We’re having a fabulous time on the Costa Blanca … sand, sun, sea, surf, sangria … what more can you ask of a holiday in Spain? Chiringuitos (straw hut beach bars) are doing a roaring business. The beach babes and the slickly handsome guys to draw in the crowd, as the waiters and waitresses, tanned and luscious, attend to the serving of gin and tonics, beers, mojitos … the samba beat is an assiduous rhythm, mesmerizing, making the feet tap.
In the evening, the “freiduras” are serving up fresh juicy sardines, calamari, “sepias” (cuttlefish), “chipirones” (tiny little squid, done to perfection). Ice-cream parlors are open, forty-eight flavors, shout the advertisements. Diners are queuing up to get into restaurants and eateries with checked tablecloths waving the breeze, overflowing with patrons.
Two months prior to this, everything was closed. Now they’re open for business well into the early hours of the next morning. In Spain, the nights are warm and sultry; neighbors chat on until the morning.
But, tomorrow we have to be up early, as I’ve got it on good authority, that there are going to be bulls running to the sea … What? It’s the celebration of Our Lady of Loreto fiesta. Hmm …
Being a recovering-from-stroke individual, though raring at the bit for great things to do on holidays, this bull running puts me in mind of Pamplona, where you can get seriously damaged if you’re not careful … plus, what’s a good vantage point, anyway? Possibly, in front of the TV, a good distance away, maybe even in another country. But, what’s life, if not to live it?
I said to my husband, we’ll go to the fiesta, check it out, and perhaps take some photos. If it’s like the running of the bulls in Pamplona, there must be a beginning point and an end-point … the authorities in charge of tourism must have a cordon-off area for the Bull Run, surely?
The cars to have be parked elsewhere (not in the said roadway), and barriers put up.
Surely nobody’s going to be too keen to arrive back at the car afterwards and find an angry 400-pound hamburger as a hood ornament?
So, the next morning we set off from Santa Pola. I was looking forward to this with slight trepidation. What should we take? Good stout shoes? My husband can take off (i.e. run!) if a bull suddenly appeared behind him, but what about me? Having had a rare form of stroke, fourteen years ago, after which I was in a wheelchair for more years than I care to remember, I couldn’t run. I can hobble pretty quickly, though, not all that fast with a bull bearing down on me, I’m sure.
The sun was hot, and I’d put those wearisome thoughts aside for a while. We drove up the coast road, marveling at the sparkling sea and beaches of golden sand. Past tall date palms, sometimes as far as the eye could see, dotted around pomegranates fields ripening in the sun, past huge orchards of oranges and lemons.
An hour later, we’re there. Xabia (Javea) for the ‘Bous de la Mar’ for the festival of Our Lady of Loreto.
Where were the crowds? Which way do we go? Is there any sign that we’ve come to the right place? It seemed a bit quiet for a festival day—maybe the information was wrong. Let’s check out the port. It was all quiet and subdued; though there were police patrolling. O-Kay …
We were there too early, apparently, as the police pointed out free parking at the port.
Things were looking up.
Free parking; I spy a huge beer tent, and a temporary bullring at the port, resembling fairground steelworks and scaffolding.
It was deserted other than a few people sitting in the bullring stand: no officials, and most importantly, no bulls. … Not quite sure what we were coming to look at, but it was a sunny day and the sea was good enough to swim in … Yes!
