Ernest Hemingway made San Fermín famous with his presence and with his novel 'Fiesta.' Ava Gardner, of "Melbourne, best place for the end of the world" fame, graced it with her beauty. Orson Wells, complete with cushion and cigar, made it a must on his trips to Spain as he hobnobbed with the likes of Franco.

It's the week of running with the bulls in Pamplona, in the north of Spain. It's the time when the young men of the town, the surrounding areas, to some extent the rest of Spain and increasingly young foreigners show their masculinity and bravery by running, ahead of, alongside and behind several 500 kilo bulls which are released into the streets of Pamplona and raced into the bull ring.

Every year there are injuries, some serious as the unlucky or too slow are trampled or gored by animals which by their nature are killers. The locals, whether drunk or sober, usually escape with light injuries as they do it every year and know the tricks of the trade. The further away the runners come from, the more serious the injuries, until the USA or Australia is reached and then occasionally someone is unfortunately killed, as in an alcohol induced fog, a poor young man hasn't the faintest idea what to do in front of a charging bull.

As a foreigner in Seville, a centre of bull-fighting, I am sometimes asked my attitude to it. In fact, I don't have an attitude. I used to go occasionally but I haven't been for a long time and won't go again. It is certainly not for me, an outsider, to say that it should be banned along with all other blood sports. It's a decision for the Spanish themselves as far as I am concerned.

Some years ago, the Spanish were abandoning bull-fighting as it was associated with Franco's regime, with conservatism, with the old and outmoded. Then for some inexplicable reason, the bright young things of the Socialist Party rediscovered it and it became popular again with the young, until it hit the heights of idiocy a couple of years ago, when a popular and very good young bull fighter put on special 'corridas' where only women were admitted. There were scenes reminiscent of Tom Jones concerts, bras and knickers were thrown into the ring in appreciation of the young man's efforts and skills. He retired a couple of months ago from exhaustion and loss of interest. He isn't yet thirty.

Another interesting aspect concerns women bull fighters, of whom there are not many. But there was one, Cristina Sánchez, who was by all accounts good. But she too retired young as the other bullfighters would not appear on the same billing as her. The crowds liked her but her colleagues did not and so she quit.

I don't read about bullfighting so I might well be mistaken but I've never noticed any comments about how the sexual significance changes as regards to whether a man or a woman is in front of the bull's horns, challenging it to do its worst. Its worst is death, as the bull is in the arena with the instinct to kill. But the real symbolism is a sexual challenge and that is why the male matadors put something down the inside of one thigh to enhance their masculinity. I've once in a while asked what it was exactly but I've never received a direct answer, so I've concluded it's a sausage dog type thing that you used to put under the door to keep a cold winter's draught out. As I mentioned I don't and won't go to a bull fight but I am sometimes in front of a televised one in company with people who really know what is going on. It is then that one realises that it is an art form. A spectacle full of music, drama, courage, colour and ultimately death. Only the outcome is preordained, either the man or the bull dies, but what leads up to that moment can at its best be full of beauty, mystery, skill and pageant. A pageant to celebrate the strength, beauty and heroism of the bull. At its worst, its a bloody slaughter-house, cruel and inhumane in keeping with man's basest instincts. The bull fight is yet another paradox of Spain.

Patrick
Seville
July 1999