I started writing this when it was wet and cold at Hay – so cold you could see your breath – but somehow still worth it.
Not the kind of weather to spend any time at all on the dizzy heights of Lord Hereford’s Knob. Oh no.
Hay Festival’s weather is fickle. It alters in a heartbeat and a glimpse of sun suddenly makes all those deckchairs on the central lawn advertising holidays in Spain seem suddenly so appropriate. Continue reading “Hay ho”