I went to Port Eliot Literary Festival at the weekend. It was my fourth time and third time with my friend K who's sister K lives in St. Germans. It was my first time travelling on the train and first time in a B&B instead of a field. We had a fantastic time and a fantastic time in so many ways - every moment was quite unlike the last.
I saw Christopher Biggins (panto man), Tim Smit (Eden man), Dan Pearson (garden man), Louise Wilson (fashion MA woman), Nicky Haslam (dandy man), Emma Kennedy (hilarious woman), Patrick Barkham (butterfly man) and Edmund de Waal (favourite ceramicist and writer man) speak about their work and their books. There were more but I can't make any more links.
I saw Bellowhead, Louis Eliot and The Secret Sisters play. I missed British Sea Power (again) but sat at breakfast with my favourite band's lead singer's little brother. I didn't tell him I've been smitten by Starsailor for years. Too embarassing over the fried eggs.
I made an attempt at raving along to Jeremy Healy's set and stood mesmerised while Annie Nightingale mixed hers. Her set was fantastic but she did, I'm afraid, look as if she couldn't master the knobs on an electric hob.
I knitted a sock with dovegreyreader and her agreeable friends for hours on Sunday (two late nights had taken their toll).
I ate delicious food and drank (mostly) delicious wine.
I sat and stared and listened and thought and dreamt and plotted and schemed.
It's amazing how you can feel refreshed after less than 10 hours sleep in 72.