go out in the midday fog? Wait, that's not right, is it. After all, we were in Wales, not England. But the village of Hay-on-Wye did feel a lot like London-on-Seed last week, as thousands converged there for the mud-splattered literary event of the season, the Hay Festival. Who knew so many literate, Guardian-reading urbanites owned wellies. (Update: London beer garden retort: of course they do; what else would they wear when tending to their allotments?!)
Top to bottom: three shots of the front window at Mad Old Cow, a delightfully, madly eccentric shop/tea-garden/one-room-B&B (the room is part Wild West, part Alice in Wonderland, and you'll wake to the disorienting sound of strangers' teacups clinking right outside your window) in the centre of Hay; books books books; the fog on the farm at Vowchurch.
And finally, from this year's festival T-shirts and paraphernalia: "Hay-on-Wye... What's that, some kind of sandwich?" -- Arthur Miller
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