Decades-long Hay Fever

Imagine standing nervously on a makeshift stage, sharing your tortured teenage poetry, only to be interrupted by drunken old man hollering obscenities from a barstool.

That, reader, is my earliest memory of Hay Festival. Yup. I was heckled by a sozzled author while reading my over-wrought poetry at a fringe event in a smoky room above a pub.

I know, that’s *quite* the sentence. 

It was the mid 90s and I was a timid teenager. Goodness knows why I agreed to take part in an open mic night organised by a family friend. It was during the early years of the festival and although I was incredibly nervous, it felt like a good opportunity to be part of it all.

Things were going fine until, out of nowhere, this ageing whisky-soaked writer started bellowing drunkenly all over my heartfelt lines. I protect his identity here, because he did send me a hand-written apology along with – randomly – a leather-bound copy of Milton’s Paradise Lost, which remains unread in the attic somewhere. That night shattered what little confidence I had, making the thought of public speaking a source of anxiety for decades.

In hindsight, though, my poetry was pretty cringe-worthy. I can see where the dude was coming from. Plus, it taught me a valuable life lesson (learn to write better poetry, or learn to deal with hecklers).

Despite that rocky start, Hay Festival became a cherished tradition for me. When my son was young, it was one of my favourite things in the calendar. We’d camp opposite the festival site, filling our days with talks by children’s authors and queuing excitedly to get his books signed. 

With the sun warming our faces and a gentle breeze rustling the marquees, we’d laze around on the grass munching on picnics and scribbling equally bad poetry with whimsical titles like “If All The World Were Cheese…”. I treasure those days very much. 

Sadly, as he grew older, he became too cool for hanging out with his old mam at literary festivals; a bittersweet reminder of how time changes everything. Although now that he’s studying English Literature, Language and Sociology at A Level, I like to think there’s a direct line between those formative forays up the A465 and the way he sees the world. *Polishes parenting apple*. 

Hay as an adult is a different experience altogether. It’s basically heaven, to me. A field full of people with much bigger brains, ready to share their creativity and ideas? In a bucolic rural setting just up the road? Inject it into my veins please! 

The freedom to wander around, sit and really listen, take notes, switch my phone off, think, read in peace…how often do any of us get to do that these days?  For this reason, it remains one of my favourite events in the Welsh cultural calendar. 

Arriving at this year’s festival, I felt the familiar buzz of excitement in the air. I’ve learned a valuable lesson over recent years; I tend to overfill my diary with official events, leaving little time to wander and explore the town. So this year, I made a conscious effort to create space for discovery. 

While wandering the town, I stumbled upon a fabulous new queer bookshop called Gay On Wye, which opened on Lion Street in August 2023. With its vibrant décor and welcoming atmosphere, it felt like a haven of inclusivity. 

I had a lovely chat with founder Thomas Owen, who told me he always wanted to start a bookshop to celebrate the LGBTQ+ community’s history, struggles and achievements. It was lovely to hear how welcoming locals have been; what a brilliant addition to Hay’s collection of thirty bookshops. If you’re in town, do give the new kid on the block a visit. 

Back on site, I was lucky enough to catch a wide range of interesting talks. What I love about Hay Festival is that there’s always something for everybody, whatever floats your boat. From highbrow literary discussions to mouth-watering culinary delights, and from engaging political debates to mesmerizing music and comedy acts, the festival offers a smorgasbord of cultural experiences. 

This year, I think I might have witnessed the Welshest event ever held at Hay; Aberdare’s Roy Noble interviewing Skewen’s very own Bonnie Tyler. I felt so sorry for anybody non-Welsh in the audience – deciphering that chat must have been as taxing as any of the talks on economics or neuroscience. I couldn’t help but smile at the thick accents and familiar banter, feeling a deep connection to my own Welshness.

A hilarious highlight was Bonnie (AKA Gaynor) inviting her husband of over fifty years, Robert Sullivan – a Judo-playing Olympian no less – onto stage. He looked mortified, and quickly shuffled off. I also love that she called Meatloaf, ‘Meat’. Well, I guess you would, right? The whole thing had the air of a slightly chaotic but glamorous valleys family get together, and I was so there for it. 

A standout wild card was a fascinating talk by Smokin’ Jo, one of the most electrifying DJs to emerge from the British dance scene in the 1980s. Born Joanne Joseph, her upbringing in care led her to escape her troubles on the dancefloor of illegal raves, which is where the mixing bug bit. Jo became the only female DJ to win DJ Magazine’s DJ of the Year award, and talked openly of battling racist and sexist promoters to be taken seriously. Jo’s new book is called “You don’t need a d*** to DJ” and I can’t wait to get stuck in. 

Afterwards, as twilight fell, we were treated to a brilliant old-school house set from Jo, who’s lost none of her skills on the decks despite selling her 20,000-strong record collection. Stone cold sober, twirling around a packed tent to “Upside Down” by Diana Ross, it struck me that no two Hay years are ever the same. 

It’s the unexpected, ever-changing moments – from heckling authors to dancing sober under the stars – that write the enchanting story of Hay Festival, year after year. How lucky we are to have it. I’m already looking forward to the next chapter.