155. San Fermin - Hemingway's legacy..

7th July 2011. In Pamplona, down in the Spanish Basque country, it's San Fermin time again!! ("What..?") Yes, it's that time of the year when thousands of normally sane chartered accountants and other unlikely heroes from all over the world head towards Pamplona, just across the border in the Spanish Basque country to prove that their manliness extends beyond a remarkable ability to crush a paper cup or to flick a rubber band at the lovely Miss Rochester in Overdue Accounts (Unpaid). They try and achieve all this by running through the streets of Pamplona with their butt cheeks pressed hard together - a laudable feat in itself! - closely followed by several tons of prime beef - in the form of half a dozen Spanish fighting bulls - that just happen to be moving at the gallop a few steps behind and that are just itching to slip a stray and extremely sharp horn into the nearest pair of trousers they can find.. or to stomp on anything that moves within range.

This guy never expected to sing soprano again.. (let alone being able to hold high C for over 10 seconds!)

This one below doesn't look good.. he's a definite candidate for the "You can run but you can't hide" competition. He's got about ½ second to decide what his options are.. and he's dropped his rolled-up newspaper.. Meanwhile the bulls look like they've been practising this move all winter - and they're not taking any prisoners!

I don't know about you but I'd say that this is about as up close and personal as you'd ever want to be to a fighting bull. I think our man here would agree as well that tapping the bull on the nose with that rolled-up newspaper was not the best idea he ever had! (and hey! I thought LL Bean said their T shirts were rugged!)

Hemingway (in the white trousers)

Hemingway put the Fête de San Fermin on the world map of the imagination with his stunning first novel The Sun Also Rises (published as Fiesta in the UK). Based on a trip he'd recently made to the fiesta at Pamplona in 1926 with a group of Anglo-American friends, it can't be bettered as an introduction to Hemingway's oeuvre. Even though the young bull (right) has the tips of its horns padded, it would take considerable courage (and perhaps a drink or three) to persuade anyone with an ounce of self-preservation to step in front of one as Hemingway did here. Yes, he can be criticised but before you do - first try and persuade your legs to jump over the barrier into that ring.. Not so easy now is it?

Another novel down the tubes! I'll definitely start writing tomorrow..

This is what I like to see - a porky guy who has suddenly discovered that - hell yes! - a sub-10 second 100 metre dash is well within his capabilities! Who are you calling fatso!

I reckon releasing a fighting bull behind the sprinters should be allowed as an experiment at the London Olympics next year.. Think we'd see the first 8 second 100 metres!

This clip will give you a taster of the madness that descends upon the town for about 5 days.

9th July 2011. A very rewarding row this morning.. in a wooden shell coxless IV. The boat was going so well we carried on as far as Villefranque without anyone asking when we were going to stop and turn around (always a good sign). Did 18km (Running total: 856km).

12th July 2011. Thinking about Hemingway while having a shave this morning, it struck me that, perhaps in order to avoid his writing impulse being desensitised by the prosaic nature of everyday life, he'd sought to experience strong sensations as often as he could. There has often been a suggestion made that he had a death wish - one that he consistently denied - but I think that the process of getting close to many of these sensations was inherently risky. He attended a number of wars, went big game hunting, drank copiously all his life, was serious about catching big sporting fish, was an aficionado of bull fighting, he enjoyed multiple marriages (but did they enjoy him?) and travelled widely. I imagine that an adventure loving lad like our man would have felt confined in the leafy suburbs of Oak Park, Illinois. Now I don't know if this is an original observation about his need for sensation - but it's the first time I've thought of it! I think today he'd be described as an adrenalin junkie..

13th July 2011. Sometime in the wee small hours we had another "the house is going through a car-wash" moment.. There was a white flash and a rumble of thunder - closely followed by the pooch jumping up on the bed (any excuse!) - and then the hiss of rain that in a few seconds turned into a steady roar for a good few minutes.

71. Summer music

11th July 2010. The telltale signs that the Fêtes de Bayonne is approaching are starting to become visible around town.. Council workmen are erecting barriers on central reservations and roundabouts to stop parking; big signs have appeared warning the unwary that the centre of town will be closed to traffic; in the Place des Basques, barriers have been installed to enforce orderly bus queueing (dream on!). What is the Fêtes de Bayonne, I hear you ask..? Imagine a cultural spectrum with say, a Welsh Eisteddfod at one end and the San Fermin festival at Pamplona at the other.. The Fêtes de Bayonne lies somewhere between the two.. Normally, Bayonne's population hovers around the 40,000 mark but over the duration of the Fêtes, well over a million visitors will descend on the town.. the overwhelming majority of whom will be dressed in white with a red sash around the waist and a red neckerchief.. I must admit to finding it slightly disturbing when walking through town during the Fêtes and everyone's dressed the same. It's something to do with the loss of individual identity of the public. (Rightly or wrongly, I always draw a mental parallel with Germany in the 30s) Here's a short clip that gives a flavour of it:

  

This next clip features a song close to the hearts of all in the Pays Basque, but especially Bayonne.. 

Here's some of the madness.. not sure what you'd call this beast.. it's not a bull but I don't think you'd want to get involved in an exchange of views with it! (it's actually a cow) Of course, I abhor these kinds of degrading spectacles - I'm an animal lover - and it doesn't sit well with me to see some poor animal surrounded by an excited mob intent on tweaking its tail or whatever. However, if there's a choice to be made between staging bullfights (where the death of the animal is the goal) and the kind of thing shown below, then regrettably I'd have to say that the latter activity would be preferable.

San Fermin is currently running as we speak and buses are available (Bayonne-Pamplona direct) in the Place des Basques to take people.. Yesterday I saw a few passengers getting off the Pamplona-Bayonne bus looking very much the worse for wear! And quite a few waiting for the next one. Today promises to be a big day in Pamplona.. One, it's the Sunday and so those who are still working can attend and two, Spain are in the World Cup Final.. which is today.. If Spain win, I think Pamplona will erupt!

We've decided that we're going to take a break from the Fêtes de Bayonne this year. Our neighbours kids are keen participants and they invite all their friends back in the wee small hours. The first year we were here, we only had single glazed windows and we discovered the hard way that a group of 15 or so French teens and twenties, hyped up on the occasion after a few Sangrias, can generate a fair amount of noise out in the rear garden - all talking & no-one listening in the classic French manner! We could hear the pop as corks were still being extracted at 6am.. That first year they finally called it a night at 10 in the morning.. Even now that we've double glazed the house, the hoots and the hollers still penetrate our bedroom. This year therefore, we've booked a hotel in the mountains for a few days. It's not that we're a couple of old fuddyduddies.. but we like our sleep!

14th July 2010. Summer would not be complete without Bastille Day - 14th July - which, by a freakish coincidence, happens to be today! The presenter on Télématin (breakfast TV on France2) introduced his report on the glittering Défilé (military parade) that will take place on the Champs Elysées later on this morning as "the most beautiful army in the world marching down the most beautiful avenue in the world". I have to admit on mature reflection that he's right. It's arguable that a Scots Pipe band should be up there with them but, hey, let's be charitable on this day of days. We're not talking about military capability or effectiveness but the French military, on days like these, does look good. I've often wondered why other nations (such as the US or the UK) are strangely reluctant to parade their military.

Anyway, setting all these arguments aside, I enjoy watching the spectacle every year and, as always, the parade on the ground is preceded by a fly past. This clip of the 2009 parade - when the Indian military was strongly represented - runs for about 1.5 hours. The legendary French Foreign Legion make their appearance at 44:15 - they are traditionally the final unit to appear on foot with their distinctive slow march, with the pionniers (combat engineers) carrying axes on their shoulders and wearing leather aprons. Time now to make yourself a coffee, get comfortable, watch the clip and then tell me afterwards if the France2 presenter was right or wrong:

66. Provence & the Jura

22nd June 2010. Back home on Sunday evening after what seems like weeks away. Phew.. We'd planned a four legged journey (a three stop strategy in Formula 1 terms!) around France to take in the Perpignan area, the Luberon and the Jura. 

We'd planned to stop off first for a night with Madame's brother, O and his wife F, who were taking an early summer break in a beachfront apartment at Le Barcares (circled at right on the map), which is on the Mediterranean coast, midway between Narbonne and Perpignan. Driving across SW France from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, on the northern side of the Pyrenees, the landscape changed subtly as the white-washed Basque houses with blood red painted doors and windows slowly thinned out to be replaced by apricot-washed houses which started appearing in ever-increasing numbers, as well as those towering dark green cypresses beloved of Van Gogh.

As we neared the Mediterranean, Carcassonne suddenly appeared off to the left looking like nothing less than a complete medieval town teleported into the 21st century. Another place that we must visit. 

Carcassonne

Le Barcares is one of those purpose-built family holiday resorts with rows of apartment blocks along the sea front in that peculiarly French ziggurat-style. As it was mid-June (ie, outside school holidays), we weren't plagued by hordes of kids. The majority of tourists were baby boomers from all over Europe - many of them in camper vans. After we arrived, we took the dog for a welcome leg-stretch along the beach in the late afternoon sunshine. It was retiree country alright.. silver-haired power walkers and cyclists abounded! And then we spotted the wagon train of Camper vans which were circled up on a sea front car park. There's clearly a parallel universe of baby boomers who have dropped everything to travel and move around Europe - and didn't they look a happy and contented crowd! 

Back at the apartment, we sat out on the terrace and started off the evening with a couple of ouzos (yes, I ignored the warning klaxon!) before moving on to the red infuriator with our dinner..

Needless to say, the next morning I felt more than a tad fragile.. so I got up early and took the dog out for a run along the beach. It was already quite hot at 8am.. and the breakfasts were in full swing among the camper vans. Multi-national sun-tanned retirees sat at small tables outside their campers - from the small Brit contingent, the unmistakeable smell of fried bacon drifted slowly across while the rest of the EU were downing coffee and croissants.

After a spot of breakfast, we set off towards Provence (which I'd not visited before) where we'd booked a nice country hotel outside Apt for a few days. During the drive up from Le Barcares to Apt I had the cruise control set at 130kph.. and after a while I was aware that something was extremely familiar.. but what? After puzzling with this for a few minutes, I suddenly realised the car engine was turning over at exactly 2175rpm. "So what?" I hear you thinking.. Well, I spent 7 years in the seventies sat between four Rolls-Royce supercharged V-12 piston aero engines which we operated at - you've guessed it - 2175rpm.. Funny how a sound or a vibration can trigger old memories. (Like, for example, the story of our resident USAF exchange officer who had so many medals on his dress uniform that he was instantly christened "Magnetic North".)  

This was my first visit to the Luberon.. and it was Peter Mayle territory par excellence. His books about France, and more specifically Provence/Luberon, have consistently entertained several generations of Francophiles. I was relieved to find that he hadn't exaggerated its virtues at all. Between the low hills the valley floor was intensively cultivated in a cross-hatched tableau of small fields - there were numerous cherry orchards heavy with fruit, olive groves, vines (with roses planted at the end of each run) and almonds.

We explored all the local villages.. some of them impossibly picturesque. The landscape was studded with tall cypress trees and was pure Van Gogh.. We had one day of heavy downpour which caused severe flooding and several deaths in the Var down to the south east.. but we were well out of it. We had lunch at a riverside restaurant at Isle-sur-la-Sorgue* (right) before we finally found Lourmarin** which was a real little jewel.. almost like a stage set. We had a great lunch there too (at the cafe in the centre of the pic below) - rabbit in mustard sauce with pommes dauphinois.. really memorable..
* reading Keith Floyd's obit earlier I was surprised to discover that he once ran a restaurant in Isle-sur-la-Sorgue..! 

Lourmarin

**edited to add: Peter Mayle is now quoted as living in Lourmarin..

Van Gogh nailed the look of the Provençal landscape exactly with his ink sketch of the fields cultivated like a patchwork quilt:

There's something about these oh-so-typical tree-lined French roads that makes you want to stop what you're doing and jump in your car and drive and drive..

This picture though reminds me of one summer in the mid-90s when we'd broken our journey southwards in Paris en route to the Pays Basque. The next morning I had the Mother Of All Headaches (please - no sympathy!) as I discovered that whisky does not a good aperitif make. We set off at around 8.30am with a long, hot 8-9 hr drive looming ahead of us. Despite trying to drown it with the best part of a litre of Evian, the MOAH refused to budge and it felt like my frontal lobes were tied firmly in a reef knot. As we were passing Poitiers we (OK.. I) decided that we simply had to stop to have some lunch in the hope that this might dislodge the incessant pounding in my head. We turned off the autoroute at the next exit and followed our nose to the nearest village. There wasn't a soul on the main street (it was lunchtime) as we cruised slowly along looking for salvation. We spotted the only restaurant in the village and its fixed price lunch was about 110frs (£10-11 at the time).

We sat down and everything happened in that wonderfully pre-ordained way that lets you know that one, you're happily back in France and that two, you are about to enjoy an extremely pleasant experience.. I remember the main course was Lapin aux pruneaux (rabbit with prunes) - a Pipérade favourite - and I think we might have had a glass or two of wine with it. By the time the coffee arrived, I felt completely restored and able to continue driving. (Note to the reader with the raised eyebrow: I'm not a wino!) 

Back to the present! We then headed off up to Dôle (right) in the Jura region for a few days with S, Madame's auntie. We were lucky enough to be present at her memorable 50th wedding anniversary celebrations (described earlier in Post #34) in 1996..

One day, the three of us visited M, one of Madame's cousins in Belfort (equidistant from the German and Swiss border) where we had an unforgettable lunch with them there too (sounds like all we were doing was eating!)..(you'd be right!). M's husband B offered us some great wine - champagne to start with, then a wonderful Pouilly-Fuissé followed by a noble Gevrey-Chambertin. He then produced some unlabelled bottles with the coffee (muted submarine klaxon!).. the label on the one I tried said Prune - but it was 100% rocket fuel.. (ouch!) He toasted "ze Royal Air Force".. it being the 18th June (a big day for France as it was the 70th anniversary of De Gaulle's famous speech on the BBC - "We have lost a battle but not the war.."). We then drove back to Dôle..(!)

The following day we returned to Bayonne - a comfortable 850km in a day. We went via Clermont Ferrand on the A89 - a spectacular new motorway - v modern bridges & viaducts.. amazing.

 On opening the mailbox on our return I found a missive from the UK Inland Revenue.. advising me that I'd underpaid tax by - wait for it - a massive 13p.. Wonder if they'll accept instalments..! 

(For those interested in such things, we did ~2,700km and the car returned an average of 5.4litres/100km or 53mpg. Which I think is pretty good. Plus my knees didn't suffer!)

25th June 2010. We went to Biarritz this afternoon and the holiday season has started.. the beach was crowded with all kinds of delights..!

28th June 2010. Late notice..!! The legendary Fête de San Fermin 2010 in Pamplona (just over the border from Bayonne) is from 6-14th July 2010. Fashion tip: if you intend going and you think running with the bulls might be on the cards, then forget the white pants - pack a brown pair! (explanation below) And if you need a reminder of what it's all about, click on this short clip:

There was a famous American naval captain of the war of 1812 who, when his ship went into battle, always wore a red shirt so that, if he was seriously wounded, his men would not see the blood and become demoralised. So now you know why I said pack a brown pair..

This last pic is enough to put you off surfing - for life!

"Oops..!"

PS This blog is a World Cup-free zone.. Aren't you glad! 

53. Hemingway & the Pays Basque

30th March 2010. The Hemingway persona/myth continues to fascinate as each succeeding generation discovers the man and his work anew. One of the preoccupations of youth has always been the conspicuous consumption of alcohol and in picking Hemingway as a role model, they're never in any danger of being disappointed on that score. That he carried on his youthful heavy drinking all through his adult life during which he drove ambulances on the Italian front in WW1, skied in the Alps, shot big game in Africa, fished the Gulf Stream, followed bullfights, served as a war correspondent during the Spanish Civil War and WWII, became a serial husband and, to pay the bills, worked as a journalist and, in his novels, produced some of the greatest writing of the 20th century - only serves to lend credence to, and perhaps legitimise, his legendary love affair with the one mistress he stayed faithful to all his life - alcohol.

In the course of a colourful life lived to the full, he left an indelible imprint in several locations scattered around the fringes of the western world. It could be argued that he rode the first wave of global tourism. There must be as many blue plaques in bars around the world indicating that Ernest Hemingway ate or drank here (usually the latter) as there are inns in the UK claiming that Mary, Queen of Scots, slept there. I must admit I envy him for having been able to experience Italy, France, Spain, East Africa, Key West and Cuba before tourism marked them irreparably. Yes, he's a flawed figure and one who's easy to mock or parody - but there's no denying the fact that he wrote much beautiful prose and despite living a hunting, shooting, fishing, drinking, womanising life with a tendency to self-aggrandisement, he remains a fascinatingly charismatic figure. Paris continues to attract young Americans who go there hoping to write the great American novel. Hemingway put down markers that seem impossibly out of reach.

The Pays Basque and Spain frequently figured in EH's body of work as well as in his personal life. He left America in the early 1920s to take up residence in Paris, from where he travelled to Pamplona via the Pays Basque for the now-legendary running of the bulls during the feast of San Fermin. This must have been a fairly obscure event in a dusty corner of Europe at the time when Hemingway visited it.

   

Nowadays, the running of the bulls has morphed into an international rite of passage for thousands of young men from many nations and also for more than a few older ones who are seeking to re-capture their lost youth. For Hemingway though, this was a life-changing experience and he immortalised it in his first best-selling novel The Sun Also Rises. It describes how the relationships within a group of expat Americans and Brits change during the alcohol-fuelled week of the San Fermin festival against a background of bull fighting. Jake is the narrator and clearly speaks with Hemingway's voice. After a memorable week, Jake finishes up in Madrid having lunch with Lady Brett - where Hemingway has Jake polishing off 5 bottles of Rioja (as you do!).

Hemingway arrived in Bayonne by train from Paris to catch his first sight of the Pays Basque. Arriving in Bayonne on a summer's night after a long hot train journey from Paris, I would think his first priority after crossing the bridge over the Adour to find a hotel in the old centre of Bayonne would have been to find the nearest bar - of which there is no shortage - for a cold beer or two. Having grown up (in Prohibition America) in the leafy suburbs of staid Oak Park, a wealthy suburb of Chicago, he must have been excited at the thought of what lay ahead.

He travelled on through the Basque country to Pamplona but always returned to the coast - San Sebastian, Hendaye, St Jean de Luz or Biarritz. Much later in life (in 1959) he was commissioned to write one last time about a summer of bullfighting in Spain. He recruited a young American woman as his secretary and she wrote that:

"On the trips we took to France Hemingway carried the manuscript of the novel with him. In late August we went to Dax to see Antonio fight. We stayed at the Chantaco Hotel in St. Jean de Luz and ate at the Bar Basque."

The  Hotel Chantaco (just outside St Jean de Luz) remains the same fine & grand establishment that it surely was 50 years ago:

Hotel de Chantaco

I suspect that EH would have been far more at home in the unpretentious Bar Basque in the Boulevard Thiers, Saint-Jean-de Luz. Well situated in a leafy boulevard, the Bar Basque is a 'clean, well-lighted place' and somewhere that's very pleasant indeed to sit with a late drink (or 3) under the platanes on a summer's evening and watch the world go by.

Bar Basque

This week's freebie - Papa's grand-daughter Mariel playing opposite Woody Allen in the great closing scene of "Manhattan", with Gershwin pulling it all together. I like the moment when the penny drops for Woody at 02:23.. (we've all been there..)

Finally, still on the Hemingway theme of this week's post, here's Paolo Conte with his "Hemingway":

I cut and pasted the Italian lyrics into Babelfish and this popped out the other end! I'm none the wiser..

Beyond the dolcezze dell Harrys Bar

And the tendernesses of Zanzibar wax questra road

Beyond the illusions of Timbuctoo

And the long legs of Babal wax this road

Quetsa road zitta that it flies via like a butterfly,

Nostalgia, nostalgia to the taste of curaçao

Perhaps a day better me spiegher

Et alors, Monsieur Hemingway, to it goes?

Et alors, Monsieur Hemingway, to it goes mieux?

Well I hope that's answered any questions you may have had!

Wish I'd said this:  "Always carry a large flagon of whisky in case of snakebite and furthermore always carry a small snake."

One for the road:

"Don't you drink? I notice you speak slightingly of the bottle. I have drunk since I was fifteen and few things have given me more pleasure. When you work hard all day with your head and know you must work again the next day what else can change your ideas and make them run on a different plane like whisky? When you are cold and wet what else can warm you?"                                                  

                                         Ernest Hemingway