After waking a little after 8 this morning I performed the inevitable gymnastics around the holiday cottage to have a shower and shave without punching windows, or drop-kicking deodorant cans, toothbrushes, or toilet rolls around the rooms like ping-pong balls.
Once downstairs - miraculously in one piece and with no damage to the cottage - I put the kettle on, opened the windows, and fetched milk from the fridge in the summer room (yes, the fridge is in the summer room, on account of the kitchen only being big enough for borrowers).
My better half arrived perhaps half an hour later - just in time for a second coffee. She seems to have no issues navigating the cottage. A foot difference in height makes a LOT of difference.
I’ve headbutted the upstairs landing light fitting six times so far. I’m surprised it’s still attached to the ceiling. I could probably have scored a pretty good goal with it on more than one occasion.
Today’s escapade or adventure (depending on your point of view) took us for a walk the hell away from all the bookshops - first to a network of footpaths called “The Warren”, and then over a bridge and along the opposite river bank towards a neighbouring village.
If you were interested in modern farming techniques, the walk would have been wonderful. The footpath followed the fields, rather than the river-side. We talked at some length about how neat the rows of ploughed and prepared furrows were in a field the size of a small country that we found ourself circumnavigating.
We spied a farmer cutting grass on a huge flat field - in preparation for the literary festival that arrives next week. While stopping for a drink at a cafe discovered along the way we asked about the festival preparations.
“All the campsites and grass fields within about 30 miles will be covered in tents”
“30 miles!”
“Yep”
So… if you ever worry that the literary world is diminishing, just tell people about a small town in the Welsh borders called Hay-on-Wye, where a literary festival quietly attracts Burning Man numbers for no other reason than people love reading, and want the chance to meet their literary heroes.
Of course the literary festival doesn’t attract the same sort of press coverage as the black rock desert, because the attendees aren’t half naked, dressed as steam-punk armageddon survivors, or riding home-made bicycles across the playa.
Anyway.
While picking our way along the river-bank we happened upon a number of animals carved from fallen tree-trunks. At first they freaked us out a little, but all too soon we found ourselves hunting them out.
It was a good day. A quiet day. A day staying the hell away from the bookshops.
Let’s just get this clear - there’s nothing wrong with the bookshops. They are wonderful, lovely bookshops. And that’s the problem.
Following further research, it turns out the Hay Literary Festival is at least TWICE as big as Burning Man. Who knew!?