Pragnell

Pamplona, Spain:

A painting of dull crimson is scorched lethargically upon ancient squares of stone. Sweat from the last evening lined with the constantly flowing sangria is observed often on the walls of the stalwart cathedrals of Pamplona.

The festival city of Pamplona tells of contemporary Spain as well as any other hub of Spanish culture. Catholic cathedrals dictate squares which are a culmination of the many ancient cobbled streets leading into them.

But this metropolitan landscape of ancient sacrament has now rebelled. Since the fall of Franco and his Catholic fascist dictatorship, the youth of Spain freed their expression to the limits of credibility and legitimacy.

Young women of olive skin and midnight hair adorn vastly intricate tattoos as brands of rebellion against the expectation of their conservative elders. Young men of identical ethnicity chase after their female seducers with haircuts that resemble the manes of stallions they proudly imitate.

Slight chill

Spaniards preparing for the bull run in Pamplona. - Photo by Freddie Pragnell

And this brashness of the Spanish youth is enacted under the ignored shadow of the behemoth cathedrals of Pamplona.

I had left the slight chill of London for the royal sun of Pamplona during the week of San Fermín. This was a week dedicated to the memory of Saint Fermín, the martyred black saint of the Mediterranean haven.

His death has incurred a fiesta of revelry flowing through the vast quantities of sangria, a cheap and sweet Spanish red wine, and the stomp of the hooves of running bulls, which have stamped fame on to the Spanish city.

I had come to the city to partake in the famous 'running of the bulls'. I was to dash across the gothic cobbled streets with my school friend Tim, with whom I had left England, away from the animalistic intent of giant bulls and their suggestive horns.

My story is, perhaps expectedly, of my run with the bulls and the wondrous aftermath. Tim and I woke at 6 a.m. on a Wednesday. The middle run of the week awaited our foolish youth to challenge its famous aggressors. We arrived at the beginning of the course, oppressed by the timber barriers, which in turn, suppressed the true barbaric wrath of the bulls. Tim and I waited with baited breath close to the gate where the animals would be released.

During this period of poignant reluctance, the swarms of people surrounding us were suddenly induced to panic, as a rocket was exploded to signal the release. Our decision to run with the 'monsters' of Pamplona turned with our heads as we glanced at the thunderous menace of six bulls advancing toward us.

So Tim and I scrambled for the barrier as tonnes of meat and testosterone hurtled on.

I must say we were not the bravest at this moment, but I assure any that faith in our courage will soon be ignited once more.

The sacred walls

Following the passing of the bulls, Tim and I decided in the name of honour and our lack of reason to chase after them. After a four-minute sprint we came to the bullring of Pamplona. Inside the sacred walls of the bull fortress, which hosts the gladiatorial duel of matador and bull, we came to see all but one of the six bulls had been taken away. This lone symbol of Spanish spirit stood stalwart and beckoning to the hundreds of runners to dare advancing. The bull was being tantalised by red scarves wafted as though carried on the warm breeze. The reaction of the bull was to charge at these petty tempters with horns lowered and nostrils flared.

Many of the crazed people beguiling the bull to move closer to them even had the audacity to slap its behind as they ran past. A brief distraction for the bull offered by another person would allow the famous attempt.

Trying to touch the bull

When seeing this, Tim and I decided we must try. So, a brief pact made on the memory of the fallen matadors of Pamplona ensured we would not leave without at least trying to touch this bull.

Thus, we circled the animal many times; often approaching but quickly retreating when black eyes would meet ours. Finally, as one excited American ran past the nose of the beast, Tim and I took flight towards it.

Our feet only gave a dull push as we ran in the heavy sand. After a short sprint, the hide of the bull was touchable. Yet we were thwarted! As our fingers stretched towards the thistles of brown hair, a Spaniard of epic courage decided to jump on the bull's head and direct him toward the bewildered pair of Tim and me.

The embodiment of animalistic agitation with the unwanted catalyst of a drunk Spaniard on his head faced us; we ran in fear and straight from the stadium!