Hemingway Adventure (1999) by Michael Palin Page A
Authors: Michael Palin
Tags: Michael Palin
Ads: Link
Afternoon
, which James Michener called a kind of Bible of bullfighting. It still is one of the best books on this arcane art.
Hemingway returned to the subject in 1959, when he crisscrossed the country to chronicle the series of
mano a mano
(one-to-one) contests between two leading matadors.
Life
magazine had commissioned a 10,000-word piece, but he turned in a first draft of 120,000 words, reduced to 45,000 after his death, and published in 1985 as
The Dangerous Summer
.
Whatever I feel about bullfighting, I can’t come to Spain and avoid it. I decide to follow the advice Hemingway gives in the opening chapter of
Death in the Afternoon
.
If those who read this decide with disgust that it is written by someone who lacks their … fineness of feeling I can only plead that this may be true. But whoever reads this can truly make such a judgement when he, or she, has seen the things that are spoken of and knows truly what their reactions to them would be
.
So here goes.
Thirty minutes south of Madrid, in flat hot countryside, is a farm where bulls are bred for the ring. It is owned by Jose Antonio Hernandez Tabernilla, a lawyer whose family has bred them since 1882. He has records that trace the ancestry of each bull as far back as 1905.
Jose Antonio and his wife are a tall, handsome couple, courteous, well informed and much more comfortable with English than I am with Spanish.
The farm is functional, with low outbuildings and nothing fancy other than a barn in which are displayed old stirrups, halters, bridles, saddles and various other taurine and equestrian accessories. Framed bullfight posters hang on the walls, of which the most curious is one detailing a
corrida
(the Spanish word for a bullfight) specially laid on for Heinrich Himmler in 1940.
Apparently the famous Nazi found the whole thing too cruel and left after the second fight.
They introduce us to a stocky man in early middle-age who wears a T-shirt and a white straw hat with ‘Benidorm’ on the ribbon. This is Serafin, the farm manager. He is shrewd, and taciturn. More comfortable with bulls than the BBC. We are piled unceremoniously into a farm trailer, and with Serafin driving the tractor, and two or three dogs running on ahead, we’re hauled along a bumpy track into the fields where a hundred and forty Santa Coloma fighting bulls are kept. Most of them appear to be sitting comfortably in a pear orchard at the far end of a wide paddock. They like the shade there, says Jose Antonio, and they love the pears.
Jose Antonio explains that they mustn’t have too much contact with humans, as this may compromise their fighting ability later. In fact the calmer and quieter a state they can be kept in the better.
There is a sudden commotion at one end of this taurine health farm as two of the ash-grey bulls spar up to one another. Instantly the dogs race off and separate them. Which is quite something to see. These are two- and three-year-old bulls and look quite big enough to me, but by the time they have reached the fighting age of four they will weigh between 500 and 600 kilos - over 1200 lbs.
Serafin examines each bull with a critical eye, the strength of their shoulders, the size of their horns, already singling out those that will make the best fighters. Jose Antonio says that though he’s proud of rearing good fighters, Serafin ‘suffers terribly to see his animals die.’
Jose Antonio feels bullfighting has changed. Like everything else it is adapting to the market, to the needs of television. He used to send his bulls to Pamplona, but they don’t want them any more because their horns don’t look big enough.
Back at the farm, refreshment is provided. The irresistible
jamon serrano
(cured ham), olives and wine. I practise drinking the farmers’ way - from the spout straight into the mouth, or in my case, down the shirt.
On our way back to Madrid, near the town of Arganda, we stop at a triple-span bridge over the River Jarama. A big new road
, which James Michener called a kind of Bible of bullfighting. It still is one of the best books on this arcane art.
Hemingway returned to the subject in 1959, when he crisscrossed the country to chronicle the series of
mano a mano
(one-to-one) contests between two leading matadors.
Life
magazine had commissioned a 10,000-word piece, but he turned in a first draft of 120,000 words, reduced to 45,000 after his death, and published in 1985 as
The Dangerous Summer
.
Whatever I feel about bullfighting, I can’t come to Spain and avoid it. I decide to follow the advice Hemingway gives in the opening chapter of
Death in the Afternoon
.
If those who read this decide with disgust that it is written by someone who lacks their … fineness of feeling I can only plead that this may be true. But whoever reads this can truly make such a judgement when he, or she, has seen the things that are spoken of and knows truly what their reactions to them would be
.
So here goes.
Thirty minutes south of Madrid, in flat hot countryside, is a farm where bulls are bred for the ring. It is owned by Jose Antonio Hernandez Tabernilla, a lawyer whose family has bred them since 1882. He has records that trace the ancestry of each bull as far back as 1905.
Jose Antonio and his wife are a tall, handsome couple, courteous, well informed and much more comfortable with English than I am with Spanish.
The farm is functional, with low outbuildings and nothing fancy other than a barn in which are displayed old stirrups, halters, bridles, saddles and various other taurine and equestrian accessories. Framed bullfight posters hang on the walls, of which the most curious is one detailing a
corrida
(the Spanish word for a bullfight) specially laid on for Heinrich Himmler in 1940.
Apparently the famous Nazi found the whole thing too cruel and left after the second fight.
They introduce us to a stocky man in early middle-age who wears a T-shirt and a white straw hat with ‘Benidorm’ on the ribbon. This is Serafin, the farm manager. He is shrewd, and taciturn. More comfortable with bulls than the BBC. We are piled unceremoniously into a farm trailer, and with Serafin driving the tractor, and two or three dogs running on ahead, we’re hauled along a bumpy track into the fields where a hundred and forty Santa Coloma fighting bulls are kept. Most of them appear to be sitting comfortably in a pear orchard at the far end of a wide paddock. They like the shade there, says Jose Antonio, and they love the pears.
Jose Antonio explains that they mustn’t have too much contact with humans, as this may compromise their fighting ability later. In fact the calmer and quieter a state they can be kept in the better.
There is a sudden commotion at one end of this taurine health farm as two of the ash-grey bulls spar up to one another. Instantly the dogs race off and separate them. Which is quite something to see. These are two- and three-year-old bulls and look quite big enough to me, but by the time they have reached the fighting age of four they will weigh between 500 and 600 kilos - over 1200 lbs.
Serafin examines each bull with a critical eye, the strength of their shoulders, the size of their horns, already singling out those that will make the best fighters. Jose Antonio says that though he’s proud of rearing good fighters, Serafin ‘suffers terribly to see his animals die.’
Jose Antonio feels bullfighting has changed. Like everything else it is adapting to the market, to the needs of television. He used to send his bulls to Pamplona, but they don’t want them any more because their horns don’t look big enough.
Back at the farm, refreshment is provided. The irresistible
jamon serrano
(cured ham), olives and wine. I practise drinking the farmers’ way - from the spout straight into the mouth, or in my case, down the shirt.
On our way back to Madrid, near the town of Arganda, we stop at a triple-span bridge over the River Jarama. A big new road
Similar Books
