Friday, September 23, 2011

Wigtown is Bestown

There's a wistfulness to the season ; the summer that wasn't a summer has elided into a dreich* autumn, the field outside my window has been shaved down to stubble and across the land our sons and daughters are spreading wings and heading off to university and college and the unimaginable freedoms of young adulthood.

Leaving us in a mess of discarded twigs and grubby fluff. Or perhaps that's just the nest chez Gliori. Still two chicks left, but the nest is showing distinct signs of wear and tear if not downright decreptitude. And winter still to come...

But for now, hush. We shan't talk of fare-thee-wells for the best bit of the year is here. It is time to head to Dumfries and Galloway for my personal favourite and much looked-forward-to and absolute best book festival in the Western Hemisphere, if not the World. I'm referring to the Wigtown Book Festival, which is possibly the best fun a human being can have in a tent in the 21st Century. Truly. All of life is here, nestled in a picture-perfect small place. Words cannot do it justice, even though it is a festival about words and ideas and writing and thought. Suffice to say, at this time of the year, there is no better place to be than Wigtown.

So. You have to come. And bring your best friend so that you have somebody to turn to and hug and say - Well, dyamm - see that Debi what's-herface with the hideously unpronouncable surname- she speaks the truth, her.

*Translator's note. There is no other word that describes unending grey, oppressive, spitty skies better than dreich. Let the 'ch' roll out to chhhhhhhhhhh. Feel our Caledonian pain. We're rusting up here.


Mel said...

Here we tend more toward gloriously colourful autumns. Plus it's time to start wearing woolies again. Someday you should come to Rhinebeck, or just visit us here in New England. Then you'll understand.

Debi Gliori said...

Hi Mel

I would have replied sooner, but Wigtown aka Bestown kept me so completely occupied from dawn to dusk that the prospect of tapping out a reply on the teeny and disobedient screen of my not-so-smartphone in the wee small hours was more that my failing eyesight could stand. But now, home again, tethered to a laptop, with a screen I can see and keys I can find with my stubby fingertips - oh, joy.
So. Where were we? Rhinebeck? New England? Oh, yes, please. When my ship comes in, and proves to be something slightly larger than a leaky rubber dinghy, I'd love to come visit. I have heard that New England does the Enhanced version of fall. Uber Autumn v. 3.1.1

And having slandered the chromatic landscape of Da Bonnie, she is now flouncing her not inconsiderable heathery skirts and showing off in an altogether hoydenish fashion, with a glorious display of.... oh, go and look pout of your window - you know what I mean. It does make one want to run to the wool stash and begin the Winter's Work.

Debi Gliori said...

Out, I mean, not pout. Oh, sigh. That's what I get for rushing.

Mel said...

Da Bonnie is still on my to-visit list, as well. Was just recently found on Facebook by an old uni friend. I knew she'd married a Scottish minister. Found out, though, that she's been living for some number of years now in Lossiemouth.

Alwen said...

We don't rust so much here in Michigan as absolutely turn to mold. And then in our hottest wettest month, August, we have a wool festival. Because if you don't learn to laugh about the weather, you'll go completely bonkers.

Then, overnight, the weather changes like flipping a light switch, and suddenly we have cold days! Cold nights! Autumn gales! again.