Plus ça change...

By SooB

Not a caterpillar

The start time of our local feria is moveable. Yesterday we missed the bull running because they started and finished early. Today Mr B and Aunty R missed it because it ran late and they had to leave for the airport to get Aunty R home. (Uncle M had gone home earlier by train - though a massively over-policed motorbike accident - not a serious one just a bump - had blocked the road and made them miss the train he wanted. Very French.).

Me and the kids stayed to watch the bulls. Basically the bulls run through the town, controlled by clever folk on horses, and local rugby boys chase them and try to stop the bulls. Later the bulls head off to the bullring and provide entertainment to those with stronger carnivorous instincts than mine. Even the running leaves me a bit in two minds, to be honest. Still, can't throw up a good photo opp, so I bravely leaned over the railings, impervious to the risks of being mown down by a passing bull or horse. Here's a couple of rival rugby clubs battling over who stopped this bull (we were on the blue team this year, though I tried hard not to think of Chelsea as I wore the blue bandana).

At the end, folk just hang about and drink before drifting down to the arena for the rest of the entertainment. The kids were hot and wanted to go home, so I grabbed a quick beer for the road and we were just heading off when Conor decided he needed something to eat "RIGHT NOW". I offered chips and was turning round to go back to the kebab stall to get him some chips when someone decided to lean an enormous section of the now dismantled wooden bull enclosure against a small weedy metal barrier. Both promptly crashed earthwards, and might have caused some serious damage to the ancient cobbles had they not been interrupted by my leg.

At first, I was just relieved that the kids hadn't been caught by it (Conor, in particular would have been Flat Stanley by now had he been two steps forward). It was only when French folk started coming up looking concerned and offering to get doctors, ice and water that I realised my leg actually really really really hurt and was bleeding more than seemed sensible. The French folk were eventually placated with my promises that I would promptly go home and drink lots and lots (I think they knew I didn't mean water).

So, in the absence of anything as sensible as ibuprofen in the house, I am, as I type, two of Mr B's medicinal-strength G&Ts down the road to recovery. And am thanking any deity who cares to listen for my fat ankles, but for the cushioning effect of which I'm sure my bone would have snapped in two!

I'll put lots more photos of horses and bulls up on flickr tomorrow when I'm nursing a hangover.

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