We’re driving east towards Rioja when Jo asks, ‘What’s the date today?’ ‘28th June, Why?’ ‘Tomorrow’s the 29th, the feast of San Pedro.’ ‘So?’ ‘Well, we’re heading into northern Rioja and in Haro town they celebrate the feast of St. Peter with a wine fight.’
Legend has it that several hundred years ago rival vintners, in a dispute, possibly over land, threw a little wine over each other. Today this history is resurrected on 29th June at La Batalla del Vino de Haro where up to eight thousand ‘combatants’ convene on a hillside clearing in a small vineyard outside Haro below the site of the San Felices de Bilibio hermitage and throw 40,000 litres (that’s 5 litres each) over each other. All accompanied by singing, dancing, and even a little wine drinking.
We’re parked overnight on a ring road on the outskirts of Haro town centre where we’ve been kept awake till the early hours by partying locals celebrating San Pedro eve. Jo’s alarm wakes us up at 6.30am. I have a mild sense of foreboding. It’s a chilly overcast breezy morning, threatening rain. Jo says that tradition dictates that we dress in white – makes it easier for assailants to see whether you’ve been properly drenched in red wine. I compromise with black trousers and a white t-shirt over a warm merino wool sweater. I’m leaving my phone and watch behind. Jo has a waterproof case for her iPhone and a pair of goggles.
We follow a small group of young women armed with big pump action water guns and 5 litre plastic jerry cans of red wine. I have a pint of plonk in a plastic water bottle. We’re woefully ill equipped for the coming battle. Buses start ferrying fighters to the site at 7.30am. To protect them from wine soaked fighters after battle, the bus seats and curtains are covered with securely taped bin bags. There’s a party atmosphere to raise morale with much early beer drinking and singing at the back of the bus.
We’re dropped off a kilometre from the battlefield which is halfway up the mountain. And it’s when we’re almost there that we truly realise that these people mean business. Jo has subsequently described it as ferocious and savage. I would add vindictive. The path is bordered by elevated banks upon which are set vast tanks of wine. Locals, who have been doing this for years, are scooping buckets of wine out of these tanks and hurling it at the closely packed arrivals. There are rows of pump action pistols and industrial insecticide sprayers loaded with vino. I spot a lawn sprinkler on a pole spreading an inescapable curtain of wine. My carton is pathetic. Mercifully some folks are generous with their supplies and we’re able to reload from muck spreaders full of the stuff.
This is not thousands of litres of Gran Reserva Rioja that’s being chucked about but wine that isn’t considered good enough for human consumption.
Jo has clocked a woman on the bank who has successfully doused her with a bucket. She’s quietly staring at her. I can tell she’s planning a flanking manoeuvre and revenge. I’ve just been sprayed a few times, my t-shirt only flecked with red. Even so, it’s cold and uncomfortable. We move up behind Jo’s intended victim. I’m using the trees for cover. Jo now has a litre container of wine and successfully chucks it down over the back of the woman’s head and neck. Her victim is not happy. She scowls contemptuously at Jo but there’s nothing she can do as she can’t effectively throw wine uphill. Jo is so happy.
I’m happy too as I’ve avoided a drenching and think I can get away with this. A veteran with a bucket beckons me towards him with a look that says, ‘Come you coward. You must take your punishment like a man.’ These people are mad. I shake my head at him and retreat towards the trees where I am terribly shocked by an attack from behind. A large bucket of cold, sour, sticky wine is poured over my head. It’s enough liquid to turn my t-shirt deep purple and cascades into my pants and trousers. The next few hours will be cold, wet, sticky and miserable. I need ammo which means I’ll be exposed in the open but what the hell. I can’t get any wetter. I want retaliation.
We move beyond the main battlefield to the steps leading up to the sanctuary where it’s a bit calmer. I’ve replenished my bottle. A young guy is descending towards me with a super soaker water gun. But it’s empty. He’s unscrewing the gun’s water tank. He stops next to me and asks if I’ll refill it for him. I smile as if to say yes. He’s grateful and smiles back. But my blood is up and without a thought I tip the contents of my container over his head. He’s aghast and flees down the mountain. See what I mean about vindictive.
This is much more chaotic than anticipated, the adrenaline rush, the intense emotions conjured up by the melee. We smell of vinegar. My skin is purple. The sun refuses to shine. I’m so damned cold. It feels like we’ve been fighting for half an hour but it’s been ninety minutes. I need to get out of here.
A large crowd of purple people is snaking back down the hill to the bus stop for the ride back into town. Everyone is a bit relieved and elated. Some are hysterical. We must join the long queue, in the chilly breeze, for a bus.
We’ve had a cold shower at the back of the campervan and were in warm clothes. In town there are plenty of stalwarts, still in cold damp purple clothing, marching in assorted parades accompanied by mariachi bands. We enjoy a fine pintxos lunch and a couple of glasses of drinkable Rioja.
There are clusters of people, whom we instinctively join, converging towards a corner of the square. ‘Where are they going?’ Asks Jo. ‘Dunno’ I say. ‘Why are we following them?’ ‘I’ve no idea.’ The clusters join a queue outside a small circular stadium. We join it as it shuffles towards the entrance. There’s no ticket required. Inside we climb the stairs onto the stone terraces of Haro Bullring.
It’s a family affair. The stadium is packed. This is all part of the Vino festivities; youth bullfighting. But it’s not bullfighting in its traditional form of a matador fighting and ultimately killing a bull. This is more bull baiting or bull running. The runners are half a dozen young men dressed in trainers, white trousers and t-shirts. A small, but very fast bull is released into the ring. It runs around madly chasing down runners who escape over the ring’s barrier, or behind short wooden screens on the perimeter. This first bull crashes headlong into a barrier and loses a horn. He may not have been killed in the ring but now he’s as good as dead. A massive bull lumbers into the scene. I’m thinking it’s the next act but its role is to calm the fighting bull, and lead it out of the ring.
Another young steer is in the ring. The runners goad him into charging. They swerve and pivot away just before impact. One athletic runner somersaults over the attacking bull. The crowd loves this.
Now it’s the turn of local lads (and one woman) to test their courage as amateur runners. Perhaps twenty people are scattered across the ring as a fresh bull races in. Some of these lads have been up drinking all night and fighting in the wine battle. They’re not at their most nimble. The bull, head down low, shoulders hunched, smashes into the legs of a runner, and tosses him high into the air. He falls heavily and the bull is ready to sweep the stricken lad along and throw him again before pushing its head down onto him. Other runners distract and coax the bull away. The adrenalin fuelled runner gets up and stumbles unaided out of the ring. I see him minutes later being stretchered away. The runners aren’t discouraged, rather they are spurred on by the violence. We watch as another is thrown and mauled. It’s brutal stuff. The groans and screams of the crowd followed by applause, whoops and cheers.
The British condemn any form of bullfighting for slowly and cruelly torturing animals for sport in view of thousands of baying onlookers – not a tradition fit for the modern era, let alone western Europe. That’s a bit smug from a nation of horse and greyhound racers and bird killers. I’m left with a sense of the fighting spirit of the Spanish, channelled into throwing wine and baiting bulls.
