Gibby Raltar, Rock Star*

As most of my stories begin, I was looking for some place to go. January was fast ending and I hadn't left the country yet. Also, it was the height of winter, the Christmas lights were switched off, it was cold, dark, miserable and I was mostly broke.

So naturally, a holiday is the only option.

Originally Dan and I were looking at Brugge so that I could catch the Eurostar for the first time, and because I love Brugge with all my heart. In the space of a day, however, prices skyrocketed and I kicked myself for not purchasing when we first saw it. We looked elsewhere. What to do? What were the cheap flights on Ryanair or Skycanner today?

"What do you think…" Dan started, "…it's a bit out there, but what about Gibraltar?"

All I knew of Gibraltar was that Dan had mentioned it previously as a place he'd like to visit, and that I knew next to nothing about it. And by next to nothing, I of course mean: nothing.

A quick research later unearthed that flights were normally in the couple of hundred pound range, but right now they were selling for £80 return. That's a good sign. It's weather is reasonably warm, as it's situated at the tip of Spain. Ok, so it's in Spain?

Well, no. It's British. Gibraltar is British, like Scotland or Northern Ireland. It was used by the Brits as a way of controlling the entry and exit to the Mediterranean Sea.

Sold. Why not? Because accommodation was expensive and flights were going to increase, we decided to do two full days - but only one night. That meant arriving on the Saturday morning and leaving the Sunday night. It was going to be a whirlwind.

We said YOLO ironically, and then slightly less ironically, booked our tickets, booked our accommodation and that was that.

I stayed up late that night researching everything there is to do in Gibraltar, which, as it turns out, is quite a lot.

Saturday 23 January

The butt crack of dawn. Not even. 4am. Or earlier, I can't even remember now. I had only managed a couple of hours sleep before I was I groggily dressing myself and wandering with Dan to the bus stop.

It was cold and dark. Our flight was at around 8.30am but to get to the airport with plenty of time to spare, it meant catching a couple of night buses and then a train. I closed my eyes on the journeys, although didn't get any more sleep. Our check-in at the airport was uneventful: we were only flying domestically, after all. 

Once we had boarded the plane, the Captain came over the loudspeaker.

"Due to the French, we are stranded on the runway as they aren't letting anyone fly over their airspace."

Ok, that's not actually what he said word-for-word. There were so many private charter planes in the air over France going to the ski fields that they had put restrictions on flying. And so we sat on the runway for over an hour.

This was a little bit of a bugger for us as it meant losing time in Gibraltar - we only had 2 days, but there was nothing we could do about it except bemoan the French (even though really it was the trumped up skiers to blame). Eventually we were up and away, and as we began descending again, Gibraltar and The Rock were shrouded in cloud and fog out our plane window. This was a bit disappointing as we were looking forward to a spectacular view, but the hovering grey cloud created an interesting atmosphere and it was clear that the cloud only hung over The Rock and nowhere else.

We landed and taxied across the runway. This didn't mean much to me at the time, but I realised later just what an impact this little act had on the country.

I was first to go through customs. 

"Are you staying in Spain or Gibraltar?" the friendly customs official asked. I was slightly thrown, as I hadn't even considered that one could fly into Gibraltar - Britain - but in fact be visiting Spain.

"Gibraltar," I replied hesitantly, as he went to return my passport.

"Oh wait," he said, and reopened my passport. "I guess you will want a stamp!" He carefully turned to a spare page, lined up the enormous GIBRALTAR stamp, and punched it down, returning my passport with a smile.

Once through, we contemplated what to do. Do we wander across the border to Spain, or explore this country? Gibraltar is all of 5km long and 1.2km across at its widest point, and the airport cuts across the entire top of the country, right on the border of Spain. We decided to go to our hotel first and set off in the right direction.

And so we walked across the runway. You see, as the run way cuts directly across the country, it also cuts directly across the main highway from Gibraltar into Spain. Every plane that lands has to stop the traffic, just as a train at a train crossing stops the traffic. This was a hilariously novel concept and after dancing on the runway and reaching the other side (I may have pretended to be an airplane...), we were just in time to see our plane taxi along and get ready to set off back to London.

The boom gates dropped. The traffic stopped. The last of the pedestrians made it to the other side before the gate was locked behind them. A little cart wheeled back and forth and back and forth, cleaning the runway. The plane fired up its engines and trundled out of view to our left. With a massive roar, the plane started its take off, firing past us, across the highway, before it began to take flight [with what felt like metres] before the end of the runway - which falls immediately into ocean.

The boom gates opened, and the traffic recommenced. Sufficiently bemused, we resumed our search for our hotel. The air was warm - slightly too warm for my coat but I was not used to bare arms after so long in the London cold. The sky remained grey with the big looming cloud, which also helped to keep temperates a little on the cooler side. 

By now, as is usual for me, I was pretty starving, and as we continued walking we were directed to a little square by a local - or a British tourist. But he was probably a local. Here I will digress and mention the strange mix of people in Gibraltar. It is on the very tip of Spain, so there are a lot of Spanish people here, as you can imagine. The pay and the working conditions would be fairly decent. However, there are a lot of British people here, both tourists and locals alike, who are escaping for a warmer climate. Many of the Spanish people employed here actually live across the border as living conditions are far cheaper, but then commute each day into Britain to work. And by "commute", of course I mean "walk or drive across the runway."

I had been hoping for some kind of Spanish/British fusion food here, but was confronted mostly with "Real British food! Authentic British Fish and Chips". In the end, we found a seafood cafe and ordered their platter for two. This turned out to be enormous. No other way to describe it, and I don't think Dan and I made it through half of the prawns, octopus, and other miscellaneous fish - not even with the help of two healthy looking cats that hovered near us hoping for (and receiving!) the odd piscine morsel. 

Sated, and after chasing the waitresses repeatedly for our bill, we finally continued on to our hotel and checked in. I thought we still owed for the accommodation and was pleasantly surprised when we didn't have to pay anything more. Our room had a fantastic view of The Rock, and as I was peeking out the window I realised the cloud was dissipating and the sky getting lighter and brighter.

"Stuff it!" we said, and decided to race to get up The Rock before the cable car closed at 5pm. Even if the weather remained gloomy, we could always go back tomorrow if need be.

The Rock takes up almost the entirety of Gibraltar, and is mostly uninhabited. Except by one very special host.

The tip of the mountain is covered in the Gibraltar Apes, a special species of Barbary macaques which have evolved without a tail. Thus we were going to go up The Rock to see the view and meet some of these furry creatures.

As we trundled down the road, the sky continued to clear and the sun began pouring down. We overshot the beginning of the cable car, and had to back track but eventually made it to the end. We asked for a ticket to the top, but also for the national park which includes some caves and a couple of ruins. Unfortunately, the lady recommended not to do the national park as we wouldn't have enough time. No matter - I have seen ruins and caves before, so we just got our ticket for the cable car ("Only 6 minutes to the top!") and we hopped in. 

I stood at the front, holding tight and peering over the handle bar next to a 6 year old girl who was standing on the ledge doing the same. The sun had come out in all its glory and Dan and I congratulated ourselves for hop skipping it to The Rock.

6 minutes later when we reached the top, we wandered over to the lookout. The cloud that had been hovering over The Rock was slowly dissipating, and I could actually see where the cloud hit the edge of the rockface, and washed over. As we stood watching the cloud gradually dispersed.

I looked back towards to cable car and spotted a monkey casually perched on the railing.

"Eeeeeee!" I squealed and ran over. I took a lot of photos, happy that I managed to see one of the famous Gibraltar Apes, before realising that they were everywhere. On the spiral staircase we had ascended from not 15 minutes prior was a mummy and two baby monkeys, hoeing into a crisp packet. Over there a large daddy monkey wandered away from the crowd, swinging himself up to sit on the edge.

These monkeys are the city keepers, they watch over the people below. I was astounded at how they roamed free. They were wild creatures, but very tame while interacting with the human apes. I squeed at many a baby monkey, fleas being picked off by their mothers, and walked directly into the fart stench of another pink-butted monkey as he traipsed ahead of us.

All too soon it was time to descend, and we caught the second-to-last cable car back down to the city below. The weather had played out beautifully for us, the monkeys had been in full form, and I was very happy.

As the sun was setting, we had a peek in the Botanic Gardens that were at the base of the The Rock. This gave me a chance to sit down and relax, and also revel in the fact that I was wearing a sleeveless top for the first time in months and could feel the vitamin D warming my skin. It made me happy.

As it grew dark, we walked back to our hotel the long way along the water front. Unfortunately dinner that night was a little bit uncomfortable for me: due to sleeping poorly for the previous 4 nights, and having been on the move since 4am that morning, I was feeling sick and exhausted. We found a place serving pizza (there aren't a huge number of restaurants here and many of them are $$$$). I struggled to eat, and after that we called it a night.

It had been a long, exhausting day but it was incredible meeting the furry locals.

Sunday 24 January

While Australia Day celebrations were happening back in London (yes, I know wasn't the actual day but London can't really celebrate on a Tuesday) I was going to spending the day simply walking into Spain.

We packed up our things and checked out of our hotel early. Wandering along the streets, I looked for a coffee house that had good reviews but as we approached we discovered it was shut. Continuing on, I spotted a sign for the oldest tavern in Gibraltar and seeing as we couldn't find it the previous night, decided to have a peek. Turns out, it was more like a lovely little cafe restaurant than a bar - and they served breakfast. 

A great coffee and simple breakfast later, we were on our way...to Spain. We walked across the runway again - this time no planes were getting ready to fly - and approached the border.

The border consisted of a small room - Leaving Gibraltar, an outside area - No-Man's-Land, another room - Entering Spain and hey presto, you're in another country. The bored officials in both countries didn't care to look at our passports, and so we shuffled straight across without a second thought.

We stood on the other side a moment, basking in the idea that, 100 metres ago, we were in Britain, and now we were standing in Spain. 5 minutes ago, we were on England's soil, and through a couple of turnstiles, we were standing underneath the Spanish sun instead.

We wanted to catch a bus to a nearby town called Algeciras, but the internet was not cooperating and we couldn't find the bus terminal. Eventually it played the game, and when we made it there we discovered a bus had just left. No matter - it wasn't long to wait until the next one. A crowd began for form and, even though all the ticketing turnstiles were closed, we knew were in the right place. 

Once the bus had arrived, Dan purchased our tickets with ease and we settled in for the ride. A man in the seat across from us stared at me for much of the journey, but aside from that it was uneventful. The scenery out the window was beautiful as we mostly skirted the sea border and could see The Rock growing smaller in the distance.

We alighted at Algeciras and made our way to the water front. After a wander to see what was available for food, we ended up right back at the first place we saw.

Sitting at a table outside in the beaming sunshine, an elderly waiter (or possibly the owner) approached us, asking "English?"
Yes, we replied, and he ran off. A short while later, a young waiter brought us English menus and I realised that he had been sent to wait on us as he could speak our language. We perused the menu for a short while, ordering a range of tapas and some red wine.

Ok, let me rave about the wine for a second. It was an incredible Spanish red, and each glass was equivalent to €2. Yaha. Pretty amazing. The tapas was extremely tasty and, while we were enjoying the sunshine, we grabbed ourselves a second glass of delicious, gloriously inexpensive red wine.

After food, we wandered along the waterfront for a while, enjoying the red wine glow and the sun in the sky - sun we hadn't felt in London for months, and peering at The Rock of Gibraltar looming in the distance, a constant reminder of Britain's rule at the tip of their country. As usual, Gibraltar had its own personal cloud hanging over it - it must catch the clouds in a drift!

Soon enough, it was time to make our way back to the border. The bus ride back was just as uneventful (although we did have to rush to make sure we caught it!) and returned to the bus station in the late afternoon. There was still a few hours until we had to be at the airport - which was literally just across the border - so we walked down to the beach to stick our finger in Spanish seas.

It was bizarre for me to be looking at The Rock of Gibraltar, which is British, while standing in Spain. I find the concept of borders fascinating. There is no difference in the land, the temperature, the terrain - yet within the space of a few metres you face different languages, currencies, religions, belief systems.

We walked right up to the fenced border which extended out into the ocean and considered how easy it would be to just swim around it. We peered into the space between which was No Country. Just space.

After ogling The Rock aplenty, I was desperate to try some Spanish sangria and see if we could find some paella and churros - it really is all about the food with me!

We returned to a large restaurant we had seen close to the border, and realised that time was ticking and we didn't have as much as we thought. I approached the bar, and asked the waiter if he had a menu. He looked at me. I realised that we were going to have a language problem.

Together, we found some menus in English and I asked him if they served churros. Churros? He looked at me, completely lost. "Dessert, chocolate?" I tried desperately to mime the act of eating churros and dipping them in the chocolate sauce.

"Ah, tia maria!" he replied. No no...I changed tact.

"Sangria?" 

"Ah! Sangria!"

"And 1," raising one finger, "1 paella."

I returned to the table, looked at Dan, and said, "Well, I think I ordered something."

Dan had never tasted sangria before. Sangria is a deadly combination, but oh so delicious. When this one arrived, it tasted quite innocent to begin with - but that's because the red wine had fallen to the bottom of the carafe. Then the paella arrived. I had never had paella before, and it was delivered to our table in an enormous, shallow vat. My eyes boggled. There was no way we were going to get through that!

It was, of course, delicious. Dan and I gave it an excellent go, getting through perhaps 2/3rds of the vat (and it truly was a vat!) before it was time to waddle to the airport.

The moon shone over the rock, which again was cloaked in its personal grey cloud. Customs was non-descript and easy - we were only flying nationally, remember - and we spent some time on the observation deck watching cars, pedestrians and planes all fight for the same space on the run way.

Gibraltar, you were indeed a very pretty, if slightly confusing, place. I may not see you again, so thank you for the sunshine, the chance to discover your history and meeting your locals - the Barnaby macaques, that is!

******

On my return, I posted a picture I had taken of The Rock from the Spanish side of the border onto Twitter. A large Gibraltan group discovered my photo, and not only retweeted, but posted to Facebook (and credited me after a bit of prompting), but also retweeted me in Spanish - how many people can say they have been translated to Spanish?

Til next time,

x

*Credit goes to Dan for dubbing it Gibby Raltar. I added "Rock Star" considering Gibraltar is almost entirely composed of an enormous rock…I reckon that's an excellent name for a band!

RT @flossycomet En España, mirando el peñón británico de #Gibraltar. Imponente y algo confuso para una australiana pic.twitter.com/C5YcrAm6Ih

— InfoGibraltar (@InfoGibraltar) January 29, 2016

Pamplona - how I ended up in Spain, Part 3

By the time we got back to the camp from the fireworks and debriefed, it was 1am before I made it to bed. My alarm was set for 5am the next morning and I had had a little bit of sangria the night before. After an eventful and sleepless few hours (note: my tentmate's mattress being sneakily stolen as I watched it sliding through the tent opening, not with my tentmates voice on the other side ;) ), I woke up about 4.30am and figured..this'll do. I'm not going to get any more sleep. Let's get this show on the road.

As I emerged from my tent, a figure dressed all in white stumbled past me to hurl at the tree base. This was off to a good start. I made my way to the shower (got in straight away, *fist pump*!) and realised that I was suffering from a mild-medium hangover. Back at my tent and a nurofriend later, I packed up my things and played the waiting game. Surrounded by a lot of seedy faces, we slowly made our way to the bus. I, for one, was wondering what the hell I was doing. I was dressed all in white, red sash around my waist, red neckerchief tied tied, arms crossed against the bitter cold. I was intending to run with the bulls that morning, and I was petrified.

I ran into Bec as I was boarding the bus. "Are you running?" I squeaked. Affirmative, and so we made the pact to meet before. Amy, too was prepared to run - but I couldn't find all the other brave girls who had sworn they were joining in too. At the conclusion of the nausea ting bus ride (reminder: I was battling a mild hangover), the girls and I grabbed some water and made our way to the town square. We pushed our way towards the centre - the crowd at this stage tight, but not claustrophobic. Somehow amongst the madness, we spotted the boys who were running and made our way over to them. Again, here stood a few unwell faces, tired eyes, nauseous souls. I shook. I was scared. I didn't know what to expect. We quizzed a boy who had run the day before. "Where do we go to start? How should we do it? What happened yesterday? Did you fall over? How many bulls do they release?"

The generally agreed tactic was to make our way past Dead Man's Corner (at Dead Man's Corner, bulls often lose their footing and slide out, crushing people against the side). After Dead Man's Corner it was. The next pointer was to wait until the first lot of about 6 bulls had past, run like hell to try to make it to the arena before the second lot of 2 bulls.

Suddenly the crowd surged and we got to know our neighbours a whole lot better. The crowd packed in. Obviously the police had begun shaving people from the edges and setting up the barriers. We stood pressed together, making small talk. Myself being so little, I was generally around armpit height, which is always fun. The instructional video continued to be broadcast on repeat: a cheerful cartoon with strangely calming music. The video made one think that the Running of the Bulls was a leisurely stroll in the park with a couple of non-threatening fluffy cows, not adrenaline filled madness with unpredictable, mad enormous bulls. Interestingly, one of the reasons that I was apprehensive about running with the bulls was that traditionally, women are not welcome. I had absolutely no problem from the Spanish men and was met with smiles, not spitting or bottles hurled at me as others had described. The instructional video also had changed with the times and each instruction alternated between a male cartoon (leisurely strolling in the park with a fluffy cow) to a female cartoon (leisurely strolling in the park with a fluffy cow).

The crowd surged even more than I thought humanely possible. If arms were up, they stayed up. If you were facing backwards - backwards is how you were going to remain. I lifted my head backwards in the vain hope of breathing some fresh air. Almost as suddenly, the crowd eased and I realised it was time. Absolutely no backing out now. Bec and Amy and I, along with the boys began to make our way down the track. In a few minutes, the cannon will sound, indicating the bulls have been let lose. We quickly made our way down, with a small startled sprint when someone beside us began to sprint. Lots of jumpy, nervous people around. The slightest twitch would set the people off on a scattered run.

We found a doorway vantage point down past Dead Man's Corner and nervously waited, chatting with another Aussie who we also found in the doorway. We heard the cannon, and then we waited with baited breath to see when others would start running - that means the bulls were there. People soon ran past us and pushed us closer to the wall. With a single layer of people between myself and the bulls, they powered past. I screamed as I watched two people fall and get tangled beneath the bulls hoofs in front of me. I hope they were ok. I began to run to try to keep up with the bulls but I fell behind. The pathway opened and the remaining two powered past. Sadly I wasn't quick enough to make it into the arena as the gates closed - a fact I feel conflicted towards - I'm not sure how I would have coped in the arena as once in, there's not a lot of escape. Maybe next year, now I know what I'm doing ;)

Bec and I had stayed together, and we tried to find another way into the arena. All tickets were sold by now and scalpers no longer to be seen so we started to make our way back to the meeting point to see if Amy got into the arena or not. On the way, we ran into her and made our way to a cafe that was already showing life replays of the run that just happened. Lots of ooohs and aaaahs and oh my god's later, we'd seen the replay from a few different perspectives (the whole course was rigged with cameras; above, on the ground, on the shops). We were starving by now and went to try to find some tapas, but ended up getting some chocolate and churros instead.

Back at the camp, it was all lazy times, naps and packing as we were to be leaving that day. What a crazy ride. I couldn't bring myself to drink any more sangria. We packed and sat around, some nursing hangovers, reminiscing on crazy last few days of our lives and dreading the upcoming 20 hour coach ride. Rumour was spreading that there were exactly half as many people coming home with us, allowing everybody to have a full 2 seats to themselves.

The coach ride was painful as to be expected and nothing out of the ordinary happened. We arrived back to the coast of Calais where I was let back in the UK without a second glance (unlike my first eventful experience getting into the country) and we made our way back to the Walkie, where the adventure had begun.


Spain, you had me. I feel had. You're a crazy, crazy place. I'll be seeing you soon.

xx

Pamplona - how I ended up in Spain, Part 2

Wake up alarms began sounding at 4.30am, 4.35am, 4.40am the next morning, signalling the start of a very long day beginning with the first Running of the Bulls. Many in our tour were going to run today (despite suggestions not to) and were amping themselves up. Some didn't even make it out of bed today after a big hard night of partying the night before. Some of the boys had returned home with interesting hair adornments and styles - a true sign of a good night out.

Stumbling around at 5 in the morning in Spain is cold and dark. We were tired and ranging on the hungover scale. We made it to the bus, shivering, and many of us managed a little snooze on the 45 minute coach ride in. I was adamant that I wanted to get into the stadium to see, and Kim, Robbie and myself pushed our way to the queue for tickets. Only 6 euros and we were in. By this stage, it was about 6.30am as we emerged into the stadium, securing good seats to watch what was going to unfurl. For the next hour and a half until the bull run began, we were entertained by a marching band, footage from the year before, songs sung in Spanish and a bio on each of the bulls who were to be run today. They all had a name and ranged, roughly, from 500-600kg's each. That's kinda not small. That's kinda enormous. Time continued to pass and soon enough, it was 8am and the cannon was to go off - the bulls along with it.

Strung along the bull running path were many cameras, and so we saw the carnage from different angles. Largely, the bulls ran in a pack together and didn't try to veer, although at times they lost their footing or people just got in the way. After only about 2 minutes, the first people started to pop through the stadium entrance - bulls in tow. More and more people entered, as bull after bull burst into the ring and raced across to the other side. For those who aren't aware, these are the bulls that are to be sacrificed in the bull fight tonight. The arena filled with white, the runners began cheering and congratulating themselves. This was short lived, as, unbenownst to most of them (silly tourists), another 2 bulls had been released after the rest. These burst into the ring and the white scattered out of their way.

All bulls across to the other side now, the arena gates were closed, and those inside were to face the next stage of the bull run. Again, many tourists seemed unaware of what was to happen and were rather shocked when a smaller steer was let into the ring, sending people running in all directions. Many people lined the sides, rows and rows deep - by now it was too difficult to try to get out of the arena over the barrier so once they were in, they were in.

This part of the bull run was dividing. It was exciting - but the tourists simply showed no respect - you do not touch the bull. They thought the Spanish crowd was cheering? No, the crowd was hurling abuse. You do not incite the bull. You do not slap, hit, pull the tail or the horns and, to be honest, I was rooting for the bull. I hope no one got seriously hurt, but if they did, it was their own fault. No insurance will cover the Running of the Bulls - you do it at your own risk. One gentleman (and I use the term loosely) got a horn between the legs, which would have been exceptionally painful, however he went back for seconds and got a bit of a thrown down, arms up, cheering his own macho-ness. One tourist jumped on the back of the bull, to which the local Spaniards began beating the ever living shit out of him - you don't touch the bull.

Every few minutes, the steer was rounded up by a big..pasture bull? Mamma? I can't work out what it was - surely it wasn't a female with those enormous horns, but I can't find any information anywhere. It was placid and docile and was led into the stadium. The small steer would generally stop trying to gore people and turn to follow the big one. Hilariously, most people didn't see the big one coming and it would just plow into people (slowly, not violently) - catching people in its horns and dragging them along. It was priceless to see their faces -and I'm pretty sure a few may have soiled themselves judging by their look - this bull wasn't going to hurt them, it was just a bit of a steamroller.

This part of the bull run lasted for about 45 minutes - every few minutes the steer was replaced by another. People would crouch down in front of the entrance so that the steer was forced to jump over them - that was rather exciting, as they aren't interested in trampling you, they'd rather jump over you.

At the conclusion, we made our way out of the arena and jumped on the coach back into the campsite. Forgoing a much needed nap, I opted to start drinking sangria instead and some of us headed to the bar, awaiting the Topdeck Sangria BBQ. By the time the BBQ rolled around, many of us were rather lightly toasted and the stories from the boys who ran were making the rounds. Where they were, how they got into the arena, how they gallantly jumped out of the way.

The evening consisted of..you guessed it..more sangria..and I'm pretty sure a tequila shot in there somewhere too..before heading back into Pamplona to see the fireworks. We squished our way into the grassy arena to get prime position - I love fireworks, have I mentioned that before? I'm such a little pyro. The fireworks were lovely (and seemingly endless, every time we thought it was the finale, another round would come) before a final two little spluttering fireworks signalled the end. We returned to our campsite and I prepared for what was going to be a terrifying day ahead.

To be continued.

In the stadium before it all starts - filling with spectators

The bulls running through! It's not good for people to reach the
arena before the bulls, hence not many people in there.

Heaps of runners in the arena before...

...they let loose a little bull

Steer about to hit someone, with the big pasture bull behind

Evening fireworks :)

Pamplona - how I ended up in Spain, Part 1

I'm going to skip forward a couple of days and then return to what happened in the interim.

As some of you by now already know (even though I was trying to keep it on the lowdown until I signed the dotted line), I did in fact get offered the job at Imperial College - the one I had been obsessing about and interviewed for the day after I arrived as a broken human being. I got it. Like, seriously. Something has to go wrong, this is going much too smoothly. Maybe it's good karma after the stress of almost not being let into the country?

The position starts July 15 and so my next question was - what can I do in the meantime? Let's do something crazy! Pamplona was the word on everybody's lips and so I got the very very last spot with the Topdeck Pronto 6 day tour (with much thanks to BritBound and MC for squeezing me in).

This was on Monday, 30 June. The tour was leaving Friday, 4 July. Nothing really sunk in until I was on the bus. I'm going to Spain? Wha? Running of the Bulls? I'll do the thought process later.

Thursday night, some of the BritBounders who were travelling met together at a Spanish restaurant to get to know one another and have a couple of familiar faces. Here I met Emera and Ashley, Guy, Megan and Leigh, and Kimberley. We bid each other farewell until the morrow and went home to finish packing.

Friday morning, wheely suitcase and backpack loaded, I made my way to the Walkie. On the way, I received a message from MC asking if I was there yet (which sent me into a panic as I thought I was running late). Turned out another BritBounder went to the wrong location, but all was well in the end. At the Walkie, I excitedly sat with those I had met the night before, Guy and Kimberley (who kindly lent me a European power adaptor) and we tried to guess what the next few days were going to be like.  We boarded the coach, I sat with Kim - and we began the first leg to Dover, about a 2 hour drive from the Walkie. (There was slight drama here with the ferry, and where we were meant to board, and missing people, but I won't go into those details).

The next 20 hours passed...rather slowly. Not in a blur, not swiftly with excitement, but rather painfully and slowly. First stop: Dover, where we saw the White Cliffs. We boarded the ferry (P&O - a bit of information for you, Mum!) and embarked towards France. I was a little bit crazy as I was about to land on French soil. 2 ill-advised ciders later (and also a broken seal..) and we jumped off the ferry and into our Topdeck coach in France. In France! Kim enjoyed my excitement as I pointed out particularly French things - look! French cows! Over there! French trees. Oh! A french building! I tried not to overdo this to the point of her stabbing me in the face with frustration; I think I succeeded.

We stopped every 4 hours for a stretch, toilet stop and some food. I had some of the most hideous chicken nuggets I have ever had the misfortune of experiencing in a service station in France. The customer service was roughly the same. I popped some half sleeping tablets and while not knocked out completely, this did afford me a couple of hours here and there and the luxury of dozing. The coach ride gave us the chance to start getting to know the other people on the tour (about 60 of us on our particular tour, although there were over 400 Topdeckers staying in the camp site on other variations of the tour). As we had been sitting together, our tent numbers also became close together - so these became the people I was to socialise with for the next 6 days.

Arriving at the campsite, we made our way to our tents and dumped our stuff. The talk around me was to go to the bar and then for a swim. I almost cried - I only wanted to sleep. I sat on the airmattress for a while and then slowly forced myself to put my bathers on - encouraging a second wind of enthusiasm and I was alright again. At the bar, I introduced myself to Kat, Dave, Dan and Sherrie and we had a breakfast sangria or 2 (or 3? I can't remember). It was 10.10am, and this was to set the tone for the next few days in Spain. We wandered down to the lake on the campsite (with more sangria - 1L for 2 euros) and went for a dip - today was 32C and we all got a bit sunburnt. Spanish sunburn! Which will hopefully turn into a Spanish tan and not peel, Spanishly.

After a dip and too much sangria, some of us jumped on the bus and had a tour of Pamplona, as well as tips and tricks for staying alive and un-gored if any of us were to do the bull run. It was a hot day and combination sangria, lack of sleep, lack of food and dehydration ended up with me having a borderline migraine and the first to lose the bet on who would chunder first on the trip. That's right. I'm gonna own that.

Fell into bed and slept like a log.

Sunday morning arrived and I felt wonderful but was surrounded by some seedy heads. Sunday was the opening ceremony for the San Fermin festival and so we all donned our white pants, white t-shirt (most of us chose to wear the Topdeck one in case we lost each other in the crowd) and red waist sash. We were not to put our red neckerchief on until the cannon had sounded at midday. We arrived into town just after 10am and, as a group roughly 14 strong, we made our way exactly where we were recommended not to go - into the town square. Along the way, we purchased our first bottle of sangria for the day (1.5L for 3 euros) which was then carefully poured into our sangria sacks for optimal drinking and sangria squirting. In the town square, things were already beginning to get crazy. Drunk Spaniards with their home made sangria in giant 5L or more bottles. Buckets full of sangria and large cups, ready to be thrown at all and everyone. Anyone who ended up on someone else's shoulders was instantly doused with sangria. Anyone who was even in the square simply ended up covered in sangria. We were squirting it at each other and throwing it, and getting caught in cross-fires from other groups. It was crazy and mental and insane. Someone decided it would be a good idea to begin throwing empty (or mostly empty) bottles of sangria into someone's balcony (the town square was lined with tall housing blocks). This resulted in hundreds and hundreds of bottles flying through the air - until the balcony was filled. They then started on the adjoining balcony. I could see the residents inside - they were laughing. They weren't mad. This was all part of the crazy.

A couple of giant inflatable balls joined the fray. More sangria throwing. More people. Squishy squishy. Until it was almost midday and the crowd had become the single biggest mosh-pit I've ever experienced in my life. I was separated from the group and surrounded by about five 6'+ enormous Spaniards who were holding up their red neckerchiefs and chanting San Fermin! San Fermin! I was a fraction panicky as I desperately did not want to fall over. I held onto the back-fat of the Spaniard in front of me as the crowd grew closer and closer and more and more frenzied. Jumping, pushing, screaming, as it drew closer to midday. San Fermin! San Fermin! People emerged onto the balcony of the main building and the crowd settled slightly - awaiting the cannon to be fired and the start of the festival. And...boom! San Fermin! Everyone pumped their red neckerchiefs in the air and tied it around their necks. Jumping, dancing, screaming, sangria, white, red, pink.

After the boom, the crowd dispersed slightly and I spotted Robbie in the crowd. I pushed my way over to him and found the rest of the group. We continued to drink sangria and pour sangria and slowly made our way out of the fray which had begun to thin (but only slightly, just enough to move). The whole experience was completely crazy.

We tried to go to the main square but ended up in a smaller, more family friendly square. We stopped here for a while to catch our breath and exclaim how incredible that all just was and admire our sangria stains. A band marched past us, followed by one of the coolest drumming bands I have ever heard.  Sidetracked, we stopped and danced for a while as the drummers, enormous smiles on their faces, drummed in unison incredibly catchy beats. I wish I knew what they were playing so I could find that music again. It brought such happiness! The drummers continued on and we made our way to the main square.

It was like herding cats - there was 14 of us, an enormous crowd to battle through, and people stopping along the way. The streets were soaked with sangria and cider and piss and basically miscellaneous liquids as the cleaners used high pressure hoses to just wash it all away...

In the main square, we needed 3 things; 1) more sangria, 2) bathrooms and 3) food (not necessarily in that order). We had some tapas and other food, waiting in line for the toilet for about half an hour and then some of us caught the coach back to the campsite because we were bushed.

What a mental day. After a while back at the camp, I mustered the energy for a shower - one of the sweetest showers I have ever had in my life, albeit lukewarm-to-cold and having to press for water every 15 seconds. Ahh, the stink of clean. We continued partying and eating and drinking and went to bed rather early - it was going to be a difficult 5am start the next day so we could secure good places for the first Running of the Bulls.

To be continued.

Lake at the campsite

1.5L sangria for breakfast, opening ceremony of San Fermin

Before: shiny white and clean

After! 

The houses lining the town square 

Sea of white (and slightly pinkish)