I’ve been wanting to go to Wigtown for ages. As a self-confessed bibliophile (Francis Bickmore, an editor at Canongate, put it best, in one of the talks I attended over the weekend: “I have an almost fetishistic relationship to the actual object of the book, how it looks, how it feels…”) and a resident of Scotland for 14 years, it seems slightly insane that thus far I’ve not yet managed to make it to the country’s official ‘Book Town’.

What does that actually mean? The idea’s rather nice actually, being instigated with the sole goal of helping a community in need of regeneration; a book X-Factor ensued and in 1999, the Scottish Parliament designated Wigtown the winner of the title. It’s now home to “over 20 book-related businesses. A book lovers haven – and with over quarter of a million books to choose from, old and new … it is impossible to escape empty-handed.”

Basically, they’re book mad. A quick glance up and down the single main street encapsulates it wonderfully : at least five thriving bookshops within sight, but the single fish & chip shop has gone out of business.

It also means that annually, they hold the Wigtown Book Festival, now going for 11 years, with a programme that is very much on a par with the EIBF; so much so that the various people I’ve been showing it to over the last couple of weeks have all made the same surprised noise in the back of their throat. Bit like a startled walrus. When I query what has prompted this, the answer has always been along the lines of “It’s just, they’ve actually got some really good stuff on”. Well, yes. It’s a Book Town. In fact, because of it’s micro nature, WBF can get away with some things that the larger, longer Edinburgh festival can’t. Like the Martyr’s Cell programme: an old jail room in the county buildings, in which various authors take a 15 minute slot to rail on a subject of their choosing, the audience being whomever turned up. Subjects ranged from ‘How to be a Polymath’ to ‘The Magic of Turkeys’. Awesome.

I suspect that the sheer randomness of the whole event – “you’re speaking at a book festival where?” – which gives it a wonderfully romantic sheen -  probably appeals to those who agree to appear. It’s the little-but-brilliant festival that you harbour to yourself, least the wide world know about it and spoil the whole thing.

Opening weekend then. I’ll skip over the mad dash from Glasgow Central to Bellshill with a laptop, an omgitssoexpensiveidontwanttobreathe camera (on loan from work) and a bike; the ensuing car journey where it transpired The Blonde had left the road map at home, because “we have GPS on my phone” (which works wonderfully in the middle of Galloway Forest Park, where mobile signal is a dim and distant memory); and the swearing and stumbling of putting up a tent as fast as possible in the dark, before dashing back into town, applying green glitter eyeshadow in the car (where most of it ended up down the front seat, so that it looked “like a Scissor Sister died in here”, according to said car’s owner).

Suffice to say I arrived late enough to the proceedings that the box office was closed, the doors to the press office firmly shut. Muttering under my breath about people who leave road maps in the house, I ventured up to an open window, pulled the blinds aside and said, in my best RP: ‘Excuse me?’ Causing the manager of the festival to nearly jump out of her skin. Not the best first impression I’ve ever made. Thankfully, Anne didn’t hold it against me, and is possibly one of the most efficient managers I’ve ever met; she has the knack of always being exactly where she’s needed. To an almost farcical point on the Saturday night where I said to myself out loud “Now where’s my rucksack?” only to have Anne suddenly appear at my elbow, point and say “There” before whisking away again. I want to hire her to do that for me 24/7.

There were fireworks to open proceedings. I missed them due to the impossibility of driving pegs into the unending bed of rock that seemed to exist 2 inches below our entire tent. But I made the party following, green eyeshadow and all.

It was slightly surreal… I realised I was quite probably standing in the presence of more concentrated literary talent than I ever had or probably ever would again… and I couldn’t identify more than 2 or 3 of them. Actors, obviously, are the easiest to recognise, as their art involves you staring at them continuously; film crew, if they’re of a high enough echelon to guarantee celebrity status, will be familiar. But clearly I do not spend enough time soaking up the author’s photo whenever devouring their work.

It was also interesting to note that the room was composed of significantly more men than women. This may explain why, like all good parties, everyone ended up in the bar area, the dance floor a barren, beautifully lit absence of movement.

A peek backstage showed rows of chairs, waiting to be laid out the following morning. I’ve always had a thing for set dressed, empty stages, of all kinds. The anticipation and potential for them is never better than when there’s not a soul in sight.

I bonded with a man in a kilt at the bar.
“Can’t we have a pint of gin?”
“Or the jug? Just give us the jug?”
Poor staff. Further conversation with Gin Man led to meeting his wife, an ex punk artist from New York, who then became a copyright lawyer, and was now writing a graphic novel to explain the subject to the layman. It’s the fastest I’ve fallen in love with anyone for a while – a few drinks later we’ve settled on the fact that I will appear in the novel, and be known as Erin O’Crikey. Have enough Hendricks and it’ll seem funny to you, too.

Back to the tent, which suddenly seems infinitely more romantic and otherworldly. Midnight snack under the moon, by the loch. I decide I rather like Wigtown.