The Hay Festival

Last Friday we went back to one of our favourite haunts – Hay-on-Wye, that charming little border town where books breed like rabbits and the local sheep look like they’re halfway through Middlemarch. We went in order to have a Friday evening meal at a local pub that does the most delicious and cheap tapas - unfortunately it wasn't serving tapas that night. 

When going just for a meal at the tapas place we usually pitch up for a one-nighter in the local municipal car park where motorhomes and campers can stay for one night without charge. While not being able to avail ourselves of the tapas, we nevertheless managed to good meal at the Blue Boar (pigeon breast and black pudding, if you must ask - and delicious too). 

We’ve never actually attended the Hay Festival itself – just popped in for the odd weekend, wandered about, picked up a few musty paperbacks, and marvelled at how many editions of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance one town can possibly contain.

Last summer, though, we were there just before the festival and, on a whim, asked about camping for the following year. By some stroke of luck – or perhaps because the campsite owner thought we looked harmless and unlikely to bring bongos – we bagged a motorhome pitch for this year’s event. We’d heard good things. Thought we’d finally give it a go. You know – embrace the cultural highbrow, listen to someone who once met Margaret Atwood talk about climate anxiety, and maybe queue for an overpriced pasty while being rained on.

Then the programme came out.

What was once a gentle celebration of the written word now appears to have been inflated by a hot air balloon full of media ego. It reads less like a literary festival and more like Glastonbury’s Word Tent had a baby with Question Time. Everyone and their agent will be there. Politicians, pop stars, social media sages, mindfulness gurus – even that bloke who once read half of Ulysses and hasn’t shut up about it since. Cerys Matthews will even be doing her Sunday Radio 6 programme live there.

At this rate, the only person not on the schedule is Alan Titchmarsh – and frankly, I wouldn’t count him out. There's probably a late-night slot involving poetry, parsnips and public mourning.

We’ve gone from second-hand hardbacks and thoughtful debate to a cultural circus featuring live podcasts, celebrity chefs discussing the semiotics of sourdough, and every BBC presenter not already in a voiceover booth. I wouldn’t be remotely surprised if Andrew Tate turned up to lead a “masterclass” on toxic masculinity, sponsored by an app with too many Xs in its name.

Hay has grown like Topsy, only this Topsy wears Gucci loafers, drinks turmeric lattes, and has an NFT memoir coming out. What began as a quiet celebration of literature now feels like a pilgrimage site for anyone with a publicist and a vague connection to something once printed on paper.

Still, we think we'll go. We’re committed now – motorhome pitch booked, expectations suitably adjusted. We’ll duck the circus, find the quiet corners, and perhaps rescue a few forgotten titles from a £1 bin. With luck, the rain will keep the worst of the influencers indoors. And if not – well, there’s always the pub. Even if it’s now hosting a panel on Ale and Identity in the Age of Disruption.