enthusiastic houses. Punters wander those green-carpeted corridors clutching bags laden with books. The booze and conversation flow.
I look forward to returning.