The Colours of Wigtown

Forgive me for beginning with a small aside, but I swear that at 14.24hrs today in Glasgow's Royal Exchange Square I saw Nick Cave, with two minders and possibly a P.R.ish person. That is my most major Glasgow celebrity-spot to date.

Bad Seed aside, to Wigtown. This will almost certainly be the least literary post about the Festival, so apologies in advance to those seeking high cultural revelations just yet. If at all.

As my joint reading with Vivien Jones, here http://bassviol.blogspot.com/2009/08/my-first-collection.html began at 10.30am on the Saturday, and we were requested to arrive early for sound checks etc., I opted to stay on the Friday night in nearby Newton Stewart. The Festival itself very kindly provided my b and b at a B + B, and after that initial Texas Chainsaw Massacre frisson you get when walking into a strange person's large house which has knick-knacks, I had a very comfortable night in the company of Derren Brown.

Breakfast (full English) was enlivened by the presence of an author and his wife, both delightful people. I can only say that William Coles, whose event I later attended, was the antithesis of any ex-Sun journalist of my imagination. He was, quite simply, posh and nice.

Anyway, I rushed breakfast (English, full) in order to be, as requested, early, and arrived in Wigtown at 9.00am to find it shut.

Luckily, the stalls of the Continental Market had nearly finished setting up, so I not only got some pictures, I got a second, third and fourth course to my breakfast.

Ate some of these.
Ate lots of these.

Tried some of these.
No, I didn't. Still early.

Interlude for a brief description of Wigtown itself. It is very small. And remote.

The Festival itself "happens", for the most part, in the Square (oblong-shaped) that sits between North and South Main Streets, either in large luxe-luxe marquees, the County Buildings or in the numerous bookshops that surround the Square. In summary, you do not have to walk much at The Wigtown Literary Festival.

The County Buildings.

By now, the doors of the County Buildings had opened, so I presented myself, as requested, to the Festival Office. Brief insertion of perspective: I have published a very little poetry pamphlet of no renown. On the bill this weekend were (and this is a very brief selection): Margaret Elphinstone, Chris Mullin, Roddy Doyle, Diarmid Ferriter, Saul David, Christopher Brookmyre, John Boyne and Louis de Bernieres. Yet at no point during my visit did I seem to be treated with any less courtesy or generosity than any other person appearing. Every one of the Festival staff that I met were solicitous and charming.

So charming, in fact, that at the Office I was not only welcomed, I was given a Goody Bag (like London Fashion Week, only hessian) and an Author Pass which admitted me to any event. Plus ("there's more?" you cry) an invitation to use the "Writers Retreat", which would be open all day for refreshments and lunch.

My next port of call? Obviously, the Retreat. On entering (lovely room, open fire, large table, sofas, tea, coffee, newspapers) the first words I heard were, "Of course, 40 hours ago I was in Dubai". It's the "Of course" that does it, isn't it? Still, fortune favours the brave, and without the aid of a Press Card, Business Class Air Ticket or even Flak Jacket, this lowly Penpont Poet negotiated the room and secured a coffee and a lemon and poppy seed muffin. Result!

This meant, however, that by 10am I had consumed (estimating in a sub-literary-heroine-type-fashion) approximately 5,000 calories so far that day.

Luckily, my reading with Vivien was in the garden marquee of the same bookshop (name, The Book Shop) that hosted the Writers Retreat, so I hauled my stomach over to it and found Vivien already in situ. She had arrived at the venue before me, after travelling 100 or so more miles that morning.

The garden in which the marquee was situated. Round the corner.

And then we read.

Next episode: Literary Events, I promise. And Lunch. Lunch!