After the excitement of rock climbing in the Alps, Roy May, Shiela and their two daughters and, somehow, me and our climbing and camping gear managed to squash into his Austin 1100 and wander into the northern Pyrenees to see what this Basque thing was about and then see a friend of Roy’s who, with a bunch of mates, were re-occupying a mountain village somewhere. Roy had written (no mobile phones) and we were vaguely expected.

On the way we stopped to try to understand the Basque game of pilotte with the hooked bats hurling a ball at invisible speeds against a huge wall.

The Spanish rural area seemed “quaint” with the old threshing machine blocking the mountain road but the villagers were all working at it so their priorities meant we slow down, and of course watch closely.

Then we stopped for the running of the bulls in some village and of course Roy and I had to do the macho thing. The village square was actually “L” shaped with six trees in the centre of one section between them were stout ropes about 6 feet off the ground. The idea was that if you were in the square and a bull charged you then you grab a rope and swing into the tree.

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To be honest, the “bulls” were heifers and had a rope attached around their neck with the rope trailing on the ground for a couple of metres behind so if they attacked then someone could grab the rope and pull them off. The horns were made slightly safe by having thick rubber condoms on them. However they still weigh half a ton and were made more “sporty” by people poking them with sharp pointed lances.

Around the perimeter of the square were a stout fence made of horizontal wooden planks with the bottom plank missing, thankfully!

So, I said to Roy, that fellow getting carted away on the stretcher with the crushed chest (the animal kills by kneeling on the victim) was not just unlucky, he wasn’t working with his mates so here’s the plan Roy. I realise that most lads were coming from behind because it hasn’t got eyes in the back of its bum has it; right they are trying to get the ribbon that is stuck onto its forehead and each near miss gets a big “Hollay” or whatever the Spannish is for “right on you wonderful lad you can be mine tonight” or so I hoped with the senioritas. So Roy, I’m not going to risk getting that ribbon off its forehead, I will hang from the rope until it goes past, sneak up behind it and put my white sunhat on its horns – ole – macho – the crowd will erupt and I will have kisses and wine.

So, acting all nonchalant and with the smouldering last remains of a cigar stuck between my teeth I drop in position behind the beast with Roy further behind, ready to pull the rope and then scarper up the tree again with me following close behind. All went well, the beast was eyeing up its next target and the crowd seemed to go quiet and time stand still as I crept closer up to its backside then slowly towards its head and I just reached the hat over its horn when … it turned and looked at me !! And it wasn’t looking happy – the wide open eyes full of hate mirrored my wide open eyes full of fear.

Survival mode kicked in – RUN! It was only 20 metres to the barrier so I can surely climb over it? Poor planning, there were so many people watching the imminent slaughter that the wall of bodies meant they were an impenetrable barrier! What to do, surely plan B has worked and Roy has pulled the rope? I look around expecting to see the bull far away but oops it was down there, yes, its head was down at my hip level ready to throw me up into the air and do another kneeling job on me. What would you do?

Well the only thought was if I go down I’ll take something of you with me (huh!) So I grabbed both horns which by now were behind me, and held them like a motorbike and as it threw me up in the air I tried to wrap my legs around its nose like a bike seat so I had less chance of being thrown off until rescue could come… Finally after a hundred years (or seconds) Roy (?) & some of the lads grabbed the rope and pulled it off and it lost interest.

By now I was on the ground and I tried to climb under the barrier but there were too many legs so the only thing was to stand up in the square, with my cigar still firmly champed between my teeth and my white sunhat in my hand. I felt dead and wanted to run away but the sight of this mad Englishman with cigar and daft hat looked so nonchalant that the crowd erupted in a chorus of “ole bravo”.

Weeks later I thought I was justified to go to a bullfight to see how it should be done. It was a bit of an anticlimax because the matador was so skilled but at least one apprentice matador was only slightly better than me and gave the bull a chance to kill him before the horsemen came to his rescue.

The theme of life and death continued when we arrived at the village in the hills where the government was subsidising young people to return and resurrect the rural community. We were the guests of honour and with hand signs and multi mini language grunts I thought I was being asked to judge which was the best sheep and when I pointed to two of them they were promptly taken to the side and their throats cut and the blood collected in a bowl then eviscerated and skinned and a stake shoved up the carcass while a pit was dug and a bonfire made that burned to a charcoal pit and the spit placed above and slowly turned for the meat that came after a huge cauldron of onion soup had been served up.

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