My favourite part of Hay is going home. Not, for one moment, because the buzz of the festival and its brilliant mixture of ideas and world views and disciplines isn’t utterly engaging. Not because the events themselves aren’t invigorating and surprising enough to give you thoughts for days.

 But because at the end of the festival, you find yourself travelling back to the station (or airport) in the same car as a wonderfully eclectic variety of other writers from all walks of life. It’s a bit like a Russian roulette version of that game where you’re asked to list your ideal dinner party guests; because in this case you have neither choice nor foreknowledge of who your companions will be. I won’t embarrass mine by revealing their identities, but on each of my trips to a Hay festival, the ride home has made me realise how extraordinarily lucky I was to be able to participate in an event that brings together such a wonderful mixture of people.

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