Home again!

Love getting up in the morning.  Watching the surfers run into the waves as the sun rises.  We're so lucky!  

It's all Bull

Leaving Soubagnac was sad... but there was an air of excitement as I was returning to Pamplona after first visiting when I was 19 years old!  What to expect?  Well those of you who have read the earlier story will know that my first visit was pretty confused.  So here we are now, in five star and we fall in love with Pamplona's exuberance again. 

Pincho Maravilloso

After the wine and food of France... Spain greeted us with Pincho (tapas)...

At about 10pm... 

when the day has cooled there is nothing like a little feast of food and wine.

Wine Wine Wine - Just a bottle of wine

Thanks to Bernard Carney....
Maybe its a cheeky little chardonnay
With the lingering aromas of fresh mown hay
Passion and peach over citrus peel
Perfect thing to have with your pan fried veal
Its just a bottle of wine

Some people talk about their sauvignon blanc
Some people settle for a bottle of plonk
Some people talk about the noble rot
Some people talk about the cardboard box
Some people talk about the lees and phenolics
Some people reckon that it's a load of - -- bottles of wine

Heat and Lust

Its 7.30 am and I'm already hot. It’s my birthday and I’m grumpy.    I’ve just finished my first year at college and I’m hitchhiking through Europe with Kim, my American roommate.  Now Kim has the annoying habit of falling in love with the wrong person, at the wrong time, and it’s happened again!

I’m miserable as I trail behind her and ‘lover boy, Carlos’ looking for a cheap hostel.  We walk up steep cobbled streets, carrying our heavy rucksacks.  We were supposed to be heading to the sea, to San Sebastian.  I’ve been dreaming of white sands, blue sea and food!   But here I am in a small, hot Spanish town I’ve never heard of following the lustful Kim.   

I notice it’s unusually crowded and everyone seems to be rushing.  Very strange, especially in Spain at this time of morning.   But I’m too sulky to pay much attention.  I’m so busy muttering my resentments that I’m shocked when a dark, wiry haired guy shoots out of a doorway calling out “Carlos, Amigo! Where you been eh?”

He has a wine glass in one hand and a bleary smile welcomes us all.  Up the narrow stairs we go, into a small room crowded with people.  I‘ve hardly put my rucksack down when someone thrusts a glass of red wine in my hand.  As I turn to say hello, I hear the sound of a gun, a great roar and I’m swept stumbling out onto the verandah. 

I gasp, as I feel myself being crushed against the railings.  I hear shouting, “Toro, Toro, Toro!  Around the corner appear the noses of bulls dripping with snot.  Men dressed in white shirts and red kerchiefs are in amongst them.  It’s a blur of white and red.  Suddenly one of the men stumbles, his friend stops, his hand stretches out.  We all see the bull behind tossing its head; there is a groan and then frantic screaming. “Here!  Here! We screech.  

The men seem to run straight at the wall beneath us, their eyes bulge, their arms stretch out to us.  We all reach down, scrabbling to catch them.  I feel their hot sweaty hands slipping in mine.  I’m crushed from behind as arms reach over me to grab their shirts.  I feel as if my arms will be pulled out of my sockets.   It’s unbearable… and then its over!  There they are, over the verandah Panting! Laughing! Boastful! Adrenaline flowing in all of us, a great cheer goes up!  Wine flagons appear and the celebrations begin... and that's how I celebrated my  19^th birthday, over forty years ago,  at the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona!

By the next day Kim’s passionate love affair was over and so we left.  Its only now, all these years later that I read about what actually happened that day, and I can really appreciate how lucky we and those guys were.

Extract 

July, 1969 

Hilario PARDO SIMÓN
(45 años, Murchante, Navarra)
Alcanzado en la Cuesta de Sto. Domingo
Astado de Salvador Guardiola Fantoni: 

"Reprochado"

"The bull-run turned dangerous from the first moment as one of the bulls unexpectedly charged forward and outpaced the rest of the pack and was at the heels of the runners who were struggling to get away from it. Many of them pinned themselves against the long wall of the Military Hospital or, having lost their balance, lay stretched-out immobile on the pavement where they had fallen. 

Many of the runners turned to the right where there was some space available at the slope leading towards the Museum of Navarra.

"Reprochado" - for that was the name of the bull - followed those runners to the right and gored one, Gregorio Z.J., in the stomach with a tremendous butt of its horns. This runner would eventually recover from his wound, but a second runner was then immediately charged by the bull and this time it was a fatal charge for the runner had fallen to the ground - a man called Hilario Pardo- and he was caught in a fatal zig-zag attack where the bull swung first with his right horn and followed up with a blow from his left horn, which left the corpse gushing blood all over the pavement 

The subsequent photos revealed that the wounded man received the first goring and that the mortal victim was then attacked - contrary to what the crowd thought at the time where they thought the dead man had been attacked first."

Gruesome!

Bon Anniversaire

Venez, venez, vite” Jeanne thrusts the phone into my hand.  “Allemand” she says.  “Je ne peux pas le comprendre“.  I get it. There’s Germans on the phone and she can’t understand them.  As I take the phone, I panic thinking, I can’t speak German.  “Hello” I say hesitantly.  “Oh hi, you speak English, great!  We’re lost, how do we get to your place?”  We are in a tiny mountain village, St Paul D’Oeuil in the South of France. 

It’s my birthday!  That morning, as dawn broke, we set off to do a walk in Luchon.  Now one thing we’ve never got the hang of in France, is managing to arrive anywhere at the right time.  We always find ourselves in a delightful village when all the shops are closed or at the bottom of a mountain with no telecabines working. It looks as if we have done it again.  Our ‘French Dilemma’ we call the time between twelvish and twoish when everything closes. 

Our plans to buy the newspaper, have a leisurely coffee and then head up the mountain are abandoned. Instead we hastily pack lunch into a backpack and leap onto the telecabine, with two minutes to spare before it closed.

We have no idea what is at the top of the mountain.  We see mountain bikers hurtling down the bottom slopes and so assume, oh so wrongly, that it’s not very high.  The telecabine, swings its way upwards.  Just as I think we've reached the top it lurches onto a new system and up we go again.  By the third steep ascent we are surrounded by cloud and I am looking doubtfully at my shorts!

It is magical, mysterious and cold.  Far below is a town milling with tourists blissfully enjoying 35 degrees.  We've entered a whole new mystical world, tranquil and cool.  Clouds swirl by, one minute offering a tantalizing view of snowy peaks and the next an eerie misty curtain.

We discover a huge hotel, ski lodge and a couple of bars.  Ah!  “Une Grande Crème and une noisette s’il vous plait.” There are deckchairs arranged to take full advantage of the now non existent view.  I find myself giggling, it’s really crazy.  

We decide not to be put off by the fact that there is no view and that we don’t have a clue where we're going.  The path looks clear.  After a few moments we hear a strange sort of grunting noise.  

A family looms into view.  It’s bizarre!  They're English and they are trying to fly a kite.  No wind and on the sheltered side of the ridge, but still they persevere. 

We have lunch, we watch the cows and they watch us!

Finally the cloud becomes lighter, the sky blue and the whole vista is before us. 

We walk for a couple of hours, loving every minute.  Our trip back down is just terrifying as now we can see clearly just how high we are and what a steep descent it is.  Phew!

               

An effusive welcome greets us at Maison Jeanne. We love the lovely stone cottage and huge flowering garden and we love Madame Jeanne.  In minutes our bottle of champagne is on ice and we are enjoying a shower. When we venture down the creaky old stairs “Bif", the dog, comes bounding up to greet us.

Jeanne has set up a table in the garden with flowers and little bowls of goodies.  She's also booked us a table for dinner at the next village and scoffs at our caution at drinking and driving!

Just as we settle down to relax  Jeanne comes running into the garden with her "German" problem and hugs me effusively after I have finished on the phone.

Within minutes they arrive.  They eye our champagne and yummies but before we can say "Come and join us", Jeanne has whisked them away to their room.  She comes back 'tut tutting'  

"No don't share with them." She sniffs, obviously NOT her favourite people.

A few minutes later, Bruno comes rushing anxiously into the garden, explaining  "My wife who is hungry, must eat NOW!"  I tell him we're going to a restaurant in the next village.  He nods his head, turns and rushes away.  We see him usher a distracted looking woman into a flashy sportscar and they roar off... in the wrong direction.

We settle down once more to our champagne only to be interrupted by Madame Jeanne who respectfully introduces us to Pierre (from Paris in a whisper).  He is very suave and gently nods his head in greeting.

He nods, approvingly at our choice of champagne. We laugh and tell him that it's my birthday.  "And where will you eat tonight." He asks.  We look to Madame Jeanne who in a painfully small voice gives the name of the restaurant.  He's horrified.  "Non, this cannot be!"  He sends Madame Jeanne off to find the telephone directory (well it is France!) and within moments he has booked us into "a superb" restaurant only moments away.  At this point the German couple return looking flustered.  No they couldn't find the restaurant.  Pierre smoothly tells them he will book them into a "superb" restaurant.  "No! No!" Bruno exclaims almost angrily, "We must eat now, my wife she is hungry!"  

We leave them to it. We go upstairs to get our things and by the time we return the convoy of cars awaits us.  Madame Jeanne anxiously bids us all "Bon Soir" and we are off.  What a trip it is!  We squeal around corners, take sharp right hand turns up the mountain and then hurtle down again.  After about fifteen minutes we start to climb up, and up and up.  As the road climbs the road narrows and the few lights of civilisation are left behind.  

We are there!  A tiny doorway leads us into 'La Ferme d'Espiau" A rustic restaurant where the waiters greet us enthusiastically - especially Pierre de Paris.  I'm starting to wonder if he owns the place!

Not too many people, but I guess that road would put anyone off!  Bruno and "my wife who is hungry" have disappeared and don't return until half way through the meal.


We're seated, wine is served, as is a wonderful soup with crispy French bread. Pierre comes over to recommend the "Cote du Boeuf" but I'm well satisfied with local mountain trout.   When Pierre's beef arrives - its  huge chunks of bone with rare meat overlapping the the plate, so we smiled at our good choice.  (Tried to get a surreptitious photo).

The meal is great fun, the Germans eventually join us as do the waiters and Pierre (briefly).  A great night to remember - but we never did learn the name of "My wife who is hungry!" 

The frozen peas are slipping

The frozen peas are slipping, I juggle them to ease frostbite.  The baguette is getting squished and I am regretting buying a sack of potatoes.  Why didn’t I pick up a basket as I came in?  The supermarket queue stretches before me.  It hasn’t moved for at least ten minutes.  “Bonjour m’sieur.”  The words drift back along the queue. We hear about the weather, the harvest, the price of fish, until at last the goods are stored in the basket.  Now begins the cheque book fumble… yes a cheque book.  The elderly man at the front of the queue, slowly and quietly checks every pocket until with a flourish he presents his checkbook to be filled in by a smiling assistant.

The people in the queue smile as he checks each item and the total.  Finally he signs the cheque and hands it back.  There are more “Au revoirs M’sieur” and an exchange of “Bonne Journees” and then it is on to the next person in the queue.

This time an elderly lady, I watch as they go the same procedure, the only difference being the three quick kisses on each cheek.

I just don’t get it!  How can the French be so chilled out?  I put my now warm peas on the counter, smile in response to the “Bonjour Madame” and proceed to chat about the weather, the harvest and oh yes the price of fish… “Il est terrible!”