The train is now passing through town of Honeybourne and thankfully the onslaught of rain has stopped. Above my desk at The Southbank centre it reads “It ain’t where you go, It’s where your at”. The line comes from a song I wrote abut seven years ago. After all any seemingly big move has never been to find a better place outside oneself but to satisfy the place within. Read more [...]

“What a good looking young boy” says the hotel owner Mr Gwynne as Mrs Gwynne busies herself past him and back into the kitchen for the keys to my room. They’re cheery enough. They could be two friendly voles in toad of toad hall. This small bed and breakfast Belmont House, is warm and friendly and perfectly situated in the centre of Hay. I am here for the Hay on Wye Literature festival, the most famous literary festival in the United Kingdom tucked gently but confidently into the collar bone of The Black Hills of Wales. Read more [...]

The festival bus takes ten minutes and arrives at a field with gigantic white tents. It’s like a quidditch world cup final. The Sky TV banners flap high in the sky. A mini white city of canvas concert halls has been erected with a warren of walkways that lead to a bewildering program of events. The sound of applause spills out into from somewhere: where (?) nobody knows. This festival is gorgeous. I enter the green room a place where artists settle, drink, chat. Read more [...]