Stories About The Fiesta
There are a lot of stories about the fietsa which help give you a flavour of what happens. Many of these have appeared in the No Bullshit Pamplona Fanzine. Many of these stories take an 'Off the wall' view about the fiesta and what happens there. All of them are written by guys who have been to the fiesta and who know what it feels like to be at the best party in the world. I hope that some of the fun that they have had at the San Fermin Fiesta passes on through their stories. Some are funny, some are sad, but they do show what the fiesta means to many people from around the worls. I would like to thank all of those who have sent me their stories and please, please, please.... keep them coming.
Bullish on Pamplona
by Charles Leocha
Sometimes travellers wander into cities by accident. But I know exactly why I came to Pamplona that first year. I came to run the bulls.
I drove for two days to see if the fiesta was as wild as James Michener made it sound in his chapter set in Pamplona during San Fermin in “The Drifters.”
The Running of the Bulls, as we Americans know it, or Fiesta de San Fermin, as it is known throughout Spain, lived up to every description and much more — more than I could even imagine. This town, at the foothills of the Pyrenees, for eight or ten days in July (depending on how you counted … and how long you lasted) became the center of the let-it-all-hang-out, free-love lifestyle of the 60s and 70s.
Every day we lived life to its fullest. Rough red country wine alternating with champagne passed from reveler to reveler in bottles and botas. Streets and plazas were packed shoulder-to-shoulder with nonstop dancers swaying behind peņa bands at every hour in darkness or in the harsh light of day.
In bars, eyes would meet across the room; lips formed words impossible to hear over the din but clearly understood; and one-time strangers found themselves arm in arm embracing momentary best friends and possibly, new lovers.
Every morning we faced death. We gathered in the narrow streets and waited to sprint in front of six half-ton fighting bulls and seven steers barreling up the cobblestones at 8 o’clock on their way to the arena and their destiny.
On my first morning in the streets, I didn’t even know what direction the bulls would come from. I quickly figured it out. Diving down to the sidewalk and only getting up when a Spaniard tapped me on the shoulder, I never felt so good for having been missed.
Pamplona was a perfect balance of unvarnished life and possible death. Lifetimes were lived in hours. Inhibitions fell to the wayside. Smiling was the only way of life. For my days there, this was life in another world.
But that was 26 years ago. That was in the days of bellbottoms. That was immediate post-Vietnam. That was post-pill, but pre-AIDS. That was under the rule of Franco.
The biggest surprise is that today, Pamplona during San Fermin is still much the same. Amazing but true, the essence of the fiesta hasn’t changed. The Pamplona of Hemingway in the 30s and that of Michner in the 60s and the fiesta that we find in the early 2000s are still the ultimate celebration of life.
Chance meetings still grow into lifelong friendships. Eyes still meet slowly across crowded rooms. Dancing crowds follow peņa bands, still playing those same fiesta songs, down centuries-old narrow streets. Sleep is still at a premium. Thousands still dare death each morning. And that feeling of having defied death still makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck.
The youthful stupor of too much rough wine has been replaced by the pleasant sustained buzz of just enough Rioja wine. I don’t camp out anymore — I rent an apartment. I make sure to eat at least two good meals a day. But I still dance in the streets, still get far too little sleep and still find my way into the streets every morning and wait uncertainly for that sure adrenaline rush as wild bulls race my way.
Why do I go back to Pamplona year after year?
Bullfights can be found in scores of other Spanish towns and processions are a way of life in Spain. People dance everywhere and bands play throughout the world. But in this fortress city in the foothills of the Pyrenees, these elements combine with the diverse personalities of people from across the world to create an addictive atmosphere.
The magic of this fiesta is the virtual suspension of time combined with a chance to live life minute-by-minute once one is swept into the unique world of Fiesta. It is this altered state that makes this festival truly unique and why I return religiously.
San Fermin still has the ability, unique in the world, to concentrate a lifetime into minutes. Here we focus on what is important in the moment. In this modern world, it is a rare experience.
Come to Fiesta in Pamplona for more than a couple of days. If you come for only a couple of days, you have merely a chance to observe the festivities. You need more time to let the noise from the outside world leave you. Only then can you become part of the celebration and wallow in the wonderful fiesta amity. The difference between observing happiness and abandoning yourself to joy is life-changing.
As a dark-haired Spanish girl once told me more than twenty something years ago, “Pamplona and San Fermin can not be explained, they can only be experienced.”
I believe that San Fermin in Pamplona is still one of the few places in the world that makes it easy to take that step, year after year, from restrained spectator to total participant.
By Victor Ladorum
It was a BRISK MORNING, the weather chilly, men jumping anxiously around, chitter chatter everywhere, a faint smell of fear in the air. So this was it, Pamplona. – the running of the bulls. I studied this course, prepared as well but there was a distinct feeling of confusion. I felt good I thought as good as I could under the circumstances. There was the usual sizing up of the participants, some you could tell have done this more than once, others the first time and some you just knew would bail out the last minute. The question was would I bail out, would I perform well – would I die. Yes the thought of death was a real thought. I know – the stats indicate a near impossibility but nonetheless a possibility.
In the background despite all the noise, I could hear the Eminem song:
Look, if you had one shot, one opportunity
To seize everything you ever wanted-One moment
Would you capture it or just let it slip?
His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy
There's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti
He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready……………………
And all I thought I was going to do was run fast - as fast as I could!!!
So it is safe to say a lot goes through your mind, and that is how my love affair with this insane ritual began. I started to think of what was important in my life. For about 10 minutes I was in deep thought- not scared mind you- but in deep thought. I started to realize what was important in my life, who was important, who I loved, what foods did I love and what fun it would be to do this. The more I thought the more random the thoughts. Could it be the crazy drinks in Pamplona having a delayed effect? The spicy chorizo or the traumatic effects of meeting a peculiar Scot named Graeme Galloway…….
I’ve met a lot of interesting people in my life but nothing prepared me for this. He has a presence of a Victorian actor gone insane. A bellowing laugh and a charismatic way of making the most mundane conversation seem interesting. Who is this man and did he become this way because he’s been running encierros for 25 years? If these are the after effects perhaps I should bail.
Regardless, Like a Barry Bonds home run sound, some idiot lights a bottle rocket and the whole place goes mad, people are running everywhere- it is a riot!!! Now I’m scared. Then someone else sets off another rocket the place is pure pandemonium – people are running for their lives. I’m thinking Jesus ETA is doing a terrorist act! I’m now absolutely petrified that I’ll get trampled over.
How embarrassing is that I thought – boy gets trampled in pre run riot. While the thought was finishing – another college student passes me- nothing different here except he decides to vomit on me. Yes vomit – he is scared shitless and he is drunk to boot. He is vomiting uncontrollably, I look up and three Spanish guys who seem cool as cucumbers are laughing at him. I was appalled. I tried to help the kid but people started stepping over him. I said to myself when this over I’m leaving Pamplona what terrible people are here. Needless to say, the crowds of people continue to ramble on wildly. I couldn’t take it anymore. I scream out loud, “WHY ARE THESE PEOPLE RUNNING LIKE SCARED IDIOTS?!?!?!?!!?”
Then some guy with what appeared a Southern accent says to me, “Son the bulls are coming - no time to act silly.” Silly? I was insulted.” WHAT?” I say to him – I thought they announced it on a loudspeaker. He looks at me with disgust and says. “Either go down on the floor and curl into a ball right now or run underneath that barrier- you shouldn’t be here.” Well before I could mutter a Fuck You to him – I hear Spanish men running in white shirts shouting Toro Toro Toro!!!
Instead of Bulls I’m thinking Pearl Harbor. This is crazy but what is crazier is that I’m now gone from mad to sick – I feel like I need to get sick. Then before I could lower my head a wave of people push me into the barriers. I thought I was hit unconscious I started to hear bells – then I look up and there is this big white elephant looking bull squaring down for me. I couldn’t run and I closed my eyes. Yes I froze. I was like the song, “Palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy” But before I could wince in pain someone grabs me from behind the barrier and pulls me in. I feel this terrible thud – Oh shit – I’ve been gored. Jesus sweet Jesus I’ve been hit. Is this what it feels to be gored. I look up to see the predator – and it is a man wearing a red uniform screaming obscenities to me in Spanish. “Bouta Madicoon.” “Fuck You” I say, “I’m no raccoon” Then these other people are screaming at me too. I was in a state of shock. Where is the love ? I’ve been gored and people are yelling at me.
Having regained my senses for a second, it happened again I noticed 2 Spaniards laughing. Except this time at me. I turned around and another Spaniard was smiling, he said, “They are laughing because you think you’ve been gored” “But I am”, I proclaimed, “Look at this welt!”
The Spaniard looked at me and said with a straight face, “That welt is from the policeman hitting you with the baton” – that was after he saved your life”
I went from angry to embarrassed in one breath. What a loser I am.
I walked backed to the bar area about to order a stiff drink when I heard that strange Southern accent again, “Hey brother I hear you got gored by a policeman” – I smiled embarrassingly. He said, “Jack Daniels always works for me. This one is on me. We’ll get ‘em tomorrow.”
It was then that I knew where the love was.
Viva San Fermin!
Overcrowding In The Bull Run
By Giser Break
The problem of overcrowding in the Bull run has been getting worse and worse over the last ten years, however this is not a new problem even in the 1980’s people were suggesting that they might have to licence runners. Earlier this year there was an article in the local paper suggesting that one way of limiting numbers was to insist only those wearing the traditional red and whites could participate. This might have the desired effect of limiting the number of runners for a while and it would certainly boost the takings of the local clothes shops. In fact you can just see the old ladies and young boys with their newspaper carts at 7.00 am starting up a sideline in white shirts and trouser. It would also mean that many of us would have to throw away some of our favourite running shirts especially some of the more garish ones. Problems might also occur on suits day, unless I suppose everyone wore a white suit like Joe Disler.
What I have noticed in recent years is that the police are being more proactive in throwing people out of the run for carrying cameras, being a bit drunk, not having a shirt on, carrying a bag and other related offences. This does cut out some of the numbers, and the idea of clearing the top half of the course, has been working tremendously well over many, many years and has the effect of preventing hundreds of first timers crowding the last stretch of the run. Many runners now even think of leaving the weekend runs to the crowds, but the true addicts just grin and bear it. No doubt that the media in general gets a lot of the blame for publicising the event and thus attracting the crowds. However if one was to go down that street we would have to start with Hemingway and Mitchener, the two guys who have most influenced young people to run with the bulls through their writing. It would be true to say that certain parts of the media that have in the past presented articles and programmes about the fiesta and the bull run which have been poorly researched and can be dangerously misleading. But that is journalism; never lets the facts get in the way of a good story!
I think that the fashion police idea, just like the licences will never come to fruition. However it is not just the run that is becoming overcrowded but the whole of the fiesta is being swamped with people, especially for the first few days and for the weekends. There are a number of factors that cause this; the Aussie tour companies want to use their buses as much as possible in the Summer so they push the idea of the fiesta being just the 6th,7th,8th and 9th. Many of these type of visitors go for the madness of the first few days, and many of them don’t even realise the fiesta goes on until the 14th. To them it is not the Txupinazo it is just ‘the big food fight’. Still everybody is entitled to go to the fiesta and make their own party!
My own radical solution to the overcrowding of both the fiesta and the runs is to put on a second ‘Big Food Fight’/Txupinazo during the normally quiet 11th, 12thor 13th in order to spread the crowds out more evenly. The local authorities could even truck in a load of tomatoes and stage an alternative Tomitina. Over the years this would spread the visitors out more evenly throughout the 9 days and hence the number of runners each day would be of a more even spread. Yes there would still be the problem of the weekends, when the whole town is over run by the hordes of French who pour over the border, but perhaps we could just tell them to…. Fuck off back to France!
THE DAY I RAN WITH MATT CARNEY
BY LEROY
Matt Carney was a passionate man, passionate about life, passionate about women, passionate about singing, passionate about philosophy, and passionate about bulls. More specifically; passionate about running with the bulls.
I had been running for three years and I had developed a few techniques that allowed me to actually get close enough to the bulls to run with them, but I wanted to run like Matt. Matt ran like he was supernatural; with a steady long stride he never seemed hurried or frantic. He seemed to float a few inches above the cobblestones as if riding a magic carpet. Every run he floated through the mass of runners and drifted along in the bow wake of the rushing herd. Quite often Matt would melt into the herd, letting horns pass within a hands breadth of his body until he became part of the herd, anticipating every manoeuvre, every change with the same innate sense as a fighting bull. Matt always did this with a smile on his face; a smile that radiated serenity. Anyone looking at Matt’s face during an encierro could tell he was on a different plane of consciousness. He was wrapped in an experience that gave him total contentment. He was one with the bulls. I wanted to be like Matt I wanted to take the thing I most loved, the best seven days of my year, to a higher level. I wanted to run like Matt.
Fleetwood Mac “Dreams”…Bob Seagar “Night Moves”…Rod Stewart “Tonight’s the Night”…Queen “We are the Champions,” were the top songs. Star Wars, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, The Good Bye Girl and Annie Hall topped the movie charts. A.J. Floyt won the Indy 500, Niki Lauda was top in Formula 1 and Cale Yarborough won the NASCAR championship. It was the Queen of England’s Silver Jubilee, Bernard Theveney won the Tour de France, The Yankees beat the Dodgers in the Word Series, Oakland wiped out Minnesota in the Super Bowl, Pele played his last game and Elvis died. The year was 1977.
Matt was 55 years old that year. I had seen him run the three previous years but we had never talked. Although Matt was very approachable it was difficult for me. It was like approaching a great sports star and I was nothing more than a lowly fan. “I understand you live on the Costa Del Sol, lad. My friend John Fulton lives there as well. Fulton is fighting a seed bull as part of the mid-afternoon entertainment in the bull ring, why don’t you join us?” Those were Matt’s first words to me. I thanked him and told him I wouldn’t miss it for the world. When I arrived at the bullring Matt was already there with a group of people who later became some of my closest friends. Matt motioned for me to come and sit down; he had saved me a seat right next to him. I got to know Matt sitting under the hot Spanish sun drinking sangria, smoking cigars and watching the once in a lifetime spectacle that afternoon. John Fulton’s performance was adequate or at least that was the opinion of our group of aficionados. Not being an aficionado I wouldn’t have known adequate from incompetent, but even to me it became evident that the other Matador that afternoon was incompetent - a female South American Matador who couldn’t kill the bull. After three attempts and with tears running down her face she left the ring; the bull was dispatched by a man. Ironically, years later, the only bullfight I ever attended in Cartagena Columbia featured this same female Matador and on that day she was magnificent. She cut two ears and was carried from the ring on the shoulders of admirers. But this afternoon her performance left a kind of melancholy over our group.
As the crowd started to file out of the bullring that afternoon I screwed up my courage and grabbed Matt by the arm and said “Matt can I run with you tomorrow?” Matt stopped, turned and looked at me with that smile on his lips and said, “The encierro is a Mano y Mano experience but I’ve seen you run and you are learning. There’s a group of very experienced runners that run Telefonos every day and there is a lot to be learned there…I’ll look for you in the morning.” I was excited. I was going to run with the master. The night past in a blur and before I knew it I was standing in front of the Ayuntamiento looking up at the last tick of the clock. When the rocket went off I ran like a Valiente until I got to the top of Estafeta where I ducked into a doorway and let the crowd run by. I looked around for Matt and spotted him right in the middle of the street jumping up and down trying to see over the heads of the on coming crowd, trying to spot the lead bull. Right in the middle of this chaos Matt looked over at me standing in the doorway, smiled and touched two fingers to the side of his head as if tipping his hat and then resumed his hopping. I didn’t plan it but when I saw Matt turn and run I knew it was time to go. I broke from the doorway and headed for the middle of the street but I stumbled over a fallen runner and almost fell myself. Regaining my balance I saw Matt was already several yards up the street and the lead bull was right behind him. As I ran I saw several of the bulls were already past, but the rest were just now reaching the top of Estafeta. My timing was perfect. I sailed into the of the middle of the street in full stride right behind the first bunch of bulls and right in front of the second bunch. I was in the middle of the herd. I tried to think and run like Matt. I smiled, I moderated my speed to that of the herd and I started to feel the serenity of the animals running in a herd. Then I was on the ground. I don’t know what tripped me, but by the time I regained my feet the bulls were past. Adrenaline kept me running behind them and as I got closer I saw Matt fly into the air. He was in a very strange position with his knee in his face and his arms flung out to his sides. Like slow motion in the next frame of my vision, I saw the bulls neck and head high above the herd, the left horn imbedded deep in the back of Matt’s thigh. The bull’s head came back down but Matt soared higher; he hit the ground near the fence. I ran toward that spot, but suddenly, between Matt and me, was a bull standing sideways in the street. Standing in front of that bull, eye to eye, was Joe Distler. I couldn’t do anything but make Joe’s situation worse so I broke across the flood of runners toward the barricade on the opposite side of the street. By the time I got to the far side of the street and fought my way back through the crowd to Matt’s side I was nearly at the tunnel. Struggling up stream against the crowd of runners was slow going and by the time I got to the section of fence I had marked as Matt’s location he was gone.
The next day I went to the hospital. Although the horn had nearly pasted completely through his thigh Matt was in incredibly good spirits. I had brought wine, brandy and food but Matt spent most of my visit explaining his philosophy about injuries. He wouldn’t eat and he would only drink water. His explanation was that all his body’s forces should be concentrated on healing his injury and the less spent on normal bodily functions the better. He also said with minimal physical exertion more of his body’s strength could be concentrated on healing. After explaining to me, that the body is in a perfect state of rest while asleep I got the message and cut my visit short to let him get back to sleep and healing.
I didn’t see Matt again until the last night of the Feria. I was sitting in the gutter in front of Marcelianos feeling sorry for myself; the festival was over and I was broke. I had flown into Amsterdam and had no money to get back there for my return flight. I speculated that if I got to Paris I could hitch a ride on the “Magic Bus” that made the twice-weekly run between Pairs and Amsterdam. I knew Greg Williams, the owner of the Magic Bus Company, and had even driven a bus for him. Surely he wouldn’t begrudge me a free ride.
Over riding all of my self “poor, poor pitiful me” sorrows was hunger. I had spent the last of my money on brandy and hadn’t eaten anything for days. Through the open balcony windows I could hear a dinner party going on upstairs. I hadn’t been invited but I knew several members of the dinner party and I’m sure I could have crashed it but with no money it was out of the question. I sat there listing to the laughter and the clinking of silver ware and felt sorry for myself. Just as I had it all worked out in my mind which route I would walk through town to get to the highway to France and start hitch hiking Matt walked through the door of Marcelianos into the street. I knew the gore wound must have made it very difficult for him to walk but he showed no signs of it. He had something wrapped in a napkin in one hand and a half bottle of wine in the other. “You look hungry lad.” Matt said as he handed me the napkin and the bottle of wine. “Thanks” I said as I ripped the napkin apart to stare at the most beautiful bull stew sandwich I have ever seen.
One of Marcelianos big dinner rolls split into and filled with a half plate of bull stew. Lots of big chunks of bull meat, plenty of onions and potatoes and gravy soaking through the hard roll; it was perfect, perhaps the best sandwich I have ever eaten. Matt said, “I understand you are looking for a ride to Paris.” “Yep, sure am.” I replied. “Can you drive a stick shift?” Matt asked. “No problem,” was my reply. “If you can drive my MG and give me a ride to my apartment in Paris I would be grateful. If you can be ready to go in an hour I’ll meet you back here,” he said. “I’ll be right here,” was my reply. The drive to Paris in 1977 was far different than the same drive today, however it’s still just a drive and driving in Europe was something I was good at.
I had been to Paris several times, but it was the first time I’d ever been to the Astrolabe section of the city. Matt’s apartment was on the upper floor of an old Parisian open courtyard apartment block. We arrived in the late afternoon and I was introduced to several of Matt’s neighbours as we climbed the steps to his apartment. I was impressed with the simplicity of Matt’s life. It was a small apartment with only the necessities of life. Like a monk’s cell it had had what was needed, but no luxuries. Matt Carney was a prolific writer and looking around his apartment it appeared his only other activity was making glasses out of wine bottles with a tool kit I had seen advertised on American TV for $19.95. Matt scored the thick glass around a French wine bottle and then with a steel ball on the end of a heavy wire he tapped the cut all the way around the inside of the bottle until it cracked and presto, after dressing the sharp edge, you have a wonderful heavy glass tumbler. I still have the one Matt gave me sitting on a shelf with his novels. Besides his two novels “Run Out of Time” and “Peripheral American” Matt published several smaller books of stories and poetry. His apartment appeared to be the apartment of a writer.
Shortly after arriving Matt said he must leave and not to worry if he wasn’t back until tomorrow. It was not my place to question so I wished him well. Just before he closed the door Matt turned and looked at me and said, “Thanks for driving. I can tell you have the spirit of San Fermin. You know it is the most important annual event of my life and I celebrate it in my own way. You should think about it and make it your own with your own celebration. See you tomorrow.” When he closed the door it was like a door closing on my previous life; now it was a brand new world. I thought about what Matt had said until sleep stilled my over active mind. When I woke the next morning I shaved my beard. Not an earth shattering commitment but a personally meaningful commitment. Shave once a year and face the next twelve months waiting for Pamplona and judging elapsed time by the length of my beard. Not earth shattering but it was my first step into the philosophy of Matt Carney.
After that trip to Paris the entire complexion of Pamplona changed for me. I would see Matt occasionally during Feria but as soon as the festival was over I would head to Villeraze, Matt’s villa in the French Pyrenees. I even spent part of my honeymoon in Villeraze. The time I spent at Villeraze was like living in a parallel universe. Although Matt was closer to my father’s age than mine he spoke about things my father would never have spoken of. Talking to Matt was like a mind-expanding drug; suddenly your mind was full of new ideas. Matt was more than human; his aura, his corona, his very being was close to divine. I don’t know if Matt was all seeing and all knowing but I do know the time I spent in Villeraze was like time spent in a Himalayan Temple.
Villeraze is north of Barcelona, in the first valley of the Pyrenees after crossing the French border. Once you turn into the valley you gradually gain altitude and follow a two-lane road that has increasingly steep roadside drop offs. The road climbs through little French villages and winds between ancient tumble down castles and hilltop stone outposts. You can hear 2000 years of ghosts whispering on the wind as you climb higher and higher. Suddenly there is a one-lane goat track disappearing around the side of a small hill; at the end of this trail lay the remains of a castle that was once a commanding edifice. The valley narrows at Villeraze and the position of the castle controlled all egress and ingress to the upper wine-producing portion of the valley. My best guess is that the castle’s remains were only about 25% or less of its original size and height. Matt had restored what he could, modified what he had to, and the result was the epitome of the French provincial farmhouse. It was his home and his sanctuary. Outside Villeraze the world whirled on in all its complexity, but at Villeraze you were in a cloistered environment. From the long dinning table where every night there was food, toasts, songs and poetry to the bucket filled shower Villeraze was sanctuary, and while in that womb I got to listen to Matt’s philosophy of life. I was inspired by his words, but Matt often spoke in parables and his words had many meanings. Villeraze was a dream, a part of my life I can never forget; a part of my life, like youth, that will never be recaptured.
Matt contracted cancer and died. I didn’t see him the last two years of his life. He was too ill to come to Pamplona and he had sequestered himself in a small stone hut in Gallway, ancestral home to his line of Carneys. I wanted to go to Ireland to see Matt before he died but our years of correspondence slowed to a trickle and I could tell writing had become an effort for him. It was also clear from Matt’s letters that he would prefer his friends not see him in his degenerated state. I thought about the posters of Matt at Villeraze when he was a macho model appearing on billboards and magazines through out France and I knew I didn’t want to see him either. I did what I could. The last Pamplona before Matt’s death I made a pest of myself during Feria and made everyone I knew, Matt knew and even strangers off the street write Matt a personal note or get well wish on a bar napkin, coaster or anything that would take ink. I put them in a huge tanned bull’s scrotum I had brought from Missouri. I gave the message filled scrotum to a friend who was going to see Carol. Carol was on her way to Galway with her and Matt’s daughter Dierdre. Matt died shortly after that and the last correspondence I ever received from him was a short note and a photo of Matt standing on a distant Galway sea cliff with his arm raised in the air giving his farewell wave.
To this day when ever I am fortunate enough to end up running in the middle of the heard, surrounded by magnificent fighting bulls, I try to run like Matt. I smile and try to float along as serenely as I can and I know Matt is right there beside me. Sometimes I can even hear his last words, written in that last short note………
“Viva San Fermin.”
The Ice Maiden Cometh?
By Ellie Law
This may be the way to describe some British women, but never women during the fiesta and never about one person I met in Pamplona, although her name is Frosty. Have you ever been told that when you visit places there are people you should meet and sights you should see? Frosty comes under both headings.
When you enter the main square in Pamplona, La Plaza de Castillo, coming out for the start of your evening drinking, head for the corner to Bar Windsor. Not only is it often a meeting point for all the best people who come for the fiesta, being easily recognisable, but also the seating area outside is Frosty’s kingdom. This lady of indeterminate years, 21 again she says, coming up for the 3rd or 4th time, is the doyenne of Pamplona, a queen in her own right. I do not need to describe her, you will recognise her as soon as you see her, sitting at a table, petite in size but outsize in character, in the thick of it all, with her glass of brandy and milk - a Pamplona traditional drink, and her bag and glasses round her neck. Frosty will be holding court, surrounded by her entourage, people of all sexes (more than two? Well anything goes in fiesta time) and all ages.
She is, for the most part of the year, reclusive in her private estate. For 2 weeks she comes out to party and run with the bulls. If any one person will persuade me to run it she will be that one. Someone who can command the respect of the most hardened men who make the pilgrimage each year to run, has to be a special person. She is a brave lady, a true character and also very kind. If you feel alone in Pamplona and appear besides her looking abandoned, she will look out for you and introduce you to her friends to show you around. You will not be alone for long. I have to comment though on the fact that most of her courtiers are younger men, who have come to pay homage –so no competition please. On my first visit to Pamplona she took me under her wing, and introduced me to her kingdom. I am in her debt. She is not without reputation however, and I will leave it to your imagination and for her to explain what she was doing with a nubile young man coming out of her bedroom one morning, or why and how she is able to maintain her supply of courtiers! They are interesting tales she will be happy to tell (I hope).
I mentioned earlier that Frosty comes to run with the bulls. No, I am not going mad and you did read correctly. This lady is out in the Bull Run every day, with men and women over half her age. San Fermin is an addiction that no one is immune from, no matter what age sex creed or colour you are. It gets in the blood and stays. If it enough to pull a private person from seclusion to commotion then beware, you may be the next to succumb!
If one morning you feel strong enough to join the heaving throng and run with the bulls, or maybe feel more secure watching them, first make sure you can face getting up although you are suffering with the hang over from the night before, then go to the top half of Estafeta. This is where you will find Frosty, braving the narrow streets before the bulls cross the Bajada de Labrit into the Plaza de Toros –the bullring. I can only imagine what it must be like in the street, knowing you are not as fit or fast as those around you, waiting for the crush of people and animals to thunder up the street to you and past you, but it must be one big buzz afterwards to know that you are walking back again to the bar, one of the most enduring members of the bull runners. Not a macho male who is strutting around like a peacock on heat, but a frail looking lady of more mature years, who doesn’t need all the testosterone that rushes round the men’s’ blood stream. She is just herself. We love you Frosty –last for ever!