Dr Bob and Sandra                                                                    

July 2005

So you are planning to visit Pamplona for the Festival of San Fermin? You have your Lonely Planet or Rough Guide for Spain; possibly you have contacted Tourist Information (Officina de Tourismo) in Pamplona to obtain additional information.

All well and good. So you are prepared? Well, you think you are.

This year, 2005, San Fermin was the 4th main fiesta in Spain that we had visited by motorhome: the others were Semana Santa at Seville, the Horse Fair at Jerez de la Frontera and the Battle of the Wines at Haro. We had a stupendous time and came away exhausted and wishing we were between 16 and 35, but sadly we are not, we are simply retired.

One immediate tip for those intending to buy a Fiesta outfit (which cost about 30 euros all-told if you are not into designer gear). They are available in all main stores and we purchased ours at an Eroski Centre, just outside Pamplona. You will cut quite a dash in white trousers or skirt, white top, bright red neck chief and bright red scarf at your waist. Some people even wore red shoes and carried red handbags(and not just the females!!!!!!). Now you blend in and don't look like a grockle!!!!

It is a 24-hour street party, centred mainly in the Old Town where the Running of the Bulls actually occurs on a daily basis.

Yes - IT WAS WONDERFUL, but No - we wouldn't do it again.

Well, we live for some of the year in Spain and have property in the south. So, when we were advised that 'wild camping' would be a 'No-no' and that the Guardia and Policia Local would be all over you like a rash, we accepted the advice and booked ourselves into Camping Ezcaba, about 7 km outside Pamplona. Actually we feel the spelling is wrong and it should be Camping E SCAB A. Without doubt, it is the worst site we have ever been on. On the day before the start of the Fiesta (6th July), the site and all other fees increased by a minimum of 150%. So, the daily site fee for 2 adults and our motorhome, Mr. Custard, went up to 30 euros. If you wanted electricity, that was 7.5 euros per day extra. The site became a termite hill!!

One night, we retired to get up the next morning to find ourselves completely surrounded by tents. The only thing they didn't do was to ask if they could pitch on the roof. The noise was atrocious - so much for the sign at the gate saying that all noise was to stop at 12 midnight. If you could get to sleep before 4 am, even with ear-plugs, you were doing well! Enough said. There was stealing on the site and frequent tannoy messages were made to this effect. The place swam in alcohol - in fact that was the main item on sale. Hygiene was poor and God only knows what would have happened in the event of fire.

Complain? What a joke! There was even a sign up informing you that refunds were only given in exceptional circumstances.

The bus service was abysmal, with no attempt made by Pamplona to provide extra vehicles or service. The Concertina buses left about ½ km from the camp, but there was no specific point of pick up so the bus stopped wherever it wanted to. Then there was a melee and it was sheer chance whether you got on or not. It was the same on the return journeys. Also, there were only 12 buses per day with the first at 6.10 am and the last at 2 am. Of course, this also added to the disruption in the camp as people left and, worse, arrived back late, drunk, to continue festivities in the camp itself.

The Concertina buses just had to be seen to be believed! We were packed in like sardines with the vehicles 'bottoming' on every corner, curb and 'sleeping policeman'. People would stop, stare and point in disbelief. I think there was a contest among the Bus Drivers!

In the blurb you were advised to wear 'sensible shoes'. Doc Marten's would be appropriate for a number of reasons. Now, those of you who know Spain will be aware of the national predilection amongst the Male for 'willy-flashing' or 'out-door urination'. No matter where you are, you will see Percy pointed at all and sundry, in fact often straight at passing vehicles.

So, you say to yourself: '24 hour street party, alcohol, national pastime' - and yes, you have it. Where do they go for the call of nature (front and back)? What happens when they consume too much alcohol? What happens to all the empty bottles? If you enter the city early for the Running of the Bulls, then you find out. Broken glass everywhere, every alley and side street is a noxious chasm running in urine, faeces and vomit. Now I have smelt some unsavoury smells in my time but unfortunately, when I left the forces, I turned in my respirator and that was a mistake.

Now, I would be the first to applaud the local services. They close the streets in the old town from 7.00 am until the Running. Out come the water carts, the street sweepers, the disinfectant sprays etc. Out come the Policia Local to clear the drunks, many of whom look as if they have passed into alcohol coma, have aspirated vomit and died. But you know a nasty drunk, and you may know the Spanish Police. It's out with the baton and 'whack'. If they move, they are then moved gently (with a series of boots) into the side of a building and left until the water carts arrive. So, really, it is pretty rank to say the least. By the third day of the fiesta, however, the whole of the old town and most of the main avenues stank to high heaven.

Then at 12 noon on the 6th July, there was the opening ceremony in the Town Hall square. We arrived 2 hours early and found front row seats on one of the 'bull barricades'. The square filled at a steady rate until by 11.45 there was a sea of bodies. Then from the various avenues leading into the square came a series of 'flying wedges' formed by Spanish youths determined that they would be in the square for the opening rocket.

Seated above we were able to see the panic and fear on people's faces as these louts destabilised the equilibrium of the mass. Anyone falling would not have survived, but would have been trampled underfoot or there would have been a succession of toppling bodies. Luckily this did not occur, but we saw several individuals handed out above the crowd to waiting ambulance services. Utter stupidity.

We paid 60 euros each to secure a spot on a balcony on Calle Estafeta, overlooking the route of the Running of the Bulls. Much appears to be written about the number and type of animals released. The ones we saw were not the agile black fighting bulls of Western Spain but rather halt and lame bullocks. Any danger, at least on that day, would have been from an animal falling on a runner, many of whom had to slow down so as not to outpace the invalids. And invalids they were! From above we were able to see the sway-backs, the limping gaits and the spinal abnormalities. Most disappointing: not that someone wasn't gored, but rather that these poor animals were roused from their chemically induced sleep. We have never seen such poor specimens; fighting bulls they were not.

After about 3 days we had had enough of the miasma that was Camping Ezcaba and, negating the last day (for which we had paid in advance ), we drove into Pamplona itself and found an excellent spot between the Railway Station and the town itself. The 'site' was to the side of an abandoned factory with a dog-breeding farm at the bottom of the access road. The site was just being vacated by a group of Australians in 3 UK vehicles and we were told there had been no interest shown by the Police. Here we stayed until the end of the fiesta, leaving at about 1.00 am on the 15th, following the final ceremony (although we did not join in the parade to the shrine of San Fermin). Here at least we were able to get some semblance of a night's sleep, interrupted though it was - but for other reasons!!!!

Night One - Sandra woke me at about 03.00 hrs to inform me that she could hear voices below us (we sleep in the Luton, over the cab). She climbed down and, looking through the cab curtains, observed a middle aged couple with the woman apparently loosening her waistband. As she walked back to the bathroom, Sandra (being naive) considered that the person was going to urinate with her companion keeping watch. By the time she returned from the bathroom however the rhythmic rocking of Mr. Custard indicated that this was not the case and, gazing once more through the curtains, Sandra came face to face (so to speak) with unbridled lust as the couple coupled over the bonnet.

Given our location, the position was obviously 'doggie' with the lust-crazed female holding on to Mr. Custard's windscreen wipers. Sandra called me but before I could take a picture, they (or he) were off (eh, they went). It took a cup of tea and a tot of brandy to recover but, we thought, what a great story to pass on.

This lasted until 03.30hrs. The next morning we awoke thinking we were being broken into. The fly screen guarding the caravan door was striking the door with increasing rapidity. You've guessed it. This time it was teenagers who fled, leaving behind an empty condom packet when I turned on the outside light. For that we should be grateful. And yes, the next night again, this time against the cab passenger door.

Now believe me, this wasn't a dodgy neighbourhood, nor were the ladies the 'street-walking' variety. This was just THE ROMANCE OF THE FIESTA, and explains why, after the closing ceremonies, we left to drive 5 km out of town and park in a Lidl car park.

So, there we have it, our main recollections and memories. What have I missed? The wonderful people that we met both on the campsite and also in Pamplona itself, particularly a Mexican couple now working locally. The Australians and New Zealanders we met and talked to were great and radiated a vitality and freshness you rarely see with Brits (sorry to say).We have an invitation to visit a couple in Sydney when we spend our year in Australia 2006/7.

We remember: the food in a particular bar/cafe, that is until the fiesta doubled the price of the menu del dia to 20 euros each; the atrocious food in the fairground; the Australians fountain-jumping after the opening ceremony; being interviewed by Diario Navarre on the London Bombings; the Running of the Nudes; signs of violence that we have seen at no other fiesta - and so much more.

But would we go again? A resounding NO! Pamplona really has little to offer except the echo of Hemingway, but we can say that we have been there and experienced the spectacle at first hand, and really that is what life is all about, when all is said and done.

How would we scale Pamplona? Of the Fiestas we have visited to date it was a resounding last - but then that is a personal choice.

Now it is on to Anguiana and The Stilt Dancing Fiesta.