012: Hay Festival 2024
Quite possibly the best time I've ever had.
A little over a year ago, in May 2024, I attended Hay Festival for the first time.
For the uninitiated, Hay is one of the world’s largest literature festivals. Around 250,000 people from around the world gather each year in Hay-on-Wye, a quaint Welsh town of about 2,000 residents and twenty bookshops.
The moment I learned of this book festival in what’s widely regarded as the UK’s “book town”, I knew I had to go. It would be an expensive, convoluted train journey, and involved camping — formerly one of my least favorite activities on the planet — but I was certain it would be worth it.
And it was. I say this with minimal hyperbole — Hay Festival was quite possibly the best time I’ve ever had.
Hereford Station
5/26/24: Today is Sunday, May 26th. 3:38 PM. I’m sitting in Hereford Station, a tiny building with just a ticket counter, four seats, and a small display of brochures.
A man in an orange vest — a member of Transport for Wales’ maintenance team, per the text emblazoned on the back and the large, empty bag of rubbish he holds — is speaking to the woman behind the counter.
They seem to be quite familiar with one another, the sort of colleagues that enjoy a special closeness, a relationship that has transcended mere professional courtesy into genuine warmth, a feeling of intimacy, even.
The two are discussing something about the woman’s garden, apparently a problem related to certain perennials not growing back, and this somehow being related to her dog.
They’re talking about their respective dogs now, both of which are, apparently, rather picky eaters. The man leans on the counter, somehow making this look casual and suave, despite his face being awkwardly close to the glass. They converse through the little speaker attached to the counter, so the woman’s voice is being projected throughout the tiny station.
He has left now, the man in the orange high-viz, presumably to line a bin with the large plastic bag. They parted in a fit of laughter; in fact, I wasn’t convinced they would really part. It was the third time the gentleman had begun to back away from the counter, the conversation seemingly coming to a close, only for him to turn on his heel, approaching once more with a “You know…”
This is my first time in Wales, despite residing in the UK for three years now. In just the 20 minutes or so that I’ve been sitting in this station, I’ve gotten the impression that the Welsh are rather kind. A lot of passengers have purchased their tickets at the counter, opting to speak to someone rather than press buttons on what seemed to be the world’s least sensitive screen (i.e. the ticket machine).
The interactions have all been remarkably pleasant. Each inquiry, each question, has been posed with the utmost politeness, and each response has been kind, patient. Every one of the interactions I’ve witnessed thus far has been wrapped with a “Right, thanks very much” and a nod of the head, followed by a rapid series of footsteps in the direction of the allotted platform.
An aside on camping & Greek mythology
5/27/24: Hay Festival might genuinely be the greatest place on earth. I’ve just attended my second event, Friendaholic with Elizabeth Day, and it was… well, it was enlightening. Thought-provoking, inspiring even. Just like the Coco Mellors talk I attended last night.
I arrived in Hay around 5:30pm yesterday evening; the Yeomen shuttle bus stopped near the castle, and I walked 15 minutes or so to Tangerine Fields, the festival campsite.
I’ve never been camping before, in the twenty-odd years that I’ve been on the planet. The closest I’ve come is probably that night I spent at Girl Scout Camp, at Lake Rickabear, I believe in third grade? I’ll have to remind myself of what year that was.
I distinctly recall the book I brought with me — it was a large tome (in terms of surface area, not volume) I had borrowed from the library on Greek mythology. I remember lying there, in the little bunk assigned to me, in a cabin I shared with my best friend Alexa and three other girls.
I had the book open on my pillow, and I was lying down on my stomach, my elbows weary from supporting all that weight. It was getting late, I remember, because I recall worrying that my reading light was keeping my cabin-mates up. I looked then at Alexa’s bed, and I saw that she was still awake.
I can’t quite tell if I’m recalling this correctly, but if memory serves Alexa had wanted to talk, to chat, or play a game, just as we did in our sleepovers.
But I didn’t want to talk that night, I wanted to return to my book as quickly as possible. I had just gotten to the chapter where Hephaestus catches Aphrodite with Ares, that occasion when he ensnares them in a golden net.
In hindsight, the book must have been adapted for children in some way. I remember feeling quite grown-up reading it, because what kind of eight-year-old reads Greek mythology for fun? In fact, I think I only packed that book in the first place because I wanted to impress the counselors, or the other campers. To feel different, special.
Anyway, the reason it must have been for children — apart from the obvious fact that my reading level, while advanced for the third grade, likely couldn’t handle proper Greek mythology — is because while I remember being enthralled with the story, scandalized by the cheating, there was almost certainly no mention of what Aphrodite and Ares were caught doing. I wasn’t quite that scandalized.
I distinctly remember, however, feeling that I was reading something that I wasn’t supposed to be. Perhaps they alluded to it in vague language, and I had somehow picked up on the fact that it was something taboo; some secret between the author, the characters (these godly figures), and some audience that I was not yet a part of.
I digress. All that to say — Lake Rickabear was probably the closest I’ve come to camping.
Actually, that’s a lie. Club Getaway was similar to Lake Rickabear, except that I was fourteen rather than eight years old. Both were more of a glamping experience, really.
The only time I’ve truly slept out of doors was Relay for Life, sophomore year of high school. It was the first year in a while that the club obtained permission to host an overnight fundraiser.
My friends and I took the opportunity to sleep under a tent.
(Yes, under. The only tent we had was one of those large white ones you use to create shade at outdoor events, the kind that consist solely of a roof suspended by four poles.)
I was extremely cold throughout the night; I hadn’t packed appropriately, and so the only true layer I had was my BCA hoodie. My friends and I each slept in our own sleeping bags, but we huddled together for warmth. After that ordeal, you’d think I’d have learned my lesson.
Tangerine Fields Forever
Unfortunately, I had not. I spent last night shivering in yet another sleeping bag, this time on an air mattress in a proper tent (the kind with nylon walls), adding layer after layer to no avail.
I kept my socks on, to prevent the heat from escaping through my feet, and my final configuration consisted of two layers of bottoms and a thermal undershirt, layered under a pajama t-shirt, layered under my college quarter zip. I had my red scarf tucked into the collar, as after my feet and hands, my neck was the coldest.
I zipped myself into the sleeping bag, pulling the zipper all the way up, and secured it with the velcro strap. I neglected to bring a pillow, as I didn’t have the space. Luckily, the weight of my body created a small dent in the air mattress, leaving my head somewhat supported.
It took a while to get to sleep, one because of the cold, but also because I could hear the other campers, heading to the on-site cafe, to the restrooms, returning to their tents.
I could hear the campers in the tents adjacent to mine, numbers 6 and 8. They were conversing into the early hours of the morning, divulging their most deeply held secrets. They lay beside one another, in separate sleeping bags but on a shared air mattress, looking up at the tent’s transparent ceiling, at the fading twilight and the starry sky above.
I too looked up at the sky, which was remarkably bright for nearly 11 PM, but I found I couldn’t sleep that way; my face was too cold. So, I slept on my side, nose nestled into the sleeping bag’s warmth, eyes lulled by its darkness. I felt like a caterpillar in a cocoon, or a fetus in the womb, once the cold subsided.
I had set an alarm for 7:15 AM, but I was roused at 4:49 AM by a brightly lit sky, a resounding chorus of birdsong.
I left my tent and navigated across the muddy field to the restrooms, suddenly feeling very, very cold. It was so tranquil, this scene, the green muddy field with orderly rows of tents: smaller, 2-person tents, larger family ones, and yurts that were even larger still.
The symmetry brought me great pleasure, a sense of satisfaction akin to gazing upon rows and rows of perfect grapevines, or cornfields, or any crop, I suppose. I managed to fall back asleep after that, hiding my face from the light and the cold.
I recall having a dream that involved my family — my extended family, with all my aunts and uncles, my parents and sister. Perhaps this was inspired by Coco Mellors’ talk yesterday about her latest book, Blue Sisters, which explores themes of family and sisterhood.
Outtakes from Hay
It’s 12:56 PM now, and I’m sitting in the fifth row in the Discovery Stage tent. The group of people seated directly behind me are having an entertaining conversation about how well they slept last night.
There are at least two women, I’m unsure how old they are, as I haven’t seen them. Based on their voices, I would say they’re in their forties or fifties.
“I slept much better this time, actually. Next to him.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes, something about having another person there.”
“Yes but, inevitably, one of you will be asleep, and the other will be awake, and one of you will be moving around, or snoring, or generally being disruptive…”
It’s 6:57 PM now, and the Robert Hardman talk on Charles III is about to begin. I saw something rather funny on the back of a steward’s vest, an Arthur Miller quote.
“Hay-on-Wye? Is that some sort of sandwich?”
That’s the end of the entry. A bit of a random assortment, punctuated by a rather abrupt ending — but such is the nature of journaling.
Thank you for reading this far, and I’ll be back in your inbox with the next issue soon-ish! As always, a reply (even just to say how you’re doing) is always appreciated.
Hope you’re all doing well!
Kaylyn
P.S. In slightly more recent news: I was promoted in late May! Made for quite a good birthday present.
P.P.S. To Knovel’s most recent reader (you know who you are), Hay 2026 — let’s make it happen! The above largely consists of tangential digressions, and I can guarantee it does not do the experience justice. You’ll see for yourself!