Hay-on-Wye greeted me with the smell of manure which wafted intermittently into my psoriatic nostrils as the bus careened through the Welsh countryside, Gran Turismo style. I was here for the last day of Hay Festival, tantalisingly termed by Bill Clinton as “the Woodstock of the mind.” Dubitable quotation source aside, there’s really a lot to like about Hay, a literary festival that combines the alacrity of summer camps and the finesse of interior thought: sweaty bodies meet fluid minds. Alongside tents, food stalls and lounge chairs were NGOs set up in flea market format doing donation and subscription drives: among a few, Greenpeace, theWI, Macmillan Cancer Support, and ShelterBox. People were middle class cordial – progressive and aware but also privileged to some extent.
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At the Baillie Gifford Stage, Dua Lipa said that she has no plans to write a book, to the palpable dismay of the audience. But she is fully committed to her music (a new album), her podcast (“At Your Service”), and her book club (“Service95”). The interview, effortlessly and tactfully conducted by Gaby Wood (chief executive of the Booker Prize Foundation), offered an intimate insight into Dua Lipa not as global popstar, but as avid reader. It chronologically looked at various chapters of her life – moving to Kosovo, moving back to London, nascent music ventures – through literature: Malorie Blackman’s Noughts & Crosses, Jez Butterworth’s Jerusalem, Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and Ocean Vuong’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous. It is a prime example of how when one holds up a book, one sees a part of themselves reflected on the pages.
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After a satisfying keralan curry paired with a Welsh lager, I booked a 30-min massage with Jon (without the H, he insisted). Jon worked primarily on my lower back and noticed I had some issues with my shoulders. “Sitting all day in front of a screen is unnatural,” he admonished in a fatherly way. “So don’t forget to move.” With some vitality restored, I made my way back to the center of town.
Some Hay-on-Wye Bookstores
North Books, where a small dog refused to leave the steps, preventing me from entering
The Poetry Bookstore, where I bought a copy of Anne Carson’s Autobiography of Red
Hay Cinema Bookshop, not exactly a bookstore selling books about films but a bookstore housed in a restored cinema
Richard Booth’s Bookstore, known as the “King of Hay,” closed when I got there (presumedly because I’m a peasant)
Chan Wai Charles Wong 