We found the unique little town of Hay-on-Wye nestled like a jewel in the midst of the tranquil Welsh countryside. Set in the grounds of the Brecon Beacons National Park, on the foothills of the Black Mountains, where mountain sheep graze with the sober diligence of sheep everywhere, Hay-on-Wye is an unlikely lure for a particular type of visitor.

Here's a hint: nearby is Clyro, where Kilvert the Diarist served as curate and described this beautiful area in loving detail. Doesn't ring any bells? How about this then? Every year for 10 days in the late spring or early summer, 80,000 people from all over the English-speaking world descend upon Hay-on-Wye for a carnival celebration known as the Hay Festival, swamping the tiny town of 1,500 inhabitants and 39 bookstores.

That's right. Literature buffs, get your annotated copies of classics out into the open. No-one here will scoff. For Hay-on-Wye, also known as the Town of Books, lays proud claim to being the largest 'used and antiquarian' bookshop in the world.

The guest list for the 2005 Hay Festival reads like a Who's Who in the world of contemporary literature. For those lucky enough to have been there, they would have been treated to readings, talks, and book signings by Ian McEwan, Alexander McCall Smith, Kazuo Ishiguro, Terry Pratchett, Garth Nix, Anne Fine, Stephen Fry and Sue Townsend, to name but a few.

Not interested in literature? Catch a concert or two-they range from classical (the Alberni Quartet performed in the local chapel) to rock (Elvis Costello and The Imposters this year). Or join a workshop for dance (Cuban conga, anyone?) And if the kids complain, plunk them down to watch Disney short films or sign them up for a Japanese anime workshop. Spoiled for choice? Just relax and enjoy the wine tasting. There's truly something for everyone.

And if you can't make it to the Hay Festival? There's still much to do in Hay-on-Wye, especially in the summertime, when the intrepid can go climbing up or abseiling down the Black Mountains, or brave the waters of the River Wye by white water rafting, kayaking, or canoeing. There's a myriad of trails for both mountain bikers and hikers, and a wealth of galleries and craft shops to tempt the more artistically-minded with sculptures, stone-carvings, silk-paintings and the like.

But for me and my fiance, we had come in the autumnal calm of September for the books and the books alone. Our objective was clear and simple. We were there to root out affordable literary treasures buried among the many quality, second-hand, antiquarian bookshops lining the maze of narrow streets in town.

Unfortunately, we arrived late, having struggled through weekend traffic in London, and after a foray into a few bookstores already closing for the day, we followed the signposts to Llanigan about 2 miles away, where we spent the night at the delightful The Old Post Office Bed & Breakfast. A 17th century listed building, lovingly restored, the house retains its charm and character, with a winding oak staircase leading up to ensuite bedrooms complete with creaking oak floor-boards and exposed ceiling beams. A Georgian post-box hangs proudly by the front door, still in use.

The next morning, after a hearty vegetarian breakfast cooked by Linda, our quiet and gentle hostess, we set out with the local map as guide. The map lists 39 bookstores, with over a million books for sale in all conceivable subjects.

We started with Hay Castle which dates back to the 12th century and is picturesque in a crumbling, ruined sort of way, having been sacked on several occasions during the years of conflict between the Norman English and the Welsh. Within its crumbling walls are housed thousands of books. Yes, even the castle in this little town has been converted into a makeshift bookstore where the honour system holds sway. However, it looked bleak and abandoned when we visited. The quality of the books left much to be desired and the organization was haphazard, to say the least.

We fared much better at the next bookshops we visited, some of them specialist stores. I found vintage Noddy storybooks for my nieces at The Children's Bookshop, and Andy found a couple of esoteric Algebraic Geometry textbooks at the Hay Cinema Bookshop to delight his pure mathematician's heart. Murder and Mayhem stocks all the murder mysteries anyone could ever wish for, and Boz Books, which specializes in Dickens and nineteenth century authors, has many First Editions and Fine literary sets. Sadly, they were way over our budget. But late in the afternoon, not long before the shops closed for the day, we were blessed with an amazing find.

We struck gold at The Poetry Bookshop where, tucked away behind the main streets, lay a veritable treasure-trove for the poetry buff. We each got a copy (different editions) of Khalil Gibran's The Prophet. We agonized over some antiquarian texts that proved too pricey for us. Then Andy set eyes on a 1934 copy of 'Anne Cecil, Elizabeth and Oxford', originally priced at 10s 6d. A thesis on the controversial question of the authorship of the Shakespearean plays and poems, it retained its original dust jacket and was in excellent condition, and a steal at 20 pounds sterling.

We did not even bargain. I grabbed my book bag and floated out of there. We enjoyed a lovely dinner of soup and lamb at a local pub before walking back to our car through the winding streets, charmed once again by the storefronts, a few of which date back to the 19th century. We passed some pretty cottages serving as B&B's just a street or two away from the main streets, and a little tea-shop where we had stopped for a breather earlier in the day. Hay-on-Wye is really more a village than a town, with the genteel air of a cultivated and well-preserved old dame.

After our short but productive stay, we left Hay-on-Wye with bags of books loaded into the trunk of our car. We spent four days in the Lake District before making our way south. A night's stay at Cressbrook in Derbyshire country broke our journey and we arrived in Stratford-upon-Avon in the middle of a balmy day.

Andy and I had argued on and off about the authorship of the body of work usually ascribed to one William Shakespeare of Stratford-upon-Avon. Regarding the two-centuries-old authorship debate, I stand firmly on the side of those who believe that Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford, was the true author of the plays and poetry generally believed to have been authored by William Shakespeare of Stratford-upon-Avon. Andy, on the other hand, is mildly swayed by those who believe in the Stratford imposter's claim to fame.

Precious few facts are known about the life of William Shakespeare. Born in Stratford-upon-Avon in 1564, he got Anne Hathaway pregnant and married her when he was 18. They had three children before he left his family and went off to London to work as an actor. Much later, he became a shareholder in the Globe Theatre. By all accounts, he retired a rich man, returning in his 40s to Stratford where he bought a big house, dealt in real estate and grain for a while, and died in 1616.

His will, in which he famously left Anne his second-best bed, made no mention of plays, poems, or even books, for that matter. Where is the great writer's library-that's what I want to know. How could a writer not be a reader? It defies the imagination. Examples of his handwriting exist: signatures variously spelt 'Shakspur' or 'Shaksper'. How can a published playwright not be able to spell consistently his own nom de plume? More to the point, how did this small-town boy with little education know enough about law and history, not to mention Latin and Greek, to fill his plays and poems with such exquisite and accurate detail drawn variously from the classics and from life at the Elizabethan court?

Who, then, was the true author? Many great authors of the time, such as Sir Francis Bacon and Christopher Marlowe, have been put forward as the one. Some even go as far as to suggest Queen Elizabeth I herself, which is patently ridiculous. But there is one person whose life and talent correspond very well indeed with that of the author of the plays and poems ascribed to William Shakespeare.

Edward De Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford, was a familiar face in the Elizabethan court. Intelligent (he graduated from Cambridge University at the age of 14) and well-versed in the classics (his uncle is credited with the translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, a book widely recognised as having a major influence on the Shakespearean plays), he was a favourite of Queen Elizabeth I. He was nicknamed 'Spear-shaker' due his ability at tournaments and because his family coat of arms featured a lion brandishing a spear. He lived in the same area as Shakespeare, his Bilton Hall home being bordered by the Avon River on one side and the Forest of Arden on another. So Ben Johnson's preface to the First Folio, in which he praised the 'sweet swan of Avon' could very well be referring, albeit obliquely, to De Vere.

De Vere was known to have written and published poems, in a style which resembles the Shakespearean sonnets. So why did he bother with a nom de plume, especially when he had already published before in his own name? Not because it was beneath aristocracy to publish poetry at the time, as has been postulated, but because so much of what he wrote was of potentially inflammatory nature, drawing as it did from life at the Elizabethan court. How else could he have avoided the wrath of and embarrassment to Queen Elizabeth I herself (who had a relationship much closer to him than the purported one of guardian and ward) when he was, under the guise of his characters, portraying the queen herself in many of the plays and poems?

'Are you going to get on a soapbox?' Andy asked me, as we dodged past groups of camera-toting tourists on the very prosperous-looking Stratford High Street.

I looked furtively around. 'The good burghers would throw me out of town.'

'Speaking of burgers…'

Andy is easily side-tracked. But we did eventually find our way to the various museums, including the 16th century half-timbered house where the imposter was born. But my heart just wasn't in it. There wasn't even a whisper of the authorship debate in the town of Stratford, not even in the meticulous museum that documented every little known aspect of William Shakespeare's life and 'his' works.

Were all these people living in denial? Well, as Andy pointed out, much of their livelihood depended upon it. Looking around, I could not help but agree. Stratford-upon-Avon is termed a market-town, but it takes no leap of the imagination to guess that its prosperity today stems in no small part from the visitors and tourists who flock to Stratford on the assumption of its ties with the author of the plays so beloved by generations of theatre-goers. Let's face it, it's William Shakespeare, the local boy-done-good, who's the poster boy for Stratford-upon-Avon, and has been for centuries.

We ourselves had bought a pass for the 5 houses associated with the life of William Shakspur. We had already visited his birthplace and the museum. We drove a little way out of town to Anne Hathaway's cottage. To give it its due, it is indeed very pretty. Mary Arden's (William's mother) House was next, with Palmer's Farm nearby where she grew up. For historical interest alone, this is certainly worth a visit. There's also Hall's Croft, home of Shakespeare's daughter Susanna and her husband, John Hall, a physician. Again, this is of historical note in and of itself. Nash's House belonged to Shakespeare's granddaughter and adjoining New Place is the house where Shakespeare died. We gave that a miss, mainly because we had a play to catch that evening and needed to rest after a long day of walking.

We had tickets to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre that evening, and watched a rousing performance of 'The Taming of the Shrew'. Our seats, in row E, were so close to the stage we could see the performers' spit as they emoted. Happily, we were not close enough to be sprayed. But hey, it was spit from denizens of the Royal Shakespeare Company. Next time round, we might catch a play at one of the other two theatres in town: The Swan or The Other One. Much of the audience seemed to comprise of visitors from out of town, and there was more than a sprinkling of tourists. In fact, when we first tried to book accommodation, we discovered that B&B's in town had been booked up months ahead. But we found a lovely place just a little way out of town, with a very helpful and hospitable hostess.

We spent the night at the charming The Crofts Farm B&B. The next morning at breakfast, we engaged another couple in the authorship debate, once our lovely host was busy. Most people (from out of town anyway) seem to agree that credit should be given where it's due. But let's not push it with the good burghers of Stratford-upon-Avon. By all accounts, they've done very well indeed not addressing the debate at all.