Moving to Spain - the Easy Way? Chapter Seven.

MOVING TO SPAIN – THE EASY WAY? Chapter Seven – it’s party time! 

One of the many highlights of our frequent visits to Spain has been experiencing local fiestas.  Sometimes we have deliberately gone on holiday to a particular place at a particular time because we have been aware that there was going to be a fiesta while we were staying there, but at other times we have been lucky enough to stumble on a fiesta which we hadn’t known about in advance.

The first time that we visited Valencia, we really loved the city and vowed that we would go back again to see the sights that we had missed on our first visit. We had read about Las Fallas (the Fires), which takes place every March with a riotous week of fires, explosions and parades in honour of St. Joseph. 

We decided that we would return to Valencia in March the following year to see what the fuss was all about.  John celebrated his 60th birthday on March 1st, so we persuaded a group of friends to come to Valencia with us a couple of weeks later to continue the birthday celebrations during Las Fallas.

If you have never been to Valencia for Las Fallas, I would highly recommend it, unless of course you are of a nervous disposition.  Read on and you will find out why.

The local districts within the city build their own ninots: vast colourful papier maché figures, which can be 15 to 20-feet high. These are usually satirical, either sending up local celebrities or people who are well-known worldwide, especially politicians.  The year we went, we particularly liked the figure of Tony Blair, shown as a puppet with George Bush holding his strings.  The districts will also have smaller, brightly coloured statues, like cartoon characters, for the children to enjoy.

Throughout the week fireworks were being set off all over the city, however the highlight was the daily mascleta, which took place in the Plaza Ayuntamiento at 2pm, a mass of fireworks, explosions, rockets and firecrackers. The whole ground seemed to tremble, as if there had been a massive earthquake – as I said earlier, this is not suitable for those of a nervous disposition.  We also witnessed several processions, with smartly dressed, smiling children parading in their traditional costumes, watched by their proud families.

On the last night only one of the ninots is saved, after there has been a vote to select the favourite, which is then preserved in the Museum of the Ninot, and the rest of them are burnt.  Months of hard work disappear in minutes but as soon as Las Fallas finishes, the neighbourhoods start planning for next year’s fun and fireworks.

John and I were walking back to our hotel with our friend Cathy just before midnight on what was to be our last night in Valencia.  John suggested having a coffee in one of the bars we were passing, but Cathy was tired and decided to continue to the hotel, which was only a short walk away. 

I was sitting on a stool enjoying my cup of coffee when John spotted the bonfire outside, in the square behind the bar.  We walked out to have a closer look and realised that they were about to set fire to the giant ninots.  A couple of men were climbing up ladders to reach the top of the ninot and set fire to it.  As huge flames leapt into the sky, we watched the models gradually crumple and disintegrate into cinders.

As we turned to return to the bar, we noticed a large marquee that had been erected in the square and, being inquisitive, I decided to take a look inside.  There was a stage at the far end, where a band had started tuning up, and a bar had been set up in the corner.  Other people started drifting in and they invited us to join them.  Soon the party was in full swing, with people of all ages dancing and having a good time.  Although they knew we weren’t locals, we were made to feel very welcome.  We practised our Spanish on them and they practised their English on us, with a lot of laughter and smiles.

Three hours later, having danced until we were exhausted, we left the locals to continue with their festivities and walked wearily back to our hotel. Cathy was surprised to see how tired we were at breakfast, until we told her about the party we had joined and which she had unfortunately missed.

 A couple of years ago we booked a holiday in Bilbao, so we checked the internet before we went to see if there would be any fiestas in the area while we were staying there.  We discovered that the pretty fishing village of Lekeitio was going to be holding a fiesta while we were there so we added it to our list of places to visit 

The bus to Lekeitio was packed, so obviously this was a popular event.  We could see that it was going to take place mainly around the sea front, so we decided to explore the rest of the village first before heading with the masses towards the harbour.

Lekeitio is a combination of traditional Basque mansions, fishermen’s houses and Gothic architectural gems such as the church of Santa María de la Asunción.  There are two lovely beaches overlooking the island of San Nicolás however John and I, with our love of clambering up steep hills, decided to head for the highest point of the village rather than going for a casual stroll along the beach.  There we were rewarded with magnificent views of the whole village, including the beaches and the harbour, which we could see was now packed with small boats.

We loved the whole carnival atmosphere when we eventually went down to the harbour: music was being played and both young children and old grannies were dancing in the street.  The main event though was rather gruesome from a British viewpoint.  We could see a goose hanging from a rope strung across the middle of the harbour, and we soon found out why it was there.  Before I continue I would like to reassure you that the geese being used were all dead, although we suspect that in the past it might have been different.

We could see dozens of boats bobbing up and down in the harbour, as the crews waited their turn.  Each team rowed towards the middle of the harbour, with one person standing in the stern of the boat.  The person at the back grabbed hold of the goose as the boat reached it and, as they did so, half a dozen strong men at the other end of the rope raced along the harbour side so that the goose swung high into the air, with somebody hanging on to its neck. The men holding the rope raced backwards and forwards, so the goose alternated between swinging high in the air and plunging towards the water, until either its neck broke or the person clinging onto it had fallen into the sea.

Whilst all this was going on, young men and women were jumping into the harbour fully clothed and then swimming out to join the boats.  I noticed a man swimming with one hand up in the air and realised, when he clambered aboard the boat, that he had been holding his cigarettes and matches.  Many of the boats were being loaded with crates of beer and bottles of wine, so obviously there was going to be a lot of partying later on.

After every team had taken its turn, there was a final race around the island between all the successful teams.  No doubt the party would be continuing until the small hours, however John and I had to make sure we caught the last bus back to Bilbao. 

I have to say that we had very mixed feelings about our experiences that day.  The carnival atmosphere had been great fun and we had enjoyed watching the boats racing round the island.  The local people were welcoming and were very friendly towards the strangers in their midst.  We had had a good time exploring what we imagined would be a rather quiet fishing village in normal circumstances and we would be happy to go there again.  The only negative side was witnessing what seemed to our eyes to be a rather barbaric spectacle, and we can only hope that one day the dead geese will be replaced.

We have never been to a bull fight and have no intention of doing so, even though we can appreciate that it would be a colourful and dramatic spectacle.  We have looked around bullrings and visited their museums, so we can understand the history behind bull fighting and admire the bravery of the matadors.  However I do feel that we are not in a position to criticise the Spanish love of bull fighting when you consider that, until recent years, it was acceptable in the UK for groups of riders and hounds to chase foxes and watch them being torn to pieces.  This of course is my personal, not exactly objective, opinion.

We love most Spanish traditions, and know that many fiestas have been going on for centuries, however some of them are now being adapted to suit modern sensibilities and are becoming more safety conscious. Hundreds of firemen are on stand by during Las Fallas, and ambulances are also ready in case of injuries or people fainting from sheer excitement. 

We witnessed a spectacular event in Mojacar Pueblo, where horsemen charged down the street with what appeared to be pencils in their hand.  No doubt they would have been carrying lances not that many years ago!  Clearly this has changed in recent years.

We arrived in Mojacar in time to witness all the drama.  A row of senoritas wearing beautiful traditional dresses, and of varying ages and sizes, had lined up on a balcony overlooking the street.  Down below, gallant horsemen took it in turns to charge down the street, with their “lance” in one hand, and attempted to spear on of the bright ribbons that had been hung on a line across the street. 

If they were successful, they reined in their horse, dismounted and went to present the ribbon to the senorita of their choice.  To do this, they had to clamber up a stepladder until they were level with the balcony and were then rewarded by being able to kiss the hand, or the cheek, of their chosen senorita as they handed her their ribbon.  It did occur to me that it would have been more romantic if the senoritas had let down their hair for the senor to climb up, or perhaps lowered a rope, rather than using a mundane stepladder.

At one stage, a particularly large and lively horse decided to back into the crowd.  Everybody moved out of its way quickly, and one small child started crying, however a couple of minutes later and the horse was under control so people moved forward again.  I must admit that I didn’t bother to fight my way back to the front, having seen the size of the next horse riding towards us.

Fiestas are often held in celebration of a local saint, and many of them will have strong religious overtones.  We watched a procession in Vera, where the statue of Christ was carried solemnly through the streets of the town, by a small group of men dressed in traditional thick costumes, that looked as if they must have been hot to wear on such a sunny day.  We followed the procession as they walked slowly around the town on what must have been an exhausting journey, dressed as they were and carrying what was obviously a very heavy statue. 

After they had eventually returned the statue to the church, the celebrations began, and we listened to the bands playing in the square for a while, before looking for somewhere to eat.  Most of the restaurants had set up bars outside, where they were serving food and drinks to the revellers, so we enjoyed a meal outside one of them before heading for the bus back to the coast.

In September last year we stayed for a couple of nights in Salou, after visiting the fascinating historic city of Tarragona.  On arrival in Salou, we visited the tourist office where we picked up a leaflet that gave details of a mediaeval procession that was taking place the following evening. 

According to the leaflet it was due to start from 8pm so we headed towards the castle just after eight, expecting to see the procession already coming towards us.  The streets had been closed off and policemen were standing there, but all the participants seemed to be hanging around chatting and smoking, with no signs of the parade starting. 

When the procession eventually set off, it was very impressive and worth waiting to see.  Damsels swirled around, holding hands, as they danced along the streets, drummers marched along as they beat their drums and there were even jugglers tossing flaming torches into the air and somehow managing to and catch them.  Once the procession had passed us, we slipped through the back streets to find the restaurant where we had gone earlier to book a table for dinner.  It was lucky that we had booked as it became very busy, with many of the participants, still in their costumes, coming in for something to eat as well as many spectators.

One fiesta that we have yet to experience, but which will soon be an annual event for us, is of course the unique Fiesta de Vendimia, celebrating the wine harvest in Jumilla, which has been declared to be of Regional Tourist Interest. 

We have been told that at the end of the festivities wine flows from the fountains, floats bearing wine pass along the main road, and onlookers have red wine thrown over them.  We have been advised to wear white clothes that we are happy to throw away afterwards, which by the sound of it is good advice.

There will be other fiestas for us to enjoy when we move to Jumilla, including the traditional Holy Week, Moors and Christians, plus various local fiestas in Jumilla.  Nearby Yecla celebrates the Fiesta de San Isidro in the middle of May, so that will also be marked on our calendar, as will the Feria de Septiembre en Murcia.  One thing is for sure, I don’t see John and I having time to get bored, once we are living in Jumilla.

 Key Points: ·        Spain is the land of fiestas, so before you visit a particular area, check on the internet as there is bound to be a fiesta that you can join in.·        If you want to go to a major fiesta such as Las Fallas in Valencia, book your hotel well in advance, as the hotels soon get fully booked and they will also get more expensive.·        Don’t worry about gate-crashing the party – the revellers will welcome you and you are bound to have a ball.·        Be aware that there may be customs that you don’t approve of, but you are a visitor so don’t be too critical.  You can always walk away.