There’s something slightly perverse about the idea of a literary festival. After all, one of the more attractive parts of reading is the excuse it provides not to talk to anyone. But very occasionally it’s nice to sit in a room with a bunch of people who enjoy the same kinds of books that you do and listen to their writers say something smart (and, if you’re lucky, mildly funny) about their work. And then to escape for a flat white and stroll beneath the autumn leaves and buttery stone of a quiet Gloucestershire spa town. Which is all just a windy way of saying Cheltenham is a lovely festival, it really is. So if you’re toying with the idea of a last-minute trip (it
