VIRTUAL BULL RUNNING IN PAMPLONA

(or – I think Sally has developed *Tourette’s)

I was recently driving back to Spain from Ireland and made a point of stopping in Pamplona to pay homage to the legendary writer Ernest Hemingway. It was partly Hemingway’s fault that I came to Spain in fact, along with a number of other dreamers. Artists and writers are all let from the same vein in my opinion. Some more arterial than others of course… and so I hope this creates a clumsy lead into the blood sport synonymous with Pamplona

The running of the bulls has taken place on the 7^th of July each year for many, many decades and was described so well by Hemingway that you could almost smell the ordure in the streets as well as being deafened by the screaming crowds. Imagine being the poor bull.

I have always wanted to run with the bulls, dressed all in white with a red bandana (me that is, not the bulls). Whenever I resurface this foolhardy ambition, usually after a bottle or two of courage-inducing red wine my guests tell me not to be so stupid. I always quantify it with the fact that I intend running after the bulls and not in front. Closer to the blunt end as opposed to the sharp, so to speak. At least that way I only risk skidding down the street on a flood of diuretic induced panic on the part of the bulls.

When I was there last week, it was an unusually cold February day. A watery winter sun gave no solace in the cutting chill as I was transported through the twisting cobbled streets and crumbling narrow buildings, squeezed into spaces so small as to have barely enough room to have a front door let alone windows. My girlfriend, who is not called Sally by the way, was driving at the time and stopped near the square to take in the scene.

Sally, the trois in my ménage, is my GPS satellite navigation device (that saves countless marriages throughout the world and perhaps should be given free with each first visit to the marriage guidance counsellor, as it would certainly cut down on their workload). So ‘Sally-SatNav’ has become a trusted friend and mentor in many situations of my life.

When I travel alone she comforts, consoles and guides me and never judges me when I get it wrong or ignore her. She never argues back, listens to all my problems and lets me sing to her no matter how bad I am without complaining. Problem is I only just found out I can set alarms on her to warn me that I am breaking the speed limit, locations of speed cameras and points of interest en route.

While travelling alone through France I set an alarm to let me know when I was passing within 250 metres of a hotel. Very handy when tracking down a long motorway and frequent rest stops are required. There are various built in noises you can use as alarms on Sally such as bells and bleeps, but I thought it would be funny to use a mooing cow as my hotel alarm instead. This is fine when in open country but hit a city centre and she goes into overdrive! It’s like a virtual farmyard of cacophonous sounds. “At the next junction turn MOOO!”, “Turn left at MOOO! next roundabout”, “In five hundred MOOO!tres you have MOOO!ched your destination” and so on. Okay, so it was funny the first time it happened. Driving along the Rue de Rivoli in Paris took on a surreal quality for example, as I passed the Hotel De Meurice where, ironically, Salvador Dali frequented during his heyday.

Anyway, back to Pamplona. I decided to take a walk along the narrow route of the streets to try to get a feel for the atmosphere that Hemingway breathed life into in ‘The Sun Also Rises’. As I walked along the cold shadowed streets, my girlfriend Rita drove slowly behind me, more sensibly in the warm car but with the window down to get a better look at the old doorways and shutters and take some photographs as she passed. As I walked I imagined I could see the flags waving and the people hanging over the parapets shouting down into the street. I felt the tension building as it would in the hot mornings of July 7^th each year. The feeling of being hemmed in with all that unstoppable muscle and sinew charging down the street made my heart involuntarily beat a little faster than normal.

I stopped suddenly when I heard a loud “MOOO!” Surely I was imagining it? No, it can’t be! “MOOO!” There it was again. Someone has let them out early! Five months early! Even though I knew it was impossible, I imagined I felt the hot breath gaining on me with every quickened step along the street. “MOOO!” I heard again. It was closer this time. I started walking faster, trying to stay nonchalant and cool, in case anyone was watching. “MOOOO!” I speeded up. “MOOOOO!” So did the sound. It was echoing around the terraces of the houses… “MOOOOOO!” “MOOOOOO!” I picked up my coat tails and ran down the street in a blind panic. “MOOOOOO!” It got closer and closer until I could feel it sucking at my heels. “MOOOOOO!” I was afraid to look round in case I lost my footing and went under the stampeding hooves.

Finally I ran out into the next street that runs alongside the entrance to the bullring and saw a grandiose statue of Hemingway’s head gloating at my stupidity. Rita pulled up the car beside me and looked incredulously at this panting, sweating wreck of a middle aged fool, just as Sally let rip another, but less resounding “MOOO!” in my direction.

I never knew there were so many hotels in Pamplona.

* Editor’s Note

Tourette’s was once considered a rare and bizarre syndrome, most often associated with the exclamation of obscene words or socially inappropriate and derogatory remarks (coprolalia). However, this symptom is present in only a small minority of people with Tourette’s.^[1] Tourette’s is no longer considered a rare condition, but it may not always be correctly identified because most cases are classified as mild.

TJ Miles is a professional artist and has had his home and studio in Torrevieja for 8 years. He has a nomadic lifestyle but the lure of heady days spent lolling around in the sun and sea finally brought him to his senses, deciding to stay on a more semi-permanent basis. He also runs art classes, exhibitions and writes poetry. What is the art to living in Spain for him? A reasonably stress-free life, a relatively healthy tan on the outside and, hopefully, a sunnier disposition on the inside. Maybe I am just trying to capture some of that youth back and maybe, just maybe, help myself to live a little longer in the process? http://tjmilesart.blogspot.com/