A good sign for books: the village dedicated to them

Once famous as the location for Wicker Man, Scottish village Wigtown is now known for its book festival, says Carl Dixon

WIGTOWN village has a defining characteristic. It is home to Scotland’s largest bookshop and it hosts the Wigtown Book Festival.

For one week in October, lovers of books migrate here to listen to readings, eat haggis and discuss the latest literary offerings.

At the attractive B&B in which I stayed, the room key was reluctantly passed to me, as if it were a precious jewel. It was implicit that misbehaviour would be frowned upon. Visa, being modern and crass, was not accepted. Duly chastened, even before I had sinned, I crept gingerly to my room over creaky floorboards, turned on the small, 1980s television in the corner and tried not to make any noise.

At breakfast, the average age of the guests was about 70 and there was a quintessentially British air of reserved politeness as everyone tucked into their smoked kippers, and sipped tea. The news that a red squirrel occasionally visits the garden caused a slight frisson of excitement and murmurs of pleasure; like a minor Mexican wave in a retirement home.

There was a range of events to choose from at the book festival. First up was a collaboration between jazz musician Richard Ingham and poet Brian Johnstone. I particularly liked the swift jabs at the cello that mimicked the sound of a croaking toad.

A Genteel Tipple Through Gin In Literature, a talk by Geraldine Coates, came with a glass of gin punch based on a recipe from a Dickens novel. “More punch left at the back,” the host graciously noted. Even an audience of demure book lovers is not immune to the merits of free grog, to judge by the rather unseemly rush.

Other interesting talks included a humorous contribution from Jon Ronson, who specialises in stories of human folly. His book The Men Who Stare at Goats was made into a film with George Clooney, and in The Psychopath Test he applied the standard test for psychopathy to businessmen and politicians. No prizes for guessing the results.

With ‘dark sky park’ status, southern Scotland is the first UK region where dark skies are now safeguarded, and a night-time project was led by two charming, but slightly chaotic Scottish artists, Mandy McIntosh and Kaffe Matthews. Arriving at a stone circle, we lay on the ground and looked at the sky. Then, we tried on homemade space suits and stared at the stars above us, and thought about the immensity of space and the insignificance of human life.

“As part of this project, we went to the US and asked working astronauts what they listen to,” Kaffe said. “In other words, what is the soundtrack of space?” Unfortunately, easy listening was the drawled consensus; apparently, the soundtrack of space is Neil Diamond and Celine Dion. “After that, we decided to try and recreate the feeling of space; we planned a bath of warm water, suspended down a deep pit where you could manipulate giant tuning forks with your feet.” The idea of suspending paying customers in hot water over a 26-foot pit in the middle of the darkest forest in Britain was unfairly shot down by small-minded bureaucrats on health and safety grounds.

Author Dr Stuart Clark provided a fascinating, illustrated journey through the 276 billion trillion miles of space and 13.5 billion light years. The universe is, it seems, extremely large. To prove this, he showed us a photograph of the universe. We silently contemplated this for a moment or two. Finally, someone asked the question we had all been thinking. “If we are part of the universe, how can we photograph the universe ... if we are, like, in it?”

“You have to imagine it wrapped around you; like being inside a bubble,” Dr Clark said. We all thought about that for another moment or two. Then our brains began to hurt, so we shrugged and went for a gin and tonic.

The final night featured a lit torch procession through the village. As I walked, I recalled that the Wicker Man was filmed near here. A classic British horror film, it featured an unsuspecting policeman burned alive by villagers in a pagan ritual. With increasing apprehension, it crossed my mind that the invitation to attend the book fair might just be a cunning ruse. Perhaps I was the next ‘wicker man’ and I would turn the corner to find the local priest with a goat’s head mask and a staff, cackling madly next to a big bonfire.

It was a relief when we arrived to find a Scottish ceilidh in full swing at the local whiskey distillery. It was like an Irish ceili, but everyone knew what the steps were, and nobody was swung so hard by their drunken and over-enthusiastic partner that they lost their grip scattering the other dancers like skittles at a bowling alley. A veneer of Presbyterian restraint prevailed.

Before leaving on the final morning, I slipped into a comfortable chair in a big old bookshop, which was crammed to the rafters with obsolete cookbooks, dog-eared thrillers and hardback classics. It had the distinctive smell of musty old paper, and lots of Jilly Cooper and Jack Higgins books selling for 50p each.

I can’t say that I read anything particularly noteworthy, but on the plane back my Kindle seemed just a little too shiny and modern.

* Wigtown was officially designated as Scotland’s national book town in 1998 and is home to more than 20 book-related businesses. www.wigtown-booktown.co.uk