SO it’s the sustainable day at the Hay Festival and sunny. Something is clearly wrong. My car is used to being up to its running board in mud, my body encased in wind resisting fibre and my hands frozen as they grip the programme. But it’s already sheeps’ milk ice cream time. I can cope.
I am a poet of these parts who first graced(grazed?) the festival in the back room of the British Legion Hall in 1988. And now, a slim vol or four later, I’ve graduated to these exalted pages. I’ll try to give you the flavour, from compost to champagne, over the next ten days – with a few asides, a random thought, a hint of furrowed criticism and occasionally a muttering along the way.