The sun almost always shines on Adelaide writers’ week, held on Kaurna land each year at the tail end of summer.

For those who start looking forward to it as soon as soon as the Christmas tree is packed away (or earlier, frankly) there’s a sense of loss, of betrayal, at the omnishambles that has led to its cancellation this year.

We’re bereft, and angry – not least because some of the most vocal critics seem to have no idea what writers’ week actually is.

During Adelaide’s Mad March, the city’s parklands are home to the festival fringe’s sprawling performance spaces, bars and restaurants. On a Sunday you might leave behind the carnival chaos of the Garden of Unearthly Delights. Ditch the lakeside champagne and food trucks of Gluttony.

Keep going, down the cultural boulevard that leads past the space centre, the art gallery and the museum, all of which are heaving with fringe and festival frivolities.

Duck behind the grandeur of Government House and you’ll find yourself in the graceful Pioneer Women’s Memorial Garden, at an open-air festival complete with food trucks, bars and portable toilets.

If you’re early enough, you’ll score a chair under one of the three giant awnings. If not, join the rest of the broad-brimmed-hat brigade as they shuffle to keep pace with the plane trees’ shifting shade.

Or sprawl on the sloping lawn, and settle in.

The South Australian premier, Peter Malinauskas, described AWW in last year’s program as a “remarkable, uniquely free event [that] offers thought-provoking debate, [and provides] a platform for an extraordinary array of local and international writers”.

It’s Australia’s longest-running literary festival, and its largest free one – all the garden sessions are gratis, while there are ticketed evening events.

Over six days, tens of thousands of writers and readers gather to discuss politics, a new twist on history or a thriller’s plot twist, and (importantly) where to go for lunch.

It’s civilised, casual, sometimes hefty and often hilarious. That also goes for the audience questions, which range from tinfoil-hat rants to insightful interrogations.

AWW sparks fierce loyalty – my mum reckons she hasn’t missed one since the 70s. People travel from all over the world to meet old friends and new. Others take annual leave or sneak out on their lunch break.

They turn up with sunscreen, picnics, dogs, prams and curiosity.

A happy army of volunteers and workers – all of whom must now be hurting – shepherd them through a remarkable experience.

As with novelists, the audience might be plotters, following a meticulous schedule, or (seat of the) pantsers – turning up when they can and taking their chances.

Some arrive for the daily opening session – Breakfast with Papers (sponsored by The Advertiser and hosted by Guardian Australia and ABC journalists) and stay all day.

Others pop in and out. This year they might have dropped by to hear the former prime minister Tony Abbott, but then gone to the bar when CNN’s Christiane Amanpour came on. Or the other way around.

A random flick through old programs shows Max Harris and Colin Thiele at the first one in 1960; Dorothy Porter, Ted Hughes, Kurt Vonnegut and Don Dunstan in 1976; Julian Barnes, Peter Carey, Kate Grenville and Kazuo Ishiguro in 1987. Hilary Mantel, Janet Evanovich, Melvyn Bragg, Paul Keating and Tom Keneally in 2000; Michael Robotham, Charlotte Wood, Sean Williams, Chika Unigwe and Gideon Haigh in 2013.

There are countless brilliant Australian authors – Clare Wright is a regular, Melissa Lucashenko was due to be there this year. There are always long queues for a Trent Dalton book signing.

I asked friends to share their memories of writers’ week.

One friend’s terminally ill, deeply Christian grandmother took her to listen to and meet the euthanasia advocate Philip Nitschke. “She held my hand and cried throughout his talk,” she says.

John Hewson (no, not that one) wrote that he met a nice, “mature” eastern suburbs women in the queue for coffee.

“At the nearest tent Irvine Welsh, Scottish author of Trainspotting, was reading from his latest novel,” Hewson wrote in an email.

“I can’t remember the exact words, but it was full of f@#$ and c@#$ in a thick Scottish accent.

“The nice woman turned to me and said with a big smile, ‘I love writers’ week’.”

One talked about Michelle de Kretser holding the audience in the palm of her hand; another of meeting Tim Rogers; and another of discussing the intricacies of the judicial system with Helen Garner and Jess Hill. People nominated hearing Louis de Bernières reading from Red Dog, or Michael Ondaatje reading The Cinnamon Peeler.

Another spotted Bob Ellis sprawled on the grass, looking like an “unmade bed”.

People talk about the thrill of taking their children to meet their literary heroes, such as Andy Griffiths.

The enduring theme in many of the tributes was the mingling of people and ideas, both on stage and off, of the joy of perusing the book tent before watching and sometimes meeting a favourite author, of shutting out the world for a while for the love of reading and writers.

As Malinauskas said, Adelaide writers’ week “remains a must-attend festival for anyone passionate about the written word, thoughtful discussion and respectful debate”.

In the normal course of things, people would be strolling off in the balmy air with bags full of books, and minds full of words and plans to do it all again the next day.

Only this year, we’re left to watch people try to paper over the cratering hole of AWW 2026, and hope that AWW 2027 turns a page.

• Tory Shepherd is a Breakfast with Papers host and a regular moderator and panellist at Adelaide writers’ week