Bookshelves and bunting outside at Hay.
Photograph: Bex Singleton
Hay, stuffed to the gills with ambling festivalgoers, is absurdly picturesque in the sunshine. What better way to spend a summer morning than wandering around the town?
Our morning, in summary:
Number of books purchased: To my bank manager's intense relief, I managed to stick to just one: Stevie Smith's Novel On Yellow Paper, a snip at £2.50, and it's been on my to-read list for ages. I am glowing with virtue.
Number of bookshops visited: seven.
My favourite: hmmmn. Tricky, but probably The Poetry Bookshop – beautifully laid out, easy to use. Richard Booth's famous Lion Street shop had by far the most beautiful façade, but was too cluttered and cobwebby for my personal taste, although it was the scene of …
… Most remarkable purchase witnessed. This occurred at the hand of our very own photographer, who lost her head when confronted with a stockroom piled high with 1940s editions of Picture Post, and coolly bought 34 for her very own. That's style, people.
Most Hayish overheard remark: [From the other side of the poetry shelves where I was browsing, in a tone of profound and mounting disgust] "Bloody Hell! Where do they keep their Tennyson?"
Close second [mother to her small daughter, who was running away]: "Bronte! Come back here now!"
All in all, quite a morning.
