The Loneliness of the Long Distance Book Runner
by
Bill Rees
‘Mighty hunters of books encompass the earth, tracking down their quarry in all places, sacred and profane, monasteries and churches, castles and palaces; manor houses and rectories; flats, villas, cottages; shops of many kinds; town or country, it is all one, and the earth is all one to them as they cross the sea in swift liners, cover the land by train or automobile, and cleave the air in flying machines. Nor does the hunting end at such personal contact as modern transport opens up to them; they hunt from wherever they are, throwing their nets over all lands by telephone, telegram, cable and radio, so that time and place and circumstances are annihilated in this sweet game, as in no other sport.’
The Loneliness of the Long Distance Book Runner
Saint Pargoire, Southern France, 1995
Outside Alan Sillitoe’s holiday home, I am loading my trusty Renault Express van with the author’s donation of books and papers. A raised English voice pierces the incessant drone of cicadas and Alan Sillitoe rushes out into the sun-baked road. It turns out that I’ve inadvertently removed the wrong pile of books from the hallway. We check the boxes together to find that they contain precious first editions and personal manuscripts. I lug the boxes back and retrieve the items that were destined for me; obscure pamphlets by self-published poets and arcane miscellany.
The property is being sold, a fact relayed to me weeks earlier when I was introduced to the writer at a lunch hosted by a mutual acquaintance. He politely expresses an interest in my new venture — that of setting up a second-hand English bookshop in nearby Montpellier. He tells me that if he hadn’t been able to write books, he would have wanted to sell them. And would I be interested in some free stock…
(Distance travelled: 74 miles. Profit: None. Fact learned: Enforced boredom gets the creative juices flowing. Well, it does the trick for Mr Sillitoe, he says.)
Inspecting Heirlooms in the Attic, Bangor, 2001
The lettering. And the colour. Off the page it hits with the promise of a revelation. Page 57 shows Bee at the controls of a crane being used to assemble Kind Dog’s chunky cake. ‘So on this day that was called Wednesday, Ant and Bee made Kind Dog a birthday cake out of dog biscuits, by sticking the biscuits together with sandwich filling. All day on that Wednesday Ant and Bee enjoyed making the birthday cake for Kind Dog.’
The picture and accompanying text of Ant and Bee first entered my head three decades ago. Now its recollection has a hallucinogenic quality. As do memories of early birthdays. Eddy and my mates came, most of them suited up like mini mobsters and drawn to the Real Sweet Stuff, which primarily took the form of a chocolate encrusted Thomas the Tank Engine bejewelled with smarties. Mum’s signature cake.
The pages are still smudged with chocolate.
A Day’s Pilgrimage to Hay-on-Wye, May 2008
Hay-on-Wye is the famous book town with its own literary festival described by Bill Clinton as the ‘Woodstock of the mind.’ With a surplus of paperbacks that need shifting, I intend to hit town several days before the literati arrive. I’d like to fill some of those minds with some of my books. So I go about filling up my Volks-book-battered-wagen with novels and petrol.
I leave Bangor in North Wales on a sunny day and intend to call on a few shops en route to Hay — a journey that will take me through the heart of Wales. I soon arrive at the gates of Caernarfon Castle and breach the town’s medieval walls in order to call on a dealer specialising in mountaineering books. He’s not averse to general fiction, but won’t be buying today. He’s in a hurry to get to some fair and only has the time to express his scepticism on the likelihood of selling books to the booksellers of Hay. Undeterred, I drive off and am uplifted by the gorgeous scenery. Around mountains and through forests, I wend my way to Dolgellau, a small market town situated at the foot of the Cader Idris mountain range in south Snowdonia. In the town is a charming bookshop whose owner still has an apparent market for cricket books. She buys a box of Huttons, Evans, and Boycotts mixed in with the occasional Wisden. It turns out that her son runs the Dyfi Valley bookshop in nearby Machynlleth. I recall having sold him a rare book on archery. The other bookshop in Machynlleth is called Coch-y-Bonddu Books (named after a Welsh dry fly) and they are international dealers in books on angling. They have bought specialist books on salmon fisheries from me, but I have nothing to tempt them today.
A red kite hovers at eye level while I drive along a pass before Machynlleth where I stop only for a late lunch. It’s past mid-day and I must be wary of the distracting scenery. Grabbing a lamb oggie, I am soon back on the road, and an hour later, I am seeking out The Great Oak Bookshop in the streets of Llanidloes, a town with timber framed buildings. It’s easily found but the owner expresses not the slightest bit of interest when I speak of a car full of books. No mention has been made of the prices and it amazes me that her interest hasn’t been piqued.
I’ve been dawdling and I need to get a move on to arrive at Hay with enough time to call on potential buyers. The country roads lose some of their charm when you need to negotiate them at greater speed. On the outskirts of Hay, giant white marquees are going up in preparation for the festival. I’d like to take time in absorbing the atmosphere of the town that boasts thirty bookshops. But I don’t have that luxury today. It’s 4 p.m.; the shops are scheduled to close in one hour. In random fashion, I enter shops to speak of the book bonanza lying within my fourteen fruit and veg boxes. Several shop assistants are intrigued and follow me out to the car but most don’t get that far. Their interest fades at the suggestion that I’m in the trade. Sure, they won’t discover a first edition Biggles, but the stock is surely worthy of inspection. Several more shops can’t commit because their buyer isn’t in, and I’m beginning to get a little panicky at the thought of having to haul eight hundred books back through Wales this evening. There’s only one thing to do; attack the castle.
Hay Castle Bookshop is situated in the public rooms and grounds of the castle, which overlooks the town. It is owned by Richard Booth, creator of the ‘book town’ concept and self-proclaimed King. Having briefly met him before (with the greeting of ‘what do you flog then?’) in Montolieu, a French version of Hay, I trudge up the steps to his abode and ask to see him. He’s abroad, I’m informed by a lady at the till. A tactical decision not to volunteer any information about being in the trade pays dividends, for my description of a carload of literature elicits genuine enthusiasm. She calls to someone in the tower and I wait patiently as that someone slowly descends the spiral staircase. A suited gentleman with a distinguished air and walking stick then accompanies me to my car down several flights of outside steps.
I have strategically placed ‘stronger’ titles towards the top of the boxes. ‘Very good,’ is the gentleman’s assessment following a brief rummage. He explains that I can drive up and park behind the castle, which is a relief. I unload the books before the lady on the till explains that she is not in a position to write a cheque. Only the accountant, who makes an appearance on Tuesdays, can do that. I quickly knock up an invoice, which she signs.
Unburdened, the Volkswagen whizzes me back to Bangor in no time.
(Distance travelled: 245 miles. Takings (promised): £150. Fact learned: ‘To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive’.)