Dos fiestas – Perarrua y Santa Liestra

Band and villagers arriving in Santa Liestra

Summertime in Spain – and in particular rural Spain – brings with it fiestas.  Thinly veiled as saints’ days, these are carnivals in the oldest sense of the word  (a la Breugels, a la Foucault) – where people take the opportunity to let go – drink, flirt, dance, fight and everything in between.  Everyone from toddlers to great-grandparents seems to get involved.

Fiesta passing through the Perarrua streets

The fiestas are conveniently spaced a week-after-another, seeming to progress along a geographical route.  The reason for this is apparently because the villages’ different patron saints are honoured on different days.  One would be forgiven for noting the convenient coincidence that this arrangement also allows the young Spanish folk with time on their hands to progress, week-by-week, across the country from fiesta to fiesta for the entire summer.

Seasoned fiesta-goers saluting the band - fiesta de Santa Liestra

Our village’s fiesta kicked off with the obligatory church service, the likes of which I’ve never seen.  The village church itself is spectacular, but it was the crowd who provided the best entertainment.  

Old women fanned themselves with lace fans printed with the Last Supper, and handed money to the young Dutch men sitting in front of them when collection time came ‘round – only to reveal their true motive by fanning themselves harder and letting out an audible ‘phwoar’ when the lads walked their donations up to the altar. 

Perarrua service in the village church

Once the final ‘amens’ were hastily muttered and a statuette of the Virgin had been marched out of the church smothered in flowers, the congregation was out like a shot and into the afternoon tea – a village-square affair with a dish provided by every household.  This signaled the beginning of the fiesta in earnest.

Afternoon tea in the plaza

Nick made bacon & egg pie to represent New Zild - everybody loves a bit of B&E pie.

The following days involved a variety of events which ensured everyone from the village had a piece of the action. My favourite event by far was the Passa Calles.  Literally ‘passing through the streets’, this ritual is so simple and so brilliant…. The basic premise is: Take one oompa band, and the people of one village.  With band at full volume, start at one villager’s house for tapas, drink, a song and a dance.  Once complete, move to the next villager’s house – and repeat.  Continue through the village for approximately four hours, until nobody can stand the sight of another anchovy, or think about dancing without getting a stitch.  So brilliant!

The band in some nanna's basement while the village parties at the door

Passa Calles

This was an absolutely fantastic opportunity to see the variety of tapas the local people like to enjoy on special occasions, as well as to have (one of my all-time-favourite activities) a nosy into people’s houses to see what was hidden behind the quaint stone walls and wooden doors.  

Answer:  Orange-water scented donuts dusted with sugar, macaroon-style sweet slice, little toasts with everything from anchovies to olive paste and roasted red pepper to chorizo and quails’ eggs… and wine, wine, wine.  Second answer: Spanish people use the whole basement level of their houses (the coolest space in summer by far) as a kind of flexible space – garage/cards room/eating room/reception area… /impromptu band venue.  

Nick enjoying a home-made donut in full fiesta regalia

Everyone turned out – it’s fun, it’s a chance to nosey on the neighbours, there’s FREE WINE – it’s a winner.  As the sun got hotter and the wine comsumption increased, the dancing inevitably got more fervent – but never problematic, and the kids bopped away on their dads’ shoulders as the young folks flirted madly and the nannas sat in the shade, chatting away.

Fiesta participant perfecting his 'porron' technique - the vessel above, which allows the wine to be shared without touching anyone's lips. Definitely takes a bit of practice.

As well as the Passa Calles, the fiesta also involved two nights of music/djs – it’s a family fiesta, so the music started at the reasonable hour of 11, with the ‘big act’ coming on at 2.  And the (local and seriously amateur, potentially got some decks for Christmas) dj started (started!) at a cool 6am.  All a bit much for me, I went to bed shortly after the first act started, and got up again at 6.30 to have a wee boogie with the last revelers looking a little dazed in the morning sun of the plaza major.  (Shock discovery – Rihanna mixed to a Latin beat does not equal success.)

When the last plastic beer cups had been swept from the plaza we were all exhausted, and I was glad for the pre-fiesta break in Graus.  The sudden influx of revelers moved on to the next village and the next fiesta, and we attempted to return to our pre-fiesta sleep patterns.

Fiestas at neighbouring villages

We didn’t engage in any of the other village fiestas quite as fully – however, Nick made it to the Graus fiesta (the Graus fiesta boasts the slightly awkward claim to fame of longest sausage in the world), and we both joined our neighbours in Santa Liestra for their saint’s day after we’d heard that it was also a whole-of-village waterfight.

Eating and drinking outside (and inside) the church above Santa Liestra

After a brief celebration in a seriously old church atop the nearest hill to the village (not a priest in sight, vat of sangria set up next to the Virgin, cup of said sangria offered up by way of being placed semi-reverently in the holy water basin), we headed back down to the village and the fiesta, which delivered big time.

After the first excited teenager had flung his bucket of water at his giggling girl of choice, it was all on and grandpas and kids were running all over the show, filling up vessels at the village well throwing them in the face of the first person they ran into.

Never too old for a water fight

Amidst the water madness, the event was also a Passa Calles – same band, same idea – so it was a multi-taskering nightmare dodging buckets and even hoses aimed from balconies to alight on a doorstep, scoff a donut/swig some wine and get back out into the fray.  

In the main street of Santa Liestra

The one rule: the band had immunity.  This was violated once, whereupon the music stopped immediately, a hushed ‘ooooo’ went around the crowd, the offending boy was clipped around the ear and the proceedings continued.  Down a major highway, without much thought for the traffic.  Along the route, the old geezers who’d been working the land for a million years showed their knowledge of every secret irrigation outlet and took great thrills in having one over the young kids.

Fiesta proceeding down the highway

We departed at 5 after a good two-hour water-slinging, donut-scoffing session, although the event continued in full swing.

If you’re thinking of coming to Spain in the summertime, I say forget the running of the bulls/tomato festival – bring a tenner for the collection plate, a food donation and your Spanish phrasebook and hit up the fiestas.  We had so much fun, and we just scratched the surface of this summer-long fun-worshiping phenomenon.

Nick and Jochum serving breakfast to the all-night crowd, Perarrua

Nackered! 3 re-charge weekends

Taking a quiet moment in the heat!

We've been in Perarrua now for about 7 weeks.  It's been a busy time, during which a couple of quiet weekends have been called for.  I'm not sure it'll catch on, but once the work is done my motto has generally been "when the going gets tough, check into a hotel in the next town".

So far I've ventured out of the Perarrua metropolis for three weekends - two with Nick, and one by myself in preparation for the village fiesta (pics to come!).  So, I thought I'd share some pictures of where we/I went, as there are only so many photos of our village/river that are post-worthy...

Fiesta preparation weekend: Graus

Plaza Mayor, Graus

Graus is the 'big town' 9km from Perarrua.  It has one street of shops, and a beautiful painted plaza to sit in the arcade out of the sun and sip iced coffee.  The Palace del Obispo was my chosen retreat - a beautifully renovated old house belonging once some old-timer bishop. (The concierge attempted to explain the history to me, which culminated in graphic gestures relaying the terror and violence of the Spanish inquisition... awkward.)

For two blissful days, the air-conditioned oasis was almost entirely mine, and included a library stocked unexpectedly with art-history books, featuring high-quality colour plates including artists from the renaissance through to modern Spanish painters.  Needless to say, I didn't veture out much - books, air con, three big peaches and a block of chocolate proved excellent rations for the retreat.

Reading room stacked with books and featuring a fabulous view of the monastery

I did venture out for a drink and some dinner, and was so pleased to find a Belgian double-malt beer on offer that I had two, which in 37C promptly put me on my backside.  On the way home I enjoyed a merry walk through the picturesque hillside monastery - in the 8pm twilight (potentially enhanced by the double-malt), it was really something special, and the arcade was pure Fra Angelico's Annunciation.  

Monastery, Graus

I did manage to miss the sign showing the opening hours, and was momentarily considering a daring descent from the arcade down a cliff-face when I was rescued by the ancient caretaker with a large golden key to the wrought-iron gate that had me imprisoned.  Feeling very charming damsel-in-distress I tried to express my gratitude in my bad/drunken Spanish - poor guy.

The next day, Nick picked me up at 12 - Spanish check-out times being very civilised - and we returned to the village and the heat for the Fiesta de Perarrua.

Alpine retreat: Hospital de Benasque

Our original departure date from Perarrua was 13 August.  However a quick look at Jochum and Judith's busy booking schedule after that date saw us all agree it would be best if we stayed on 'till the 27th-ish, with a couple of opportunities for us to take a little 'adventure break' on the few days when guest numbers were lower.

Our first of these little breaks we spent in the Spanish Pyrenees, in a hotel at the foot of a national park. The hotel is on the site of an old hospital, which treated people from the mountain villages as well as traders who used the nearby pass through the Pyrenees to transport goods by mule between Spain and France.  Today the site is a popular apres-ski venue, and in summer it is also popular with hikers.

Hotel Hospital de Benasque

On our first evening, we joined the Nordic-ski-pole-toting nongs and strolled into the hills, spotting young deer, marmots and a plethora of exotic wildflowers along the way. The evening treated us to a wild thunderstorm with lightening and heavy rain, which made for beautiful waterfalls the next day.

Tiny orchids along the path

Nick used the weekend to hike up a waterfall to the border with France, while I read Spanish Vogue and sampled the coffee at the hotel's cafe - great success all 'round.  On our second and final night we enjoyed a wonderful dinner at the hotel restaurant which culminated in a dessert of pears simmered in local white wine, with cinnamon - amaze. 

We returned to Perarrua refreshed to face the next influx of Dutch and Belgian families.

Getting our city fix: Barcelona 

Courtyard off La Rambla - the umbrellas are guys selling antiques/bric-a-brac and weirdly a huge number of stamps...

Barcelona.  Not one to over-use the latest in social media punctuation, but - Barcelona. Was. Amazing.

Potentially because we hadn't been to a city/restaurant/shop for about 7 weeks so we were primed to appreciate, but Barcelona completely won me over.  The mash-up of fabulous architecture, the fashion (mental note Spanish jewellery = best), the SHOES...

The first night Nick and I heeded the advice of the trusty Lonely Planet and headed into a neighbourhood on the border of the Gotic area, which rewarded us with hilarious vintage fashion stores, some of the best Lebanese street-food I've ever had, and a quiet, charming square in which to relax and watch the goings-on (which generally included regular sightings of fabulous guys who looked like they'd stepped straight out of a D&G photo shoot - supergay, and super chic).

Nick reading in a Barcelona square

Our continued ramblings took us through a leafy open-air cathedral courtyard with a cafe in the corner with a quiet Spanish guitar, and past a number of beautiful, inviting bars and restaurants which we wouldn't have be able to explore all of if we'd had a month!

Crowd waiting for a water-and-light show from an enormous fountain near the harbour

Our accommodation for the weekend was a modest pension a short distance from the tourist strip of La Rambla (incidentally, although people roll their eyes when you mention La Rambla, it was one of the least-aggressive, most charming 'tourist strips' I've encountered.  The artists' quarter even had some pretty fantastic painters amidst the obligatory charicaturists advertising pictures of Angelina Jolie).  Our host was Rosa, who we met after we'd stepped through the wrought-iron door inset into the large wooden doors to the building, and lurched up an antique art deco lift shaft.  

Our room at the hostel San Remo

I love crazy floor tiles! Also, curtains in Spain = amazing quality linen, light-filtering capacity = stunning.

The rest of our weekend in Barcelona was a huge success.  At breakfast on the Sunday I owned up to the fact that, even though it potentially condemned me uncultured-philistine status for all eternity, I'd rather shoe-shop than see the Sagrada Familia. (If this urge to cafe-hop rather than climb eiffel towers resonates, I thoroughly recommend this article which helped to absolve my guilt!)  

I have for a long, long time harboured a fantasy to shoe-shop in Spain.  Whenever I pick up an 'oh-my-god' shoe at home in NZ, nine times out of ten the underside greets me with the stamp 'made in Spain', which has conjured for me images of a place where every man, woman and child is shod in butter-soft calfskin sapatos.  Turns out I wasn't far wrong - and so the Sagrada Familia will wait for another day.

Nick headed off (in search of a bakery and a rock-climbing harness, of all things) and left me to it.  After seven weeks working in a bar in a small Spanish village my Spanish is progressing slowly, and so I had a wonderful afternoon chatting to the shoe-assistants of Barcelona ("this one is beautiful, but not so comfortable... how about this in another size...?")  Until finally - "I want THESE!": They are bright red, suede, a complete dream to wear and like nothing I would buy at home.  In summary, perfect.

Triumph!  Shoes, glorious shoes

Still on my endorphin high from splashing some cash on my all-time favourite commodity, Nick and I used the rest of the weekend to kick back and enjoy the city.  The fresh produce market in the centre of town is famous for very good reason, and strangely enough the pharmacies all seemed to be complete fantasties of modernismo tile work and floor-to-ceiling old-school shelving.  Every little detail which could so easily be mundane seemed to have been delegated to a designer to sort out - including of all things the street-cleaners' uniforms, which looked like some kind of 1960s mint-green air steward getup.

Berries beautifully displayed at the fresh produce market

Nick outside a bakery featuring beautiful tile work and stained glass

Our weekend ended with coffee in the most fantastical, Alice-In-Wonderland inspired cafe (complete with Spanish apple cake; the recipe hunt is on...) before we boarded the bus back to our little village, completely contented with our fix of city life (and trying really hard to resist wearing my new shoes).

'Pudding' cafe, Barcelona

Children's corner - Pudding cafe.

Nick even made a new friend on the bus home:

Well, that's been us in between Perarrua life - three weekends away, and two village fiestas - more on that soon :)

Lots of love, 

Sarah