Read Wigtown Book Festival: The Friday
Read Wigtown Book Festival: The Saturday 

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Roughly 9 hours after leaving Bladnoch Inn, I’m back in search of something fried and hot. Feeling returns, and so does my smile, upon finding the oddest bookstore yet.

I’m very tempted to try my luck and knock, but am already late for my first  session, for The Wave Watcher’s Companion. Originally it caught my eye due to the mention of Cornwall in the blurb – “One bright February afternoon, on a beach in Cornwall, Gavin Pretor-Pinney took a break from cloudspotting and began watching waves rolling into shore. Mesmerised, he wondered where they had come from, and vowed to find out.” – where I partly grew up, and my sister’s family now live, keen surfers all. It’s nowhere near as esoteric as I had been hoping, but no less enjoyable for it; there’s lots of science, in a kind of ‘Did you know?’ way, and Gavin Pretor-Pinney delivers it all with a measured excitement, as if he’s just learning all this stuff at the same time as you. I love that books like this exist; there is a definite market of people, much like myself, who struggled horribly with school science lessons, but have a genuine fascination for how ‘things’ work. Our God is Bill Bryson, obviously, but this guy’s pretty damn good, too.

Afterwards, finally make it to the official Festival Bookshop.

They like Ian Rankin a *lot*, but then he did open proceedings this year.

Alisdair Gray has also been in attendance, presenting a talk about his paintings, whilst his definitive work is included in the ‘Ten Scottish Books That Changed The World’ exhibition, showing at WBF. I, er, still have not managed to read it, but quite like the cover…

Make my way to Reading Lasses, which wins the award for Best Bookshop Name in town; JK Rowling’s ‘Ballad of Headless Nick’ is on display in the back room, and it’s alright, as silly wizard poetry goes, but having to tiptoe in and out due to a random women napping on the nearby, sun-drenched sofa makes me giggle more. Accidentally wander out the wrong exit, where rather aptly I find the entrance to Narnia.

Next door is Glaisnock Guest House, where Wigtown’s artist-in-residence, Deirdre Nelson, has been collecting words from visitors, writers and workers at the festival; all will be then gathered together, and used to create a piece of work revealed at The Spring Fling in 2011.

And, all too soon, it’s time for my final event. On the way there, however, I come across a sign that has nothing to do with books, and is a little confusing:

I’ve chosen Phyllida Law: Notes to my Mother-in-Law to close my Wigtown experience, and I’m quite excited. The fact that I’m distinctly younger than the average audience member is an unexpected bonus; I rarely feel like the whippersnapper these days. Law is late, but so incredibly charming with it – something to do with a plane, a tractor, and lots of yelling – in that ever-so-English way that you just immediately want to take her home and bring her tea in fine cups and have her say: ‘Well, I was just speechless!’ for the rest of your life. The book is sad and sweet, a collection of notes Law wrote to her mother-in-law, who grew increasingly deaf and isolated, despite living in the house with the rest of the family. A lot of the ‘do you remember when?’ stuff goes right over my head, but I’m still laughing more than at any event in the Edinburgh Fringe; it may have been the story concerning using garlic up the bum as a cure for piles that did it, but it’s hard to say.

And that’s it. Two nights and two days, and it’s not nearly enough; I have that slightly odd feeling of having been somewhere incredibly different and removed from my normal life, despite the fact I’m no more than 4 hours from my front door. Sufficiently in love to make solid plans to return next year, I wander off with an armful of books, the Copyright Lawyer’s email and enough inspiration to keep me going for a long while. I thoroughly recommend it.

Being woken up by the sound of horses snuffling is a unique experience – they sound slightly like a small steam engine trying to get off the starting block. Fortunately, our garden table was very carefully positioned just beyond the reach of their quivering nostrils… which didn’t stop both of them getting a couple of apples. Wigtown is positively encouraging my fantasy of running away to the country and wearing off the shoulder white linen smock tops and long, homespun skirts. In which I’ll never be cold, obviously.

As soon as I hit the town, something I entirely missed in the dark arrival of the night before becomes apparent. There’s signs everywhere. You can’t take four steps (I counted) without the word ‘book’ hailing you from a wall, a window, or a placard.

And every time I saw the word, I felt excited, happy, curious and relieved. It’s like instant therapy.

Activity is centred around the town’s county buildings, bowling green and gardens, reaching up to the usual spot where the weekend market appears, specially ‘enlarged’ for the festival. The sheer randomness of it is pleasing. There’s a stall selling the finest, locally reared meat, packaged in wicker baskets, with scrupulously clean-aproned servers… next door to a three-legged table selling old teapots, iron pokers and a Barbie, presided over by Steptoe’s older, hairier brother. I realise I’ve been living in Edinburgh for too long.

I stop to watch a cookery demonstration, featuring that essential ingredient in every chef’s kitchen:

Before turning up for my first session of the entire shebang, taking place in a yurt…

(It may be compulsory for book festivals to have yurts now. I wonder who the first manager who decided on the idea was, and what reaction he received.

“I’m sorry, you want to hold the ‘How To Write Crime Fiction in 4 Easy Steps’ session in what?”

“A yurt”

“Right. You’re clearly a hippy. How did you get a job at a literary festival?”)

… – but Jenny Colgan has got stuck on a train, and won’t be able to teach me about ‘How Social Networking Works’ till at least 2pm. At which point I’ll be listening to a tall Englishman talk about knitting, alas. It transpires that The Blonde, after squinting at Colgan’s picture for a minute, realises he used to work for her Dad, so maybe we can play on that tenuous link at some point. We later run into him and the verdict is that “he’s mellowed”.

So I wave my Press pass, inwardly cringing, and join the throngs piling in for Michael Foley. I’m secretly rather pleased – I’d debated back and forth between the Colgan and Foley event, deciding using an arbitrary factor which I’m not revealing before I’m at least 60 and beyond caring what people think about me. It had nothing to do with yurts.

No photos allowed, so I concentrate on the talk, bonding with another reviewer who plonks down beside me exclaiming “I don’t know how I’m going to fit it all in”, waving the programme.  It is pretty full of events that fall in to my ‘don’t miss’ category, and being able to come for only two days is bordering on sadomasochism; allowing yourself to have a tiny taste of something agonisingly delicious, and then voluntarily walking away from it.

Foley is the perfect starter to it all, and fits in neatly with my train of thought, talking about the id, desire and how everything that philosophy, religion and years of humanity’s experience tells us will make us happy is missing from modern life. And he’s funny. I make a note in caps: BUY THIS BOOK FOR ENTIRE FAMILY. Unfortunately the rest of the festival seems to have the same idea, and the bookshop runs out of copies the same day.

Have a long enough break to wander round the county buildings and accompanying tents a little; some clever festival staff member has thought up a blessing for parents in the shape of ‘Wigtown Beach’, a ten foot square area filled with sand, obligatory castle making toys and deckchairs, to the side of the main building. The place is crawling with toddlers knee deep in sand, and minders flopped in the chairs. Impossible to check with all of them for photo permission, so take a shot of a plastic starfish instead.

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Sew Your Own by JP Flintoff is next. “What happens when a man once happy to have his suits made by a robot and his services out-sourced to Bangalore tries to find a more self-sufficient, fulfilled life?”.

I’m expecting a type that I’m becoming increasingly familiar with; fairly well-to-do, passionate about how we should all “be doing our bit” for the environment, not really grasping that they are able to do so much more readily than the general masses due to actually having the assets to build a solar panelled house, fit it with wood burning stoves, and procure enough accompanying land to plant crops, an orchard and own some chickens. And terribly keen to tell us how it made them feel so much happier, and we should do it too. I’m wrong. Not completely… – Flintoff’s profession as a journalist means he earns money by researching and writing about such issues, giving him the time and clout to call up Saville Row tailors and arrange a lesson in making his own suits. But he admits this, freely pointing out that he’s in a unique and enviable position of being able to spend all day learning to sew by trial and error, and can call it ‘research’. In fact, he’s disarmingly, refreshingly, honest and humble.

Not only is his book actually relevantly practical (above and beyond well-written, humorous, etc), but he originally published it himself, creating 10 copies by hand to give as gifts. Said copies were passed on from person to person till a publisher saw it… Even at the end, when the obligatory message about how books are available at the back is issued, JP calls out that he’d actually urge us to request it at our local library instead. And then proceeds to ask those who want a signed copy to also sign his book, for him. Possibly the least egotistical journalist I’ve ever come across; I feel like pinching him to see if he’s real.

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Onto ‘How Not to Get Published‘. There’s been a change of venue due to demand, and it is now in The Bookshop garden. Anything with a 90 degree angle is being roped into service as a seat, including old garden benches, unmoved for a decade.

An editor, an agent and a publicity director walk into a tent at a literary festival…

The stench of desperation is not so evident here as it usually is at such talks; maybe because the audience members at Wigtown seem to – on average – age around 45. Making these wannabe authors that much wiser and pragmatic?

Talk is excellent, the speakers imparting valuable knowledge without ego; I become convinced the incredibly relaxing, sun-sodden atmosphere and surroundings of Wigtown are simply making everyone that bit more happy, in a generous, isn’t humanity grand kind of way. Jolly, is I think the word. A very good word for WBF.

Afterwards I wend my way back through The Bookshop, encountering The Three Ages of Bike…

The shop is fast becoming one of my favourite places in Scotland. It has winding, narrow corridors, nooks and crannies, teetering wooden bookshelves and banisters made for sliding down. The kind of place you can get lost in both literally, metaphorically and er, book-ily; my idea of heaven made real.

In it I find out that Wigtown now has its own Fringe… surely the ultimate accolade for any festival.

Plus… the most surprised book I’ve ever seen:

one of the most random:

and one that I feel a bit conflicted about:

I ended up buying a book about cheese. You’d understand if you saw it. There’s a pull-out on all the different types.

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‘101 Whiskies to Try Before You Die‘ has the magic words after it – “including tasting”. Not particularly for me, but The Blonde. I hate whisky. Yes, I know. But I vaguely attempt to challenge myself, however, to learn more about those things I tend to automatically avoid; it doesn’t always work – I’ve yet to eat trifle since circa 1986.

Again, I’m pleasantly surprised by the speaker/author of the book (with the same title as the session); by all accounts he is a big whig in the whisky world, but avoids ‘pompous’ or ‘over-bearing’ descriptions, at one point early on even saying “You know what, it’s just whisky. It’s there to be drunk and enjoyed”, before moving on to poke fun at the industry in general.

Highlights included rather enjoying the final whisky of the hour (whether that was because I’d had three before that one, or because it was just really good quality, I’ve no idea), and discovering the woman next to me had taken part in an early Central Station project, called Uzzz.

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And then came something truly bizarre. ‘Wigtown’s (Still) Got Talent’ – “visiting writers and members of the public compete to win the Golden Pencil Award for best act”. Yehhhhh.

The place is packed, standing room only; authors jostle with artistic directors at the bar, and within seconds of arriving, I spot half a dozen journalists and editors from the artistic side of print media. It was kind of like an end-of-summer knees up for the literary community of Scotland.

Visitors and locals alternate on the stage; the former going mostly for comedy, the latter for music. Some of it makes me laugh, most just makes me  speechless. It’s not every day you see Jenny Colgan and the Publicity Director of Granta Books singing Barbara Streisand.

Half-way through my friend Sarah (a Dumfries local) turns to me and whispers “the guy next to me is a *really* heavy breather”.

I take a peek. “Er, that’s the Literary Editor of The Scotsman.”

“Ah, that would explain it.”

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The acts included… The Steel Condom:

… a David Cameron impersonator deep-throating a pink balloon:

and, of course, a penguin.

The piper won. He was actually good.

The night ends in the Bladnoch Inn across the road, Copyright Lawyer pulling out her violin, The Blonde taking a guitar down off the wall, Irish ballad songbooks purloined from the shelf. Sarah and I contribute general encouragement. I realise I’m really, really glad I didn’t sign up for anything before 1pm the next day.

Yeah. Sorry. Let’s rush through to the end of the Book Festival, shall we?

Debi Gliori. She was lovely and nervous about speaking in front of a crowd, but did magnificently; the adults were entertained by tales of her techniques and the children entranced by the reading of her new book and then being taught how to draw seals and rabbits. Made me feel a bit soppy, really.

Trying to get atmospheric shots of the site, I was playing with the juxtaposition of these flowers, the logo on the door and a queue going into the tent. Sadly, one grouchy old man (not seen here) decided that it was Immoral And Illegal And Wrong for me to be taking pictures of people without their permission, and despite my explanation of why I was taking pictures and what they were for and the legal status of what I was doing he was unshakable and insisted that he was going to complain. Oh well.

A group of Arab writers involved in the Beirut 39 collection; they each read some of their work and then had a translation read out. What was very moving was when one said that he was from Jerusalem, couldn’t really move away from Jerusalem and would probably (he said in a matter of fact and slightly resigned to his fate tone of voice) die in Jerusalem. He then read some poetry in Arabic with such energy that the translation seemed far less exciting o interesting, even though I could actually understand it.

Dum di dum, trying to pap the staff cos they’re important too…

Alasdair Grey, everyone’s favourite jolly Scottish Santa.

Martin Bell, former independent MP and general nice guy with a grudge against corruption.

I was passing through the Signing Tent and grabbed a few pictures, as is my wont, when I suddenly realised it was Michael Rosen!

Despite being a bit of Danish totty, Lars Husem didn’t draw the eye of the girls on site…

Here we see Dom Hastings the Front of House manager (who was very patient when faced with my running in and out of events) looking dynamic against a backdrop of Nick Barley, the newest Director of the Book Festival.

And the strangely disappointing David Shrigley. It’s not so much that HE or his event were a disappointment, but I kinda wanted him to be a grotesque stick figure rather than a tall, well bred and recently washed Englishman with a near-RP accent.

Chris Close, who has been taking dramatic portraits of authors, was quite pleased to see that people were enjoying them.

Christopher Brookmyre at Unbound, singing with the assistant of Billy Franks. This was bloody packed – due in part to the free whisky I suspect…

And the man who DID draw the eye of the girlies: Alan Bissett, the gayest straight man I’ve seen in a long time.

Onto my last day then (sniff).

Tim Berners-Lee looking moody for the Press.

My brief foray into the Children’s Bookshop and it’s activity centre (because taking pictures of children scares me!)

A meeting with Maisie the Mouse and her creator, Lucy Cousins,  with signing and enthusiastic Sian in the background.

Quintin Jardine, a man who exudes a strange enthusiasm.

The inimitable Lord Robert Winston (who may or may not have stolen a duck).

Ian Rankin talking about what he loves about Twitter (part journal and part uber-reliable source on up to date information) and why he has a white iPhone (they had run out of black ones, so he keeps it in a black case).

Nicholas Parsons, two thousand years old and still going strong – even if he does look like a fairy tale wicked witch.

A rare view of the Press Pod (Yurt) – here showing Frances Sutton aka The General, hard at work even long after she really should have gone home.

Mr John Hegley regaling the Unbound crowd with songs and stories in English and French.

Candia McWilliam here, just before she panicked at the sight of the camera and asked me not to use flash, “or I shall go totally blind!”. I mention this because I had heard of her sight problems from one of the staff and so felt rather pleased with myself for the fact that I wasn’t using – and indeed rarely do use – flash.

And the King of the Charlotte Square Castle, Nick Barley himself. I had been tasked with getting a Good Photo of him against the bustle of the festival but it never happened, so this was my last attempt.

And so it ended.

But the I popped back for Alan Moore (squeeeee!)

Day 2 was a day filled with oddments and unexpected shots. It started early because my choir were singing in the Ross Bandstand, after which I was required to take some new photos of us (as there were none less than three years old).

This meant I missed a Storytime event (which I eventually got along to a few days later) and it took me a while to focus on the task at hand. Thankfully there was a need for random shots of the site, so I spent the afternoon split between processing yesterday’s and documenting the punters. This shot was in no way set up . Honest.

Scattered throughout my Book Festival days are the Photo Calls; I don’t attend all of them because I’m often in an event or catching some atmospheric shots of the site, but if I notice some distant flashing behind the Press yurt I pop round to see what’s happening. Here we see Fatima Bhutto posing (and she seemed to be quite happy to pose) for the press photographers.

Hanging around the site are some awesome portrait photographs of authors, from last year and this. They are taken by Chris Close, who works with a terrifying ring flash and manages to get today’s photos processed and printed onto canvas by tomorrow. This is what people mostly think he looks like…

The biggest surprise of the day was the queue for John Green. Clearly the organisers didn’t anticipate his popularity, as he was booked into the Children’s Bookshop tent for his signing… and the queue pretty much filled the tent!

This was followed by an exciting multilingual event in the Corner tent which inexplicably always made me nauseous and woozy – I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the event to blame. Here we had five poets from different countries reading their work in their native tongue and having careful and intricate translations performed immediately after.

And then onto the first Unbound! Here we had a group taking it in turns to read us through the history of literary pornography, assisted by burlesque-style flashcards. Although I quite enjoyed some of the works shared from the stage, the high fpoint for me was all the people who walked out within the first ten minutes with looks of disgust on their faces.

There was a handout as well, but since nobody assigned homework I didn’t pay it much attention.

Day 3 started me off with another big crowd, although with fewer children than Pullman pulled in.

This time it was for Jeanette Winterson, a woman known for her astonishing ego. The remarkable thing I found was that although she was pretty much just monologuing  about herself, her childhood, her philosophy of life etc. she was nonetheless a captivating and entertaining speaker. I’m almost tempted to read some of her books now…

We also had some quality time with a chair round the back.

This chair was representing, I think, all the writers who couldn’t attend the Book Festival due to being imprisoned. Harsh stuff!

Nothing book-related in Edinburgh would be complete without a visit from Ian Rankin, and sure enough he appeared to be interviewed non stop for hours.

Who else? Erm, Louis de Bernieres?

Simon Callow? (I totally spent ALL DAY squeeing about him being there).

Having mentioned queues, this was awaiting the Sir Ian Blair event an hour before it started:

I then had the dubious pleasure of being shoo-ed by Sue Perkins. Having spotted her (and papped her) I dashed over to one of the Press team to squeal in hushed tones “ohmygod it’s SUE PERKINS!”, to which she replied ” I know, isn’t it GREAT and there’s Simon Callow being interviewed over there!”… and apparently this was all too much for poor Sue (who I love, btw – this is entertainment, not bitching) and she waved me away and asked me to move behind the camera. It seems she was unable to keep her eyes off my brightly shining hair though, as one of her crew then told me in no uncertain terms to go away because I was too distracting. Tsk.

After a brief visit to Sir Blair I went to see Fay Weldon with Fatima Bhutto being interviewed by Ruth Patel. I’ve never been a big fan of Fay Weldon but was always aware of her. I didn’t realise how old she now is, and it was a little distressing to see her tottering up on stage. Once she got going though, she was totally there, and when she laughed it was like a beam of sunshine! I ended up speaking at cross-purposes with one of the staff because I came out talking about Fay’s amazing face and he thought I was saying that Fatima was a bit of alright and it took a while to untangle…

Thanks to not being able to read or think, I missed Iain (M) Banks talking about his latest book, but I made up for it by taking a picture of just about everyone who came to get things signed – and what a mixed bunch they were! It was both heartwarming and demographically satisfying. Also, he looks way better now that all the ginger has gone.

The day ended with some question over whether writing the word BLUE on a piece of white paper actually assigned a certain blue-ness to the paper, or whether it just meant that bureaucracy will soon end us all.

This first kiddies event was Bookbugs, and I was in awe of the performers’ energy and enthusiasm.

After a few miraculously dry days, the skies went dark and wet. The nice thing about Edinburgh though is that it often looks lovelier just after a rainshower.

Onto Jeremy Hardy then, who pointed out only half in jest that his followers, mostly Radio 4 listeners, were a rather fragile fanbase. Since the Book Festival is basically Radio 4 listeners, this was a bit close to the bone. I hear the goal is to get Radio 2 listeners…

A couple of behind the scenes glimpses for you here. Firstly, “Anon‘s Colin Fraser” who is operating the @EdBookFest Twitter account (he’s usually on @AnonPoetry). Here we see him editing a recording to post on AudioBoo.

And here’s one of the big containers out back. This is where books come in from the publishers etc. in preparation for an author event, before going back if any are unsold. The amazing thing is that it’s constantly in motion. The boxes of books never look the same from one hour to the next, which left me with an urge to set up a month-long timelapse next year. Somehow.

Signings, signings, Ian Rankin photocall…

David Shrigley sharing book space with Barack Obama…

Signings, signings…

Alastair Darling’s event should have been dramatic, but due to a slip by his press people, everybody knew what he was going to say before he got there. What I did enjoy were the salute from Brian Taylor:

…closely followed by a mimed moustache from Mr Darling:

David Shrigley was a bit of a disappointment to me. Nothing to do with his work, just that he was a bit tall, clean and well-spoken. Perhaps expecting a mangled stick figure to come to the Book Festival is a bit much?

And then the day closed. I pointed a camera at someone whose face seemed familiar and afterwards realised that it was David Bishop (former editor of 2000AD, tutor of a well-respected Creative Writing course at Napier University and more, I’m sure) and that Anna from Edinburgh City of Literature had popped up in the background. Nice!