Back to medieval times...

Without wishing to do overly philosophical, it seems days can be good or bad. Indeed, I often find that they can be a mix of the two, like yesterday, with many gradations between and also with extremities. But where am I going with this? Well, I suppose I’m trying to describe today, which really has been a curious kind of a day.

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Being a Sunday, it started with a lie in and a bath back in Zaragoza – the benefit of a bath outweighing the benefits of breakfast, which finishes at the ridiculously early hour of 10am on a Sunday. The knock on problem here was that I couldn’t get any tea. Not normally a problem, but I hadn’t had any tea in over three days and things were getting bad; I could think of nothing else and thoughts of finding a fix the leaf were the motivation for every action that morning (I hadn’t realised how bad the need was until breakfast at the hotel had already finished). So, before I attempted anything else, I found a likable looking cafe and ordered a tea. Or what passes for tea in Spain. It was hot-ish, weak and very milky, but it was tea and incredible for it. Seldom had a cuppa tasted so good. So good, in fact, that it lasted under a minute and had to be replenished with a second. Upon finishing said tea and a croissant, I felt invincible and ready to deal with whatever the day was going to throw at me.

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Of the two things to comment upon today are a bull fight and an ‘Arab Market’, as a banner told me. Let’s start with the market. Wandering through the old town I became giddy as a child as I noticed that a variety of stalls had been set up, replete with over-hanging bunting, medieval music and sellers dressed in medieval frocks. No idea what the purpose of this festival was, but very pleasant it was, as you could sample local goods and, for kids, try and shoot rubber arrows through a hoop while wearing a kind of olden-style smock. As the picture tries to show, it was a lively place and recreated a kind of sanitised market of old – the only things missing were the petty muggings, disease and disfigurement and people covered in shit. Still, good to see that we’ve moved on.

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The stalls sold a variety of things from dried herbs (very nice smell wafting across the square) and potted anchovies to little wooden shields and swords for children and lots of freshly cooked pork products (even nicer smell). And it was while chomping down on a half-baguette filled with such freshly roasted pork and drinking beer that I began to wonder how much pork and beer one might’ve actually found in an Arabic market of old. If this market was anything to go by, it seems it’s pretty much all they ever ate and drank. Anyway, all very jolly.

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The second main event for the day was the bullfighting. It was last week that I noticed there was a mini bullfighting festival on and, being a lover of animals, anti-fox hunting and against the purely ritualistic killing of animals, I thought I’d go along and see what it was all about. I was going with the thought that I didn’t really know what happened, and thought that seeing it would educate me. Now some might say, “They kill bulls with swords, what more do you need to know?” Indeed, what else is there to know? Well, I was thinking of the Walter Bagehot quote, “the [best] cure for the House of Lords [is] to go and look at it”, and so thought I’d go and have a peek (not that I’m advocating anything quite so treasonous as doing away with lords with swords). From a literary and historical perspective, turns out Hemmingway was also rather into it too (thanks for the ‘heads up’ on that one Shaun), but he was a bit of a queer fish – he took his pregnant wife to a bull fight in Pamplona in the hope that it might have a ‘positive effect’ on the unborn child, although what the 'positive effects' could be are anyone's guess. He even took part in some fights himself. Amazing thing the internet, eh?

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Anyway, disclaimers aside, off I went and milled amongst the crowds to sit at my ringside seat (25 euros to sit on some concrete three rows from the front – bargain!). And how was it? Well, the pictures really speak for themselves. Pre-stabbed bulls are put in the arena and baited, stabbed and then, after about 15 minutes or more, are finally killed with the fatal plunge of a special sword. Not quite as straight forward as that, as there’s plenty of show to be had. They also had to make the eight bulls that died last almost three hours (any hopes of a huge free barbecue of freshly slaughtered beef at the end were in vain). As a slight side factoid, I understand that in Korea, before they kill the dogs which are to be eaten, they torture them a bit first as this makes the blood pump round the body more quickly and thus makes the meat more tender. Any verification of this, especially in relation to beef, would be welcome.

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But back to the ritualistic killing of animals for entertainment. Before now, I had no idea what the difference was between a toreador, matador and a picador (as in the publisher), but now I know and this is your lucky chance to learn too:

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toreador: general term for a bullfighter

matador: the principal bullfighter and the one that performs the final kill

picador: the mounted assistant who enrages the bull and weakens the shoulder muscles with a lance (you can see this in the picture – unfortunately for the blindfolded horse, it gets a bit of a bruising from the bull and a stab with a lance from an assistant if it tries to move away from the fight. You can click on it to see an enlarged image)

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While it might seem all bad for the bulls, I’m pleased to say that although the first bull was killed very quickly and the second just simply refused to die, no matter how many swords had been stabbed into it, the third bull got one back for the team and took out the youngest matador, a cocky young fellow by the name of Pablo Belando, gouging him so that he had to be raced off by the other toreadors (see how deftly I use these terms?). As he was wearing a white costume with gold embroidery, I imagine he'll have the very devil of a time getting the blood out. There are of course jokes to be had with the lad’s surname and how he won’t ‘be landing’ somewhere soon, etc, but it’s getting late so I’ll leave that for you to have a go with.

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So, all-in-all, a rather curious experience but not one that I’ll be repeating (Hemmingway-esque pregnant women in tow or not), even though I could see why people could be enthralled by the whole spectacle, especially when it was clear that half-a-tonne of bull (hopefully not like this blog) can still do some damage. Can be quite edge of your seat stuff.

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I’ll leave you with a wine recommendation. There’s some tasty stuff from the region called Somontano (variety of grapes), which you could try next time you’re feeling particularly middle class. Here’s a helpful link:

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http://www.cellartours.com/spain/spanish-wine-regions/somontano.html