Saturday 5th July - Pamplona, San Fermin Festival

Saturday 5th July

Biarritz would prove to be our last destination in France (for the time being) as we crossed the border into Spain on Saturday morning along the N10 towards Irun and San Sebastian. We had no trouble making the crossing and it was surprising to see that even when we were as much as 100 metres into the land of Paella, that there were absolutely no cars with French marked number plates. Everything immediately looked very Spanish; the chubby builders, dodgy hairstyles, and of course the ‘100 metre sprint style’ language. It was a shame to be leaving France in a way - it had treated us well. It is clearly very set out for Motorhomer’s, what with their Aires and so forth, and the people just seemed very open to us at all times.

We had known even before out trip that the San Fermin festival began on the 6th of July in Pamplona and we were heading in that general direction ever since leaving Paris. I was looking forward to experiencing the festival atmosphere (which lasts for 10 days where apparently everyone just has a huge holiday and does nothing else but get drunk and dance in the streets - which sounded appealing to me), however I was not looking forward to the cruelty and the actual tradition of San Fermin.

I watched some Bull fighting on TV about 2 years ago and was sickened by what I saw, and I knew that this festival was all based on the running and then fighting of the bulls. I had to bite my tongue and get on with it. “It’s tradition!’ I kept being told…

Anyway, we arrived in Pamplona early morning and found another perfect spot right in the town centre, where we started a bit of a trend and around 7 other Motor homes ended up. We have had very little trouble finding places to park so far, even if they aren’t official Motor home stop over points. We took a walk into the old town (Casco Antiguo) and even though the festival didn’t start until the next day the atmosphere was already building. There were thousands of people walking around all wearing exactly the same thing (white trousers, white shirts and a red neckerchief), people were drinking large bottles of San Miguel in the streets and people were in high spirits. Dotted all over town are photos of the festivals of years gone by, photos of bulls chasing crazy blokes down a small alley way and some people being thrown up in the air - I had no sympathy for them what so ever.

Although I was walking around saddened by the thought of the cruelty, I was getting sucked in by the enthusiasm of the Pamplona people and I was starting to look forward to the next few days of dancing and drinking. After a few drinks, my anxiety had all but disappeared and we danced to a drumming band for hours in the rainy streets, with thunder and lighting going off above our heads, silenced by the music and shouting. It was a sight to behold, it really was, and at one stage I was thinking “I’m not sure if I’ve ever been happier than I was at this very moment”. It was a perfect night, strangers were dancing with each other, the locals embraced us as foreigners and often wished us a “Feliz San Fermin!” and even the homeless were jolly. Roll on Sunday - where it all properly kicked off!

Sunday 6th July

We had been told by a few locals to arrive in the centre of Pamplona no later than 10 o clock, if we wanted to be in the Plaza Consistorial at midday where the festival was officially opened. We arrived at 9.30am and it was already very busy and the people were already tipsy. One thing I had noticed that this was not just a festival for the very young and lively, people of all ages were enjoying the festivities which was nice to see. We took a walk around the Plaza Del Castillo and then the route of the running itself and I found myself being more and more drawn into the spirit of San Fermin. There was always this feeling of doubt in the back of my mind though.
We headed back to the Plaza Consistorial at 10.15 and by this time it was heaving. We had to squeeze through everyone to get roughly to the centre in front of the Town Hall which was beautifully decorated with Spanish Flags and other patterned banners. By 11am you could hardly move. There was shouting, bouncing, pushing - it was manic - and this was certainly not for the faint hearted. I’d noticed that by this time only young people had remained, I guessed it was going to get worse.

It did. By 11.30am it was complete chaos. I’m not sure how many, but there were certainly hundreds upon thousands of festival goers squeezed into one small square, and this left to mass pushing which resembled a riot. It was impossible to fall over however, because as soon as you’d start to lose your balance you would just be resting on someone else and them the same and so on and so on. You couldn’t even lift your arms up, it was that tight. By 12 o clock, the festival was started by the mayor of Pamplona and everyone lifted up their red scarves like you see in the pictures and there was lots of shouting and singing. It was also very political as the whole of the Basque region is fighting for independence, so at times it turned a little nasty, but it didn’t mare the general feeling of delight among the Spanish, Americans, British and huge amounts of Australians who attended.

We met two Spanish guys who had studied in Southampton a few years ago and so we got talking to them for a few hours, it was very civilised indeed. The rest of the day was a blur of more dancing, more drinking and more talking nonsense to locals and vice versa. We didn’t go back to the motor home for sleep until 5.30am. Ouch.

Monday 7th July

Two hours kip and we were up to go into Casco Antiguo for the actual running of the bulls. Mike was well into it all, he was going to run it himself. I certainly was not, for two reasons 1) Because I treasured my life too much to put it at risk for one small event and 2) Because I was still very much against the idea anyway.

Mike was too late to run, by 7.45am the route was shut off completely by the authorities ready for the 8am running. The atmosphere was just amazing, even I was excited. I’m such a hypocrite, but I couldn’t help but feel drawn into it all. Mike went running off elsewhere to try and jump onto the course and I stayed behind, and climbed half way up a building on one of the side streets to try and catch a glimpse of the events - like hundreds of others did too. All I saw was heads going past for about 5 minutes, and suddenly it was all over. Everyone around me was asking “Is that it?”… what an anti climax! A few heads bobbing up and down, and few rounds of applause and that was indeed it! I saw more action watching the replays in the television of a local bar. Even though I saw very little of the action itself, my adrenaline was pumping faster than ever just because of the buzz of the people, and I hadn’t even ran the damn thing!
On the TV though I saw a few bulls falling over, and not being able to get back up along the cobbled streets. I saw some people teasing them and such like. At this point my heart really sunk. I felt sick watching those poor animals going through absolute hell and needless frustration. They have absolutely no idea what they are doing there or why they are here. One minute ago they were happy somewhere quiet and just living their normal bull-like life, and then the next they are thrust in front of thousands of people screaming and shouting and flashing red scarves in their faces. At that point it really hit me of how sad all this was, and it was time to leave Pamplona.

I left with very mixed feelings. On one hand I’d had the best few days of my life partying and taking in the sights, but on the other hand I’d seen in person the thing I stand so firmly against.
The overall feeling of Pamplona though was one of brilliance… I loved the city and the people and will probably return one day.