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”