Damn, in my previous post on bull-running I suggested that it was probably a pretty silly thing to do. Funny how easily the mind forgets ones own moments of bull-related lunacy. Luckily Marina stepped in to remind me in the comments:

“I think he has forgotten about a "capea” he went to with some of our friends a few years ago. Before he left the house he swore that he wouldn’t go anywhere near the bull, which is not precisely what happened afterwards.”

I think the word is ‘busted’:

OK, so this is how it happened. About 3 years ago I was invited to the stag do of a Spanish friend, which took place in a small village near Toledo - En el culo del mundo, as the Spanish might put it. The venue for our night’s entertainment was the village bullring, probably the most dilapidated, run down excuse for a bull ring I have seen anywhere in Spain. In the bar overlooking the ring a large quantity of red meat and red wine was consumed, along with the customary visit of a young lady dressed (and later very undressed) as a nurse. It already felt like a Bigas Luna or Almodavar film well before the real evening’s entertainment got under way…

A few more after dinner gin and tonics were consumed for good measure and then, at about 2 a.m., it was time for the main event, the capea, which Marina described in her previous comments as… “a small bull fight game with only one small bull (which is still quite big) called a "vaquilla”. People can go down to the ring and have a go but the vaquilla doesn’t get killed. Usually it involves a party of some kind.”

Umm, well, that just about sums things up perfectly. Down we went into the ring, a small (but “still quite big”) bull with small (but “still quite big”) horns was released into the arena, and we ran around like idiots in front of it brandishing capes. Having sworn before leaving the house that I would not go anywhere near the animal and would stay safely in the stalls, I spent so much of the evening in the ring, that by the end of the night the Spaniards had dubbed me “Hemingway”.

It was tremendously exhilarating, incredibly good fun, and it was undoubtedly fairly dangerous for everyone except the bull, that went back to bed afterwards. I got butted in the backside and ended up flat on my back and bruised for days. And yes, now that my memory has been jogged by my kind wife, I suddenly understand exactly why people run in front of bulls in Pamplona. Wow did I feel alive that night. Boy am I a hypocrite for writing yesterday’s post…. Thanks Marina!

A very short (and quite bad) video I shot of the evenings madness: