ON a rainy night in September, all the shop fronts in the city center of Norwich, England, were dark and shuttered except for one. With each swing of the door, an expectant hum escaped from the Book Hive, an independent bookstore that opened in October 2009, as patrons eagerly awaited the arrival of the British-born Australian author Alex Miller.

Once inside, Mr. Miller ambled to his seat and began to reminisce about living in Paris in the 1970s, an experience that provided fodder for his latest novel, “Lovesong,” which earned him a sixth nomination for Australia’s Miles Franklin Award, a top literary prize. Earnest students and middle-aged writers sat on the floor in front of him like schoolchildren at story time, their glasses of red wine perched on stacks of poetry translations.

The questions from the audience, colored by Irish, Scottish and English accents, all marveled at the same thing: that Mr. Miller, acclaimed but hardly a household name, was not better known in Britain. But in this eastern English city of 137,000, he was certainly a draw, filling the store until long past the reading’s end. Later, conversations continued — the sort of tipsy, bookish debates more often associated with Bloomsbury than this mostly rural county.

Norwich, a two-hour train ride northeast from London, has increasingly become a refuge for writers fleeing the hectic pace of the capital’s publishing scene. At first glance it appears to be just another charming medieval town, with a fantastically preserved castle and a 900-year-old cathedral. But look a little deeper and you’ll notice the wellspring of author readings and literary festivals, featuring recent talks by Booker Prize winners like John Banville and Penelope Lively.