It’s Fiesta week.
I thought it was to be a weekend affair but instead it has become increasingly noisy and frenetic as the days have passed. As I plonk away here, the thundercracks fill the air. Charlie refuses to go out, sleeping indoors most of the day and looking decidedly spooked at the racket echoing through the village. This morning he was still slumbering gently at the edge of the bed, on his cover thingy, when the village brass band struck up loudly – and it must be said, a trifle, dischordantly – just outside the bedroom window at about 09:00. He leapt into the air and raced off into the entrada/hallway. Jack, on the other hand, slept though the entire thing, only surfacing after I had dressed, washed and headed onto the roof terrace to grab a piccy of the band as they drifted past the house:
Walking down through the lanes and alleyways towards the village centre, I passed many a house with these banner/flags draped on balconies and verandas, advertising, as it were, the occupants pride in the Fiesta of San Miguel the Archangel, the patron saint of the village:
The entire Fiesta is a family affair, with the local’s kids and Grandkids all turning up en masse to participate. Noisily, of course, this being Spain. The church bells clang every hour, fireworks spray the sky and most of the local population dresses in its finery to attend the church services, village Paella eating celebrations and drink……plenty of beer and brandy. The band march through the village between the stalls selling toffee, sweets, soft-toys and a variety of, what can only be called, tat:
The local bars do a thriving trade and there are lots of smiles and friendly Spanish greetings, especially when old friends and family members meet up, in what is an annual reunion. Seeing many dressed in suits, ties etc., is rather amusing. It makes a change from the normal work blues, scuffed shoes and battered hats. Even the kids dress to kill, from an early age, it seems:
As the light fades and the noise levels escalate, in direct proportion to the dipping levels of beer, the place comes alive and the lights sparkle in the clear evening air. Luckily the temps are a healthy 28 to 30 degrees, so I was able to sit out on the bar-terrace in short-sleeves scoffing my Tapas and Beer until Jack decided it was time he went home for tucker and a bit of shut-eye:
So far, I’ve managed two days and nights of Fiesta, forced to drink copious amounts of beer – far more than I would normally scoff (I generally prefer Vin Rouge), easily the most I’ve drank since my uni/student days a long, long time ago! Don’t know how much more I can take. But this weekend promises to be the main days of the event, so who knows!?