Something about being at Hay Festival compels me to sit and scribble. This is what I wrote yesterday.
So here I am back at Hay Festival again. A lively breeze is whipping the tops of the trees, the creaky aluminium-framed tents are protesting and the tall pastel ripple-edged flags are waving as though frantically trying to catch some attention. We are surrounded by green pastures. Continue reading “Hay ho”
So Sunday, the last day at Hay Festival was pretty idyllic. A sunny afternoon relaxed into a glorious evening and the final remnants of the sun-worshipping literati lay on the lawn reading or splayed out in one of the deckchairs.
Listening to Stephen Fry in the Barclays tent, a guttural bleating interrupted the proceedings and made me think “Hah. Some farmer’s phone with a comic sheep ring-tone. How apt.” Continue reading “Hay: over and out”