Hay Festival 08

Be sure to check out our Hay gallery! Lots of pics from Louise and a few from me. In the meantime, here’s my experience of my second day at Hay…

It was looking pretty grim. The water had was rushing down the pavement’s side, pooling at the bottom of the lane to feed into the river below. Why hadn’t I bought some wellies? My trainers were still damp from the night before, squelchy.

Before starting down at Hay – Tom had some more authors to see, I wanted to distribute some more books – we decided upon getting some breakfast. The nearest cafe we found didn’t open until 10:30am and already, with half an hour to go, hopeful types in cagools peered in for signs of a kettle boiling. We then found Xtreme OrganiX, the original cafe which had bred the marquee we’d seen at the main site. I’d like to take this opportunity to thoroughly recommend their breakfast and the next time you go to Hay, head there for the Full English. It was at this point I made out the black-clad, fag-carrying figure of Mark E Smith, lead singer of The Fall across the road from us. He put his shopping down, lit up a cigarette and took in Hay town centre. I peered carefully at the shopping bags, they seemed full of Stella Artois. Having seen The Fall on a number of occasions I would have recognised the drawn face and scowl anywhere. That it was on the streets of Hay made it all the more bizarre.

MES considers buying a new rucksack.

The rain was slowing things down at Hay. People hurried by to get inside, but that made the rate of sampler pick-up drop. Punters clutched at bags and umbrellas. I decided to head back for town.

The night before we’d spotted something called ‘The Real Hay Festival’ taking place in the grounds of Hay-on-Wye Castle. The castle itself, part mansion, part ruins of an 11th century tower, features some of the oldest Norman architecture in the whole of Wales. It look magnificently brooding in the weather. Sadly the storms had also given the ‘Real Hay Festival’ a battering. It looked abandoned. Huge wooden garden sculptures intended for sale sat unconsidered, damp and dripping. The odd caravan optimistically advertised ‘Fortune Telling’ or ‘Free Massage’, but you’d need waders to cross to them. The worse the weather got, the less people were going to come to town.

I ventured into the bookshops and had my suspicions confirmed. Whole corridors of paperbacks were empty, shop owners rested their chins on their hands, cupped mugs of tea or rolled another cigarette. Musty smells mingled with gently steaming waterproofs. One employee had a terrible cold and wanted to go home. Inside the ‘Murder and Mayhem’ bookshop (5, Lion St) I met a lovely woman who explained that “while the weather was never great for the Festival it was hardly ever like what we’ve seen today” (I considered once more that I was the cause of the rain, then decided I’d been working on this book for too long…). She went on to explain that yes, moving the Festival site had had the effect of local shops losing business. The bookshops would do alright, but the ice cream parlours, art galleries, furnishing stores would all lose out. The guys selling tea and cake down by the river had “given up”. Surely though this must be your busiest time of year, I enquired. Well business had been dropping off “since 9/11″ came the reply. Hay-on-Wye had depended on a vast influx of American tourists that had just vanished since the attack on New York. No one wanted to fly over. So how on earth do businesses here keep going? It was easy for the bookshops, she told me. “We have the Internet.”

I’ll have to admit I was surprised, but it turns out that the Hay-on-Wye bookshops, including ‘Murder and Mayhem’ (part of the Addymans Books empire) do the vast majority of their business online, especially during the winter months. I have to admit I felt heartened by this. The Internet was providing a means of survival in a time of fear and terrible weather. All of a sudden I looked back up at the skies and dreamed of getting back to Second Life. Who needs damp feet and the ‘Real Hay Festival’? In future ‘The Virtual Hay Festival’ could well become more important.

Rain, basically. What is it about me and festivals? I act like some sort of precipitation magnet. Clouds seem to gather without warning, winds whip up in all directions wherever I walk, rain from some vengeful event-hating god lashes my back. It can only be a party in British Summertime.

Hay is a two-week long book party. The dress code is wellies and wax jackets. Children are optional. Plastic bags are a no-no. Your bag must be woven from some sort of soya-flax mix. If you’re smart, you’ll put a flask and some lunch in the bag, as the prices inside would frighten the guy who dreams up the cost of sandwiches at Starbucks. You don’t put books in there, you carry those. How else would people know what you’re reading?

Tom and I arrived on Tuesday in the Fifth Estate Estate, after an abortive trip towards Hereford (it’s not our fault the A465 branches in two separate directions) we cruised into Hay under leaden skies and took a look at the white marqueed compound that the Festival now occupies half a mile from the town centre. We were greeted with a fanfare. A circus band (yes, a circus band) were marching through town headed up by a woman wearing a squire’s outfit on horseback, worrying those trudging towards the festival entrance. A donkey brought up the rear, its forlorn head making the spectacle look like a Nativity pageant, obviously in Hay there was no room at any inn.

Luckily we were put up in the Harper Collins house (made entirely of Harper Collins books, that’s sustainability), occupied by a cat called Tom whose owner only communicated via a mobile phone, like some-sort of concierge informant. We found the house after several attempts and a stop at the local Co-op which was staffed with some terribly helpful people. We settled in, grabbed some copies of the Fifth Estate Sampler and the laptop and set forth.

Tom the Cat relaxes after helping with our 4th Estate bags.

The first thing I noticed approaching the entrance to the sprawl of wooden walkways and tents was the security on the door. Huge blokes with snarls and ear pieces actually looked like they were going to block our way in, before parting and allowing us through. With its covered, white marquees and muddy open spaces, the event looked like some sort of vast archaeological dig, staffed by energetic children. It reminded me very much of a country show, without the smell of manure or a crackly PA system you can only half hear. One didn’t hang around in the entrance for long lest you were harangued by a group of market researchers wanting your email address, so they could ask you questions when you got home (so it’s a big “Hello!” to all the guys at QRS Research! I’ve got your survey and when I get five minutes I’ll think about filling it in!).

Tom had an appointment with Louise Rennison, leaving me to roam around the festival. The Most Unusual Promotional Stall award goes to the Spanish Tourist Board, who must have done some pretty smart business considering the apocalyptic weather. They still use that Espana logo developed for the 1982 World Cup… Other big organisations were also inside for sponsorship, Sky Arts had its own TV zone, garishly painted to excite the most sedentary six year-old. The Barclays Wealth area was the Mann’s Chinese Theatre of event venues, reception desk, huge waiting area, stylish – you could have suddenly been in the Ideal Home Show at Earl’s Court. Importantly for Hay-on-Wye, local businesses were also present, top notch soup from the Granary, a local restaurant as well as superb food from Xtreme OrganiX (more on them later). It didn’t dawn on me until later that as the Festival had moved from the town centre, businesses were missing out so it was important for them to be present on the Festival site.

I had then decided I was going to give out some 5th Estate Samplers. I wasn’t keen on distributing them inside the Festival gates. Wearing a large rucksack was already attracting the attention of security, ever-alert for some sort of suicide bomber wanting to go after Salman Rushdie or Jeremy Clarkson. Rather than risk being thrown to the floor, I decided to move outside to the only bit of pavement not desecrated with mud. I stood up and began to distribute. Reactions to the sampler were mixed. With its bright cover and ‘Blog on. Blog off’ title some people were justifiably nervous. “Sorry, I don’t own a computer,” came one reply. “My hands are too small” was another unlikely response. Slowly, but surely I gave out the goods. It then occurred to me, I’d become the literary equivalent of those people who stand by the exits after a club night, thrusting flyers into your hands, complete with magazines full of interviews with DJs you’ve never heard of. But it was catching on. “So this is what everyone’s reading?” commented one chap and I felt better, at least they were looking at it. In the pub later, Tom and I saw people flicking through it, some excitedly, others trying to balance 3 PARA with Maynard and Jennica in their minds.

At the end of the day there was nothing really wrong with Hay at all (and we’ll come back to V.S. Naipul’s well argued and thoughtful criticism of it later), apart from the trudging and the mud. It couldn’t get any worse, could it? I awoke on Wednesday morning to the sound of fast running water outside…

Rejoice! The Fifth Estate Sampler has arrived, straight from our brains to your eyes…

Some of you will have already encountered the sampler at Hay and hopefully you will have been prompted to visit us online here, if so, “Hello!” and we hope you enjoyed flicking through it. The sampler contains excerpts from top-notch Press Books titles and articles from our very own 5th Estate, including JG Ballard, Doris Lessing, Patrick Bishop, Daniel Clay, Rivka Galchen, Matt Frei, Rudy Delson, Nick Pearson, Graham Tattershall and, erm, me. All lovingly put together by our office superstar Sam Shone.

We’re dead proud of our first book, and we’d like everyone in the world to know about it, so we’re giving it away! If you want a copy, let us know and we’ll send you it. If you’re a bookshop and want some for your counters, we’ll send you a bundle. Needless to say it’s printed on FSC paper and is the same attractive yellow and black colour that makes people walk up to you and say “Gosh, you look like an interesting person reading that.”

The Fifth Estate sampler. Blog on. Blog off. Get your copy now.

Do bring sunglasses and wellies

On Saturday afternoon, the garden of deckchairs was full of Guardian-reading festival-goers, licking icecreams, drinking fizz and shading their eyes from the sun. But the wind whipping through the colourful flags around the site was a warning…on the midnight news on Radio 4 the announcer forecast 60mm of rain…So, on Sunday, instead of shading themselves from the sun, said festival-goers were sheltering from the rain. The fire brigade were pumping the entrance, Ariane Koek was watching the waters rise towards her stage, and it was the welly shops, not the bookshops, that were seeing the most trade.

Do book tickets…and accommodation…early

The big names, Jimmy Carter, Christopher Hitchens, Cherie Blair, Naomi Klein were sold out as were the big addresses. The Swan Hotel is full for the next four years, and even the stars can’t get a room: when Andrew Davies decided he wanted to stay for another night there, he couldn’t keep his room so the hotel receptionist had to give up her newly-bought and flatpack-full flat for him…and friends from London were eagerly anticipating their £750 per week ‘cottage’ to be sweet and beautiful. Instead, it was a starter home on a rather drab estate, with no volume on the smaller-than-a-publishing-handbag tv, no shower, and no charm. And they booked in August…

Do be pleasantly surprised by the stoicism and sanitation

Even when the water is lapping at the audience’s feet, the tents are leaking and the audience is steaming under plastic macs supplied free with the Observer, the events are still full. There is no such thing as bad weather at Hay, only bad clothing. I don’t own wellies, since they’re not often needed in North London but I’m tempted to buy some. Mid-morning on Sunday I decide to head back to my accommodation to put on some more clothes, since I’m freezing, but though my body is now warmer, my legs, after the 20-minute walk in each direction, are not.

And, unlike those at so many festivals, the Hay loos are positively otherworldly: Portakabins decorated with fake flowers, wood-framed mirrors and wooden toilet seats, barely a queue and plenty of loo roll and hot water. I think they’re the warmest and driest places on site, probably because they’re the only ones not under tarpaulin.

Don’t expect the town, even after 21 years of this, to be as organised as the festival…

On Saturday night, probably one of the two busiest nights of the year for this town of 1900 residents, the fish and chip shop runs out of fish. They’ve sold 400, as opposed to their usual maximum of 250. Apparently they don’t like to defrost too much, in case it doesn’t sell…They have everything else though, including battered Mars Bars which don’t tempt anyone, not even my Scottish friends. At 9am on Sunday, two of the three cafes in town aren’t open for breakfast so everyone crams into the one that is. And later that day, The Swan Hotel, which is the nearest hostelry to the festival site, with a lounge full of dripping and cold customers, is not serving hot drinks. This could just about be excused on the basis that the staff are focusing on lunch service but, after dinner eight hours later, the request for some coffee sends the waiter into a near-paroxysm….’it’s pretty bad back there’ he says, referring to the kitchen. Perhaps after-dinner coffee in a restaurant is, like fish in a fish and fish shop, just too much to ask…

Do expect to be exhilarated…

I saw two events on Saturday, and six on Sunday. The best, and I say this sans bias, despite the fact that both of them include HarperCollins authors, were Ffion Hague and The State of the Union debate (Matt Frei, Jonathan Freedland, Jacob Weisberg). Ffion is obviously Welsh, speaking in Wales about a Welsh (tho, ahem, born in Manchester) Prime Minister and so, technically, she’s amongst friends which makes it easy to work the audience. But, like her husband, she has a great sense of comic timing, she speaks for exactly the right amount of time and with warmth as well as knowledge. By the end of the talk, I’ve learnt something yet I don’t feel patronised (neither of which could be said of the Rushdie lecture). And all this in a tent whipped by so much wind that it sounds like Cyclone Nargis is about to take off the roof.

However, her success seems to have a strange effect on some of her audience: one woman overheard on the way out said ‘oh she was very good wasn’t she’ to which her friend replied ‘yes, he would have made such a good Prime Minister’. It doesn’t matter that Ffion has just delivered a brilliant lecture: her success merely reflects on her husband. Political women, like those in Lloyd George’s life are, it seems, still only mere appendages to their men; hence Cherie Blair is grilled in the press over her book and her loud-mouthness (keep quiet, it’s more seemly) and, as Matt Frei points out later in the day, Hillary Clinton is suffering from the same relationship – both benefitting and losing through her marriage. Some things never change.

…and exhausted

The organisers leave 30 minutes in between slots which, on such a small site, seems like quite a lot. But since it takes a good five minutes to get out, another five minutes to shuffle to the coffee stall for a shot of heat, fifteen minutes to queue for said hot drink and another five minutes to shuffle back to the next event (the distances are short, but the congestion is worthy of the Northern Line on a Monday morning), a hot drink starts to seem more attractive than heated discussion. On Saturday, in the sunshine, a few hours between events (from Ffion to World-Class Fiction) was too long (if you’re here, then it seems pointless not to see something all the time) but, on Sunday, in the rain, back-to-back events seemed too much. However, without sunshine, there are very few places to sit and keep dry on site: in one cafe a staff member told me that many festival-goers were coming in, sheltering from the rain and not ordering: one woman was incensed by the request to move, until the staff called security and she ran, which can’t have been easy in wellies… I wish I’d seen that.

Do expect to be both impressed and irritated by the organization

It’s a Herculean feat to bring so many people to such a small place without many complaints. The shuttle bus runs well, the box office staff are cheery and the stewards manage to shepherd hundreds of people in and out of tents, in all weathers, without incident. However, the logistical brilliance is sometimes overshadowed by the ineptitude of the literary types. Some of the chairs are hopeless, not realizing that the audience wants to ask questions and using up the whole hour on their own, not always interesting, comments. Ariane Koek, not wearing her glasses, at the Jhumpa Lahiri and Emily Perkins event, asked for questions then, putting her glasses on and looking at the clock, said ‘Oh, actually, we’ve overrun and I couldn’t see the time. So, if you’d like to thank…’ The audience, or at least this member of it, was not amused.

Do, if you’re in publishing, be reassured that there ARE still readers.

Over 70,000 people are expected to make the journey to Hay for the festival. Yes some will be drawn just by the location and the big names (John Irving, Kathleen Turner, Louise Rennison) but there aren’t many other places where short story writers can pull a crowd as big as political biographers. And, no, they’re not all grey-haired and sitting on shooting sticks. There are teenagers at every event, as well as pensioners, and though Michael McIntyre declared at his event that Hay’s colour was khaki, I think it is, thankfully, kaleidoscopic.

Don’t expect all the treats to be literary.

I was thrilled to discover that I was spending the days in Wales, but the nights across the border in England, delighted to hear a Sevillean flamenco band (Son de la Frontera) who were the only people on Sunday to break out into a sweat and thoroughly enjoyed eavesdropping: ‘There aren’t many pubs in this town are there? Lots of bookshops, but not enough pubs’ said one young woman walking through the town, which is rightly famous for its bookshops. It’s a bit like going to Lourdes and wondering why there are lots of statues of the Virgin Mary…

Those of us who work in literary fiction are used to hearing, and moaning, that it is increasingly difficult to sell any books without winning a prize — but every so often there is a book that catches a wave and manages to sell through nothing more tangible than buzz and word of mouth.


Back in 2001, for instance, Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections arrived here in a blaze of publicity and ecstatic reviews from the States, and it has turned out to be one of the very few undisputed classics of the 21st century. The Corrections went on to win prizes, but not before it had topped the charts on both sides of the Atlantic — an impressive feat for a 600-page literary novel.

We at Fourth Estate are hoping for a repeat of this all-too-rare occurrence for the publication this month of Netherland by Joseph O’Neill, a book that has just received in the States some of the most astonishing reviews I’ve ever read, and that has been jumping up the bestseller charts over there since.

The bar was set very high last Friday by the first review to appear in the New York Times, by the reputation maker-or-breaker Michiko Kakutani, who described it as a “stunning new novel”.

This was then topped on Sunday by a review on the front page of the New York Times Book Review by their senior editor, Dwight Gardner, who raved that Netherland was “the wittiest, angriest, most exacting and most desolate work of fiction we’ve yet had about life in New York and London after the World Trade Center fell,” that “I devoured it in three thirsty gulps, gulps that satisfied a craving I didn’t know I had,” that “O’Neill seems incapable of composing a boring sentence or thinking an uninteresting thought,” and that Netherland “has more life inside it than 10 very good novels”.

Surpassing even this, however, was the daddy of them all: a 4-page review in this week’s New Yorker by James Wood, one of the most important critics alive today (an accolade that still has force in the United States, even if it might now be considered laughable on our increasingly acritical side of the pond). Netherland, Wood wrote, is an “exquisitely written novel, a large fictional achievement, and one of the most remarkable post-colonial books I have ever read,” and he concluded that “if Netherland pays homage to The Great Gatsby, it is also in some kind of knowing relationship with A House for Mr. Biswas. These are large interlocutors, but Netherland has an ideological intricacy, a deep human wisdom, and prose grand enough to dare the comparison”.

Although he now lives in New York, Joseph O’Neill was born in Ireland, raised in Holland and was educated in England. Netherland is set predominantly in New York, but it is a book about all the world. We very much hope that it will win prizes, of course, but it would make us proud if a prize was the cherry on the cake of an extremely well-deserved success, rather than the only reason for that success. Netherland is not just a good book; it is a great one. Please read it.

Joseph O’Neill is in the UK this week; he will be appearing at Toppings in Bath at 7.30pm on Wednesday, and at the International Fiction event at the Hay Festival, at 6.45pm on Thursday. An audio interview with him will appear on Fifth Estate on Friday.

The biggest literary festival in the UK is now on and for a few days and Fifth Estate is going to be there.


With Mark currently running our social network writing site Authonomy, I’ve recruited some new authors to cover our few days in Hay. Louise Tucker has blogged for The Guardian and worked across the publishing industry. Louise’s going to be there for the Bank Holiday weekend, so if you see her say hello!

Tuesday 27th and Wednesday the 28th will see the Fifth Estate Estate arrive in Hay and I’ll be there with Tom Conway, digital guru for Children’s books here at Harper. Be sure to stop us and ask for our new Fifth Estate Sampler too. Also writing for us is Mark Richards, one of 4th Estate’s bright young things. Mark will be there most of the week and we welcome him to the Fifth Estate team.

We’re looking forward to catching up with everyone involved at Hay and look forward to seeing you there too!