posted by Guest blogger - Kris Goodbody | 0 Comments
This was a rough leg of the trip, maybe the roughest thing I’ve ever got myself into. The plan was to find our way from the Atlantic coastal city of San Sebastian to Barcelona, the Mediterranean’s own Sodom and Gomorrah. This route would take us across the foothills of the Pyrenees, into Pamplona for the opening of the San Fermin Bull Run, down into the desert wastelands of Spain’s red centre, a final traverse of a few unexpected mountains, and straight into the welcoming Mediterranean Sea.
This all seemed like great fun until our first day from San Sebastian after a few days surfing, accompanied by another heartbreaking hangover – the manner of which could bring a grown man to his knees. A trail of bright orange vomit wound its way behind us in a sort of Hansel and Grettel fashion all the way to our first stop on a busy roadside just outside the strange little town of Tolosa. We were beginning to learn our lesson.
Day two saw us making the push for Pamplona where the male ego would reluctantly lead us into risking our lives in order to outdo each other in the infamous Bull Run. But first we would have to make it through the opening ceremony.
This was like nothing I had ever seen before; an ocean of red and white gradually merging into one as every man woman and child was covered from head to toe in sangria. People were hurling this vicious concoction from balconies by the bucket load onto a heaving mass of people, fighting, kissing, groping, and even writhing around on the ground. It then dawned upon me that this was a case study in debauchery.
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