Today, Wigtown seems to be replicating its glory days. The air is festive; it is electric with books. The crisp white crack of them, their bold and glossy hardness, the soft, dry whisper-touch that can set your teeth on edge. Bookshops spill open, trestles outside to display their wares – there are five, six shops Kelly can count from here. People throng between the marquees on the central green, carrying armfuls of books, browsing books, discussing books – I think it’s his best yet.

‘Excuse me,’ she asks the third person to jostle her – Kelly blocks the flow like an inconvenient rock as Wigtown swirls around her. ‘What is this?’

The wee lady who has just dunted her blinks behind her specs. ‘It’s the book festival.’