Open Writing

Last weekend was our annual village fiesta. Canabal is a tiny village, of about fifty or so houses, half of which are uninhabited. A quarter of the remaining houses are used as second homes, only occupied during the summer months.

As with all village fiestas in this part of Spain, voluntary contributions from the villagers themselves determine the size and scale of the event. With this in mind our fiesta tends to be a fairly low key affair.

Canabal also has the distinction of being the last fiesta of the season, although how this is determined is still a mystery to me.

The Spanish love a party and any reason will do. After our fiesta there are other fiestas for the chestnut harvest, for the slaughter of the pigs, for the new wine and the distilling of the local fire water (aguardiente), to say nothing of Christmas, New Year and the visit of the three kings.

As well as being known as the last fiesta of the season, it also has the reputation of always raining. Being held on the ninth and tenth of October this seems hardly surprising. This year was no exception. The weather had been quite unsettled for three or four days prior to the ninth, but on opening our window shutters that morning we were greeted with not only torrential rain but high winds as well.

Since leaving our home town of Huddersfield, which nestles in the foothills of the English Pennine mountain range, we have rarely seen rain travelling horizontally rather than vertically, but today was an exception. Throughout the week leading up to the fiesta fireworks are launched alerting the surrounding villages and raising the level of anticipation among the local inhabitants. This was done, despite the appalling weather conditions.

Fireworks here are launched by lighting the blue touch paper, holding the end of the stick at arms length, pointing the rocket skyward and waiting for ir to launch itself upward. This operation is performed whilst holding the remainder of the highly explosive missiles in the other hand.

In general there are three different types of fireworks, the ones that whoosh skyward and then explode with a number of loud bangs, the second type whoosh skyward exploding with even louder bangs, and the third type whoosh skyward exploding more like military ordnance than fireworks.

This year the donations had afforded us three live bands, two on Saturday and one Sunday, and sufficient fireworks to announce the fiesta twice a day for a week in advance, plus a final display on Sunday, which lasted all of a minute.

We listened to the first band from the comfort of our home, but with an hour gone and no sign of the torrential rain easing, we donned our water proofs, opened our umbrellas and set off for the village green.

At the back of the village green two stages had been erected and the first of the two bands were playing, singing, and dancing their hearts out.

At the opposite end of the green was the mobile bar tent. Huddled along the length of the bar were thirty or so villagers, brave enough, or maybe stupid enough, to venture out on such an awful night.

In the middle of the green, which would normally be crowded with people, were two mixing desks, the electronic control centres for sound, lights and effects for the respective bands, thousands of pounds worth of equipment sheltered from the elements by make- shift tents covered with plastic.

Whilst standing at the bar, ordering a drink, I noticed two small streams running through it. A barmaid walked from side to side serving people, seemingly oblivious to the fact that water had soaked her jeans to about knee height.

Glancing down at the floor on our side of the bar I was reminded of a school trip to the Lake District, when the entire class had to wade through the ford of a swollen stream.

But for all those who had braved the weather it was an excellent end to a most enjoyable season of fiestas and despite everything we had a fantastic time.

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