Fan y Big

Another icy cold late December morning.  

Plans were laid to drive further up into the Brecon Beacons near Merthyr Tydfil, park the car at the foot of the peaks, and hike the "horseshoe"- a trip up a mountain and across the ridge lines of the next 3 or 4 peaks before heading back to the carpark, a trip of 14-17 miles, 

First, we had the young bulls to contend with.  They scrambled and fought and pushed each other all over the trail, pausing to catch their breaths, smoke rising from their faces.

The day started clear, but as we started the incredibly steep climb up Fan y Big, our first obstacle, and the clouds set in.

Once the trail evened out for the ridge walk,  I longed for the steep staircase again as I was unhappily ice skating on the trail.  I'm not exactly the most nimble of hikers, and the entire trail was nothing but a glare of ice.

Then the wind picked up.  The fact that we were walking on an icy cliff-side trail was comforting to me since I couldn't see the sheer drop into the abyss.

I had a full-on scarf covering everything but my eyes, hat and hood and layers of heavy woolens and a wind-proof jacket and mittens and I was not exactly cold, but not comfortable at all in that wind.  I kept hiking on the moorland instead of the trail- the going was slower, but less icy.

It cleared enough for me to see that we were quite near the edge of the world.

Coming down Fan y Big, we got low enough for visibility to happen again.

In front of us, the peaks of Cribyn, Pen y fen and Corn Du.  We had already done the majority of the climbing, so going up the next few peaks would be relatively easy.

We hit the crossroads and I just decided that I wasn't having fun.  I'm not a complainer at all, but the ice and wind and lack of views meant I just wasn't enjoying myself the way I usually do on these hikes.

It was a hard choice- turning our backs on three big peaks in walking distance?  argh!- but I decided that I had enough.  Walking head-on into the wind was just exhausting, and when we stopped in between peaks, I realized how shaky tired and cold I was.

We headed back down the valley to the car park, mercifully tucked away from the wind.

I was told that Corn Du was quite a scramble to get up, and the original plan would have been to walk back along that ridge line.

Once we hit the car park, we had a tiny bit of daylight left.  After wolfing down our sandwiches in the car (it was cold enough so that getting a sandwich up to my face on the trail seemed impossible)  we tried to do another walk since we had only done 8 miles for the day, but after a couple hundred yards I headed back to the warmth of the car.

The area was really stunning.  Summertime here is a new to-do for me.    

Rodeo

The town of Paradiso...paradise!...

Like every rural center in this part of Costa Rica, they get their own rodeo.  The local talent comes out and rides the local bulls, the bull owners get to show off and claim that their bull is more bull than everyone elses' bull.  When you drive around the countryside this time of year, you can see workers setting up and tearing down the bullrings.  Tiny rickety carnival rides get hauled in, bands and loud music blares from multiple corners of the soccer pitch, and people completely enjoy themselves while eating the same crappy fried food that you get at events in the US.  Fried dough!  Churros!  Greasy fried things that are unrecognizable as food!  Oh, and yes, beer.  Lots.  Of.  Beer.  It's really just a lovely time.  

The way the setup works is that spectators can join in on the spectacle, and teenagers and men jump in the ring and attempt to distract the bull and keep it from goring the fallen bullrider.  Generally, they all scramble to safety once the bull is released, but as the night wears on and more alcohol is consumed, the ring gets more crowded with tourist and locals.

After much booing and hold-ups, the bull is released, the rider, who may or may not stay on for 8 seconds, is thrown.  The locals attempt to distract the bull and annoy it into chasing after them to prove their manliness, and generally the bull just stares or occasionally charges, and everyone runs and jumps out of the corriador.

The bull will then attempt to go back out the gate he came and to the safety of his other bull-friends, but the wranglers will chase him away, because then the cowboys would be left with nothing to do.

So then they come out and display their rope skills, lasso the bull and then widget the bull (quite willingly!) back into the chute.

It's all rather hilarious.

The amateur-hour hi-jinks adds to the charm.  

Another curious wonder:  the district only has two ambulances.  They are both parked outside a chute with a red cross on it.  If a rider gets hurt, they just pick him up and throw him in the chute.  If more than two people get hurt, the rest of the evening's activities are called off.  Since, you know.  They've exhausted their medical resources.

If the men act too cowardly or just not boldly enough, the crowd boos and throws empty beer bottles into the ring.

The bulls were huge and beautiful.  They were not nearly as aggressive and quick as the bulls we saw in Arles last spring.  They were acting more out of surprise and fear and instinct than aggression- they just wanted the predator off their back, as any good herbivore might.  

The cowboys had real cowhorses- animals bred to work around cattle.  Useful and nimble and lovely.

The Warm and Fuzzy Course Camarguaise

So, let's talk for a second about Bullfights.

I can not excuse anyone for enjoying them for a second. They are terribly cruel and bloody, and if it was up to me, I would say poo-poo to your cultural history. The fight is rigged and the bull never wins. Torturing and brutally killing an animal for the sake of entertainment is probably the most barbaric form of expression Western society has decided to keep on with.

They still have these terrible events in Spain, Mexico, Portugal and yes, in France. In Spain, there is even a special kind of surgeon trained to deal with wounds that result in goring. Seriously.

But, saying that...in France, they have a from of non-lethal bullfighting called Course Camarguaise. At the end of the day, the bulls get to go home and go back to running free around the marshes of the Camargue. Remember, I was there a couple years ago? It's the marshy area around where the Rhone river empties out into the Mediterranean. Beautiful white horses, cowboy culture, pink flamingos, wild boars, vicious daytime mosquitoes, isolated beaches. It's an amazing place, and it might be one of my favorite memories of France, along with all the peaches, nectarines, cherries, and melons I couldn't stop eating that week.

The Camargue is also home to the big, beautiful black AOC Camargue Bulls.

This was about as close as I got to one.

It was terrifying.

They spend their lives running free on the marshland. Not a bad life. Most of them are eventually eaten, but the ones of a certain temperament get sent to the bullring.

Anyway. I wouldn't even think about supporting an honest-to-goodness bullfight. However, we headed to Arles to see a Course Camarguaise- the French "bloodless bullfight". Or, bloodless for the bull anyway. The day we saw it, there was no injuries (except pride perhaps).

Basically, you have a group of young, lithe handsome men wearing tight white clothes. One man will try to distract the bull by waving and shouting, while another guy will run up to the bull and try to grab a small ribbon tied around his horn, and then dash out of the arena, doing a flying leap to safety. If he gets a ribbon, he scores a point. There are 6 rounds in a game, with a brand new fresh bull introduced every 15 minutes. When the music played to signify the end of the round, the bull would head right back to the chute where he came from. Totally not the first rodeo they have been in.

It was tense, and quite a bit of fun to watch. While the bull seemed a little perplexed at times, it didn't seem particularly tormented. If the bull got up too much speed, everyone would leap out to safety. If they got him on the short side of the area, the game would begin. If the crowd thought the men were being too slow to approach or a little to quick to jump out or the arena, the crowd was sure to put them in their place. Plus, being in Arles, the game was held in a 2000 year old amphitheater, built by the Romans. People probably cheered on the throwing of the Christians to the Lions at some point in this same spot.

Let the pictures begin:

Oh, incidentally, the blood spots you see on the arena floor...they were from the "real" bullfight from the night before. Sigh.

This was perhaps the one event I've been to where I didn't have the urge to be any closer.

Not only would the bull paw the earth, kicking up clouds of dirt mixing with his urine, those horns were easily able to cross the barricade.

This one bull in particular was more than happy to try to launch himself over.

While the big bulls were terrifying, the small ones were agile and even intense.

Oh, and yes, there is a school for this. And yes, women can enroll.

Sorry about SO MANY PICTURES. I honestly just couldn't help myself. This was so much fun to shoot.