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”
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”