Olé! Capturing the Passion of Bullfighters and Aficionados in the 21st Century

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In support of the excellent new book, Olé! Capturing the Passion of Bullfighters and Aficionados in the 21st Century, we direct you to this post at The Last Arena – including Michael Wigram’s excellent chapter on the history of bullfighting reproduced in full. However, before you go, we should say a few words about the chapter by our friend Bill Hillmann. There has never been a truer runner, more loyal friend, more humble man and more authentically striving author. However, there is no denying that some of his choices of words at the beginning of the chapter – particularly the words ‘elite’ and ‘star’, which have no place there – were unfortunate. It is quite clear, though, that they were used in contrast to his conversion as described, and conclusions as reached, by the end of the chapter. In Bill’s own words:

Last year I had an incredible experience in Pamplona. A legendary Spanish runner named Juan Pedro gave me a priceless gift during the run when he caught my arm as I tripped and saved me from falling. That moment revolutionized my understanding of the run and changed me very deeply. Later I made a similar helpful gesture to another Spanish runner named Jose Manuel and we became good friends as result.

I set out to write an article about that for the Ole Anthology. I wanted to show the very natural and ugly emotional-urges of jealousy and ambition that exist in my heart as they do in all human hearts.  I wanted to show how Juan and the Encierro taught me that those emotional-urges should be ignored and defeated from within.

I failed miserably in my attempt to do this. Instead many people read the first half and ignored the second. Effectively they set out to attack the very things in me which I grappled with and overcame in the course of the essay.

My failure is, I created such a pompous-assed, unreliable-narrator in the first half that they couldn’t trust me in the second half. Or in certain cases it’s possible I held a mirror up to some reader’s faces and they saw their own jealousy and ambition in mine and they couldn’t handle that and sought to destroy it.

Either way, I regret failing, but I don’t regret trying.

I don’t know what “elite” means or what a “spectacular run” is. I’m a “star” of nothing and I don’t care about TV or acknowledgement from others.

I take pride in what I do. I am honored to share the street with the Spanish and learn about their beautiful tradition. A tradition which has taught me very much about life and what it is to be human all while giving  me astonishing joy. I love the Encierro. I love everyone who loves the Encierro and I apologize for that disaster of an essay

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The Last Arena: The Dead God With Cold Eyes

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I submitted this article for my column in Taki’s Magazine. However, I was told by the editor that she’d had quite enough about bulls. Which is ironic, given what it says. Anyway, here it is, for what it’s worth.

Alexander Fiske-Harrison

Alexander Fiske-Harrison waiting for the bulls, Cuéllar 2013 (Photo: Enrique Madroño Arranz)

Alexander Fiske-Harrison waiting for the bulls, Cuéllar 2013 (Photo: Enrique Madroño Arranz)

Dead Gods With Cold Eyes

I nearly died the other day. Not, like the time before when John Hemingway, Ernest’s grandson, pulled me out from a stampede in Pamplona or the time before that when Eduardo Dávila Miura pulled me out of a bull-ring in Palma del Río. This time was for real.

Alexander Fiske-Harrison begins to run with the bulls, Cuéllar 2013 (Photo: Enrique Madroño Arranz)

Alexander Fiske-Harrison begins to run with the bulls, Cuéllar 2013 (Photo: Enrique Madroño Arranz)

I was running with the bulls of Cuéllar, which is a much like running with the bulls of Pamplona, only the town is smaller, the encierro – ‘bull-run’ – more ancient (the most ancient, in fact, as I wrote in the Financial Times), less crowded, and those that do turn up are mainly local, all Spanish, with not a drunk or first-timer among them.

Cuellar photo 3 blogDespite this I still managed to bump into someone as I passed a lone, stationary bull in a narrow stretch of street. Being lighter than me, he was knocked to safety, but I dropped where I was and the commotion drew the bull’s eyes – black, bovine, lifeless and colour-blind, following only movement – and it charged across the street, skittering to a halt on its hooves as I similarly fought for grip in my new, untested running shoes.

With my back against the wall, its horns either side of my chest – literally – and, unlike in Pamplona or an official plaza de toros, no surgeon within a forty-five minute drive, I saw my own death ahead of me. However, for some reason the bull decided today was not my day and moved on, most likely because I had the presence of mind to freeze, making myself invisible to the clockwork brain behind the horns.

Read on at The Last Arena by clicking here.

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From The Last Arena: Back To School

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A fortnight ago I accepted, alongside my old friend and bull-running-buddy Bill Hillmann, a prize from the most ancient encierros, ‘bull-runs’, in all of Spain, those of the town of Cuéllar.

Me & Bill Hillmann with our awards in Cuéllar, September 2013 (Photo: Jim Hollander)

Me – in my old school Athletics ‘colours’ jacket – & Bill Hillmann with our awards in Cuéllar (Photo © Jim Hollander 2013)

Earlier that morning I nearly died while running them. The bull in the photo-detail below was suelto – ‘loose’, alone – and faced away from me when I seized what I thought was a chance and tried to run past it in the narrow street.

At the same moment, another runner tried to do exactly the same from the other direction. When we collided, both of us with eyes only on the bull, he was bounced clear to safety while I lost my footing on the slippery street at the very instant the bull caught our movement in its peripheral vision and charged me as I struggled to get upright with my back against the fence.

In this moment – which lasted as infinitely long as all the novelists, journalists and diarists of near-death say it does – I stood so still as to render myself invisible to the bull whose horn points were paused either side of my chest. Read on at The Last Arena here.

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Almería to Cuéllar: The Worship of Temple & The Cult Of The Bull

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The Streets of Almería by Night (Photo: Alexander Fiske-Harrison)

The Streets of Almería by Night (Photo: Alexander Fiske-Harrison)

Almería is a pretty little town of extreme heat at the eastern end of the Andalusian coastline. I first came here last year during their feria of the Virgin of the Sea, in order to meet with the greatest American bull-runner Joe Distler. ‘Buffalo’ Bill Hillmann and I, the young pretender to Joe’s throne – a Chicago Golden Gloves winning boxer and Chicago Tribune freelancing writer – came to ask for some advice about the encierros, ‘bull-runs’ of Cuéllar. Less famous, and less spoiled, less drunken and less glorious than Pamplona – all in all, less ‘Hemingway’ – I wrote it up for the Financial Times, as Bill did for the Tribune, both of us using photos by my old friend Nicolás Haro (who took the black and white photos for my book on my time as a torero, ‘bullfighter’, the William Hill Sports Book of the Year 2011 shortlisted Into The Arena: The World Of The Spanish Bullfight.)

As a result of our writing and running… well… if I’m honest, as a result of their need for tourism, Bill, Nicolás and I have been awarded a prize by the town which, of course, we have to go an collect in person. So, I thought I’d recreate my pilgrimage, coming to sit at the feet of Don José Distler once again. Not least because he didn’t come to Pamplona this year, breaking a tradition of running all eight daily encierros there every year for 45 years straight! (My own adventures in Pamplona this year were of minor interest, the crowds being so thick that the only day I got truly close to the bulls I was so surprised and admiring of the pulse and surge of jet black toro bravo beside me that I failed to see the man in front of me trip and fall, bringing me down. So I was trampled by man an animal alike until I rolled clear to the side of the street and was yanked to my feet by none other than John Hemingway. I was also pulled up by our friend Graeme Galloway, who runs the Pamplona Posse, but that is not quite so serendipitous a namedrop as the man whose grandfather brought the crowds who trampled me in the first place.)

Joe is, like all truly wild men, also a creature of traditions and habits. He has his querencias – his lairs – as they say in toreo (the word so badly translated into English as ‘bullfighting’: it is not a fight, nor a sport: it is a tragic drama for an audience constructed around a ritual sacrifice.) The back row on the sunny side of the plaza de toros of Almería is one of Joe’s dens, where we have sat for the past two nights and watched two exquisite performances by two formidable toreros, José Mari Manzanares hijo and Julian Lopéz, ‘El Juli’.

Wednesday night’s corrida of bulls from the ranches of Juan Pedro Domecq and ‘Toros de Parladé’, was dominated by the return to form – although not full form – of the matador Manzanares whose corridas in Seville last year were so exceptional. The second-string critic writing in the Spanish newspaper ABC say that Manzanares seems to have lost heart, and there is some truth in this – it is hard, I should imagine, to fully invest in the dance with death the torero performs with his toro when you have recently had your first child as José Mari has. He certainly prayed longer and harder before his first bull than I have seen him do before. And when it came out, it was an ugly black and white brute with a foul temper and unreliable charges. However, after some neat passes with the large cape, and the picador had cut it down to manageable size – this is a second category plaza, with smaller bulls, so only one pic was given – and then the banderilleros had returned it to vigour, Manzanares reminded us of what he can do.

The aesthetics of his toreo is hard to describe. It is all in the roll of the wrist, while leaning into the path of the charge which he is simultaneously directing. His feet are firmly planted in the sand at first, ankles rolling to mirror the wrists, ending in a slight elevation of the foot onto its side of the toes. Meanwhile the face is solemn, the aggression of the cite – the summoning calls to the bull – fades back to the statue. It is the very essence of will, a man directing death to pass him by, close enough to touch, to feel the ground move and bounce beneath his feet, smell and sound – the sonorous roll of the bull’s breath echoing in this amphitheatre of horror and delight, triumph and destruction.

However, the metaphors at play in toreo of Life dancing with Death, Man with Beast, Order with Chaos… these overarching themes are only true when the detail is also true. Only to the illiterate eye can the amateur, the novice or the journeyman-torero transmit and transcend to the levels required (which the other two toreros, Ruiz Manuel and Ivan Fandiño did not.) The aficionados eyes quickly become jaded, our palates clotted with the frustration, blood and pain of toreros who cannot make the two dancers become one statue.

Manzanares managed all of this, although some would say he still seemed not to be fully within himself. One senses that he is not currently living life all the way up, to use Papa’s phrase from The Sun Also Rises, at least in the plaza. It certainly seemed that both bulls had at least one more tanda, one more series of those beautiful flowing passes within it. However, he killed both bulls cleanly, well quickly and bravely, the first with his trademark suerte de recibir, the most dangerous and least seen method of killing in which the bulls charges the man’s sword, rather than vice versa. He took three ears from his two bulls and was carried out of the main gate on the shoulders of the crowd.

Yesterday evening, with similarly mediocre bulls of Hernández Martín and Garcigrande – although they were larger, all being over 500kg – El Juli showed what a matador can do when he is fully present. I saw him badly gored – his femoral artery spraying blood on the sand – in Seville in April, collapsing into the arms of Manzanares who ran to his brother matador’s aid faster than Juli’s own team. And then I saw him through the alcoholic haze and riotous noise of Pamplona in July doing nothing of interest. However, yesterday from the very first bull he seemed to know exactly what he could do, putting in a series of deep, solemn, slow and moving veronicas, performed with perfect ‘temple’, rhythm, so the cloth never once brushed the bull’s face as the cloth of the passes namesake, Saint Veronica, did Christ’s on his way to Golgotha. His combinations of classical passes with the red cloth, the muleta, and adornments such as the molinete which wraps the fabric and the animal following it around the body of the man, were exquisite. His kill was perfect, leading the President to award him both ears of the bull without a moment of hesitation. (Too often the President of the plaza seems to feel that some form of performance is required from him, refusing to yield to the sea of white handkerchiefs being waved by the crowd, as though it were not always clear what artistic value a performance has.)

After some toreo of merit, but not fascination, from Enrique Ponce – a man I once called the Rolex of bullfighters, which you can take to mean many things, and I mean and meant all of them – and Miguel Angél Perera, the first matador with whom I ‘shared the sand’ (Manzanares was the last), Juli went in with a more difficult bull and tried all the harder, even using the cape pass named after him, the lopecina, in which the bull is summoned half the width of the ring by turning the vast cape into a flowing butterfly, which is pulled sharply into and around the body when the bull arrives at a gallop at the man. The great aficionado Noel Chandler – with whom I am having dinner in Madrid tonight – once called Juli ‘the encylopaedia of toreo’. I have always agreed with this judgment, but before I found him a bullfighter who lacked ‘transmission’, who failed to move me. Now I am moved by his passion for his toreo, even after a decade and a half as a matador de toros. He confronts the bull like a fascinating problem to be solved, and draws from it every last drop of performance spectacle that it has, before killing it with speed and elegance. He showed us – Joe Distler, that other noted American bull-runner Art Duff and the most scholarly aficionado who speaks English Michael Wigram – why we go to the bulls. No better there is none. (Which is not in anyway to belie my love of those profound and duende-filled artists, the Hidden God José Tomás, and the unreliable and irregular flamencista Morante de la Puebla, both recuperating from gorings.)

Michael Wigram & Joe Distler at Taberna Las Botas in Almería (Photo: Alexander Fiske-Harrison)

Michael Wigram & Joe Distler at Taberna Las Botas in Almería (Photo: Alexander Fiske-Harrison)

Now, Cuéllar beckons, by way of Madrid, where I go to meet the mayor and see the bulls unloaded, with the taurine sculptor Dyango Velasco, the former Texan rodeo rider turned university professor, Larry Belcher (with his wonderful wife Dr Ana Cerón), the great photographer of bulls and warzones Jim Hollander, Buffalo Bill, Graeme Galloway, ‘The Scottish Rocket’ Angus Ritchie and the documentary maker – ‘Chasing Red’ – Dennis Clancey. Every single one being a bull-runner of note, although none of the casta of Josechu, the star of the encierros of Cuéllar, who takes running on the horns to a new level, as the photo below shows.

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A final word on bull-running.

I was talking the other day to one of Britain’s foremost psychiatrists, Dr William Shanahan, and I asked him about bull-running.

“Why do I run?”

“You are a daredevil. If there was an unexplored trench at the depths of the ocean, you would be one of the first to dive to it.”

He is the most perceptive of men, and knows me well, but on this he is wrong. Or at least partly so. There are many reasons to run with the bulls, and vanity, pride and competition are necessary, but not sufficient, parts of it.

To come close to these Dark Gods, the bulls, before better men than us may slay them, is an honour which is worth the risk. This is the Cult of the Bull. And the initiates have between them a secret brotherhood which is almost as important as the proximity of the gods themselves. Among the foreign runners, other forces are at work, and recklessness rather than courage is often the order of the day (although having toreado bulls up close myself, I feel no such need to prove myself.) However, among the Spanish who truly own this, it is about the animals and the other men. In the encierro as in the corrida, there is no winner. There is only those who were there.

Alexander Fiske-Harrison

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A Paean to Pamplona: The Author’s Cut

This is the full version of what I submitted for my regular column ‘By The Sword’ in Taki’s Magazine. As you can see here, about half of it was cut, leaving only a narcissistic skeleton, rather than the flesh – the other people – which is what Fiesta is all about. (I forget whether it was Stephen Ibarra or Rick Musica, those pillars of Pamplona, who said that if they took the bulls away from the feria, but kept the people, they’d still come, but if they took away the people, it wouldn’t be worth it for the bulls alone. Which is why so many of them are mentioned. Those that I could not fit even in this too long piece are mentioned in the post-script.)

Noel Chandler & Alexander Fiske-Harrison by David Penton

Noel Chandler & Alexander Fiske-Harrison, Pamplona 2012 (Photo: David Penton)

The great thing is to last and get your work done and see and hear and learn and understand; and write when there is something that you know; and not before; and not too damned much after.
Ernest Hemingway, Death In the Afternoon 1932

In 2009 I first came to Pamplona to run with the bulls to give a first-person perspective to that chapter of my book on the “world of the Spanish bullfight.” I was terrified in that complete and overwhelming way that total ignorance brings, standing on a street corner where a friend had stood for his first time the day before – that was the sum total of advice I had been given – and waiting for death or injury to come.

I comported myself honourably but not brilliantly and did so again two days later before boarding a train to Barcelona and vowing never to return. The relentless loud, bad music, the all-day drinking by people who clearly hadn’t washed in some time, and the fact that the corridas, ‘the bullfights’ (as I’ve said in this column before, it’s neither a fight nor a sport) were made abysmal by even worse music played by multiple bands in the audience in apparent competition with one another, all combined to set me firmly against in this Navarran Fiesta. The place seemed crude, cruel and uncouth compared to the sun-blasted, deathless dignity of Andalusia where my aficion for the bulls was formed.

Then, two years later, after the book came out, a Reuters journalist called Angus MacSwan asked to interview me. By then I had been worn smooth and glib by endlessly justifying the ritual injuring and killing of animals in the plaza de toros and so was surprised when he told me outright that he liked the book but that I was wrong about one thing: Pamplona.

I remained sceptical, but came to the view that, with its density of English speakers with a nominal interest in los toros, and journalists sending photos and stories back down the wires, it might turn out to be a marketing opportunity at the very least. So I booked my flights and a room for the duration of the feria de San Fermín, the summer fair dedicated to the first bishop of Pamplona.

And it turns out that the man from Reuters was right. My two earlier runs in ’09 to one side, I had spent the year of 2010 toreando cattle around Spain and Portugal, and leapt into the streets with a confidence I have not since recovered, running directly between two bulls in my old high school athletics blazer.

(Photo: Foto Auma)

(Photo: Foto Auma)

The obvious advantage of having a bull in front of you in the street is that he clears a path through the 2-4,000 people packed into that half a mile. The one behind is the real problem: his right horn is, at the very moment the photographer caught, cracking the screen of the iPhone in my back pocket, a contemporary variant of the cigarette case stopping the opponent’s bullet in a duel. (I had the detail of the image as the screensaver on that cell-phone, which I never had repaired. It served as a brilliant memento until it was stolen a year later at a bar less than a hundred yards away from that spot: such is Pamplona. This year I took an actual silver cigarette case in its place just in case.)

Detail (Photo: Foto Auma)

Detail (Photo: Foto Auma)

Two days after that moment of encierro – ‘bull-run’ – glory I found myself pinned against the wall by another bull, again captured on film, and understood that there was more technique to this than I had at first thought.

(Photo: Foto Auma)

(Photo: Foto Auma)

Between that realisation and the astonishing variety of people I met there in a very short time, I developed an strange all-encompassing love for the city despite its smells, sounds, occasional vulgarities and infrequent barbarities. And that love has continued to grow as I realise that its vices, for all the annoyance they cause, are also part of the reason you fall in love in the first place. In a world where people of all political persuasions seem to want the state to intervene in people’s right to decide their own destiny – from smoking cigarettes to riding a bicycle without a helmet – to go to a town where six half ton fighting bulls and six one ton steers are released into the streets by the city council while the police stand by and watch is one of the great pleasures in life.

However, this is no simple act of hedonism. The great Spanish runners like Julen Madina, Miguel Angel Eguiluz or Josechu Lopez – and even the Americans from the regal Maestro Joe Distler to the young pretenders to the throne Tom Turley and ‘Buffalo’ Bill Hillmann – all have a spirituality or at a least a philosophy of why they run.

I wrote about mine in The Spectator, but to summarise: I see it as a pagan thing and, as such, as being about the animal within us – something reflected in the cave art which litters that part of Spain. In this the encierro differs massively from the corrida in which the bulls are destined to die that evening. What happens in the plaza de toros is the ritualised and stylised killing of an animal by a man every fibre of whose being, from his stance to his technique to the gold braid on his silk costume, shows how far above animals, Nature, and even Death itself he is. The corrida is not pagan, but is the true embodiment of that strange cocktail of a phrase: Roman Catholic.

It is this pagan nature of the festival, the bacchanal and the abandonment, which allows the extreme depth of bonding between the people involved. If you have drunk late into the night with someone, and then run shoulder to shoulder with them as nine tonnes of hoof and horn bounce the cobbles beneath your feet, they become as brothers and sisters to you.

This also provides a wonderful process of filtration, a vetting of men and women by means of blood. No one boring comes to Pamplona in the first place, and no one weak stays for more than a day. It is only there that I get to meet men like the now sorely missed Keith ‘Bomber’ Baumschen, who once ended a story with the immortal line, “and they said you sold us the grenades, you throw them through f***ing the window.” (The rest of the story I cannot repeat, nor the name of the other Pamplona regular whose unit ‘extracted’ him from an Oriental prison.) Or Larry Belcher who traded the big bulls of rodeo for the smaller and more savage toro bravo cousins. Or that Welsh prince of Pamplona, Noel Chandler who has seen more corridas than most Spaniards, and in his running days traversed the largest pile-up of animals and men in the bullring mouth which the town has ever seen. Or Angus ‘the Scottish Rocket’ Ritchie whose can be seen cutting through the cattle morning after morning on ‘the curve of the death’ in the yellow shirt of his local football team Partick Thistle. As can be seen in the series of photos from this year, the timing of running this curve is everything as the bulls are moving at 20 mph, and as yet I have never got it right, either being too late.

Entering frame, bottom centre (Photo: www.sanfermin.com)

Entering frame, bottom centre (Photo: http://www.sanfermin.com)

Centre (Photo: www.sanfermin.com)

Centre (Photo: http://www.sanfermin.com)

Or as shown in this ‘our eyes met across a crowded room’ shot from last year, too early.

Eyes meet

My finest run this year was actually on the long road of calle de la Estafeta, when I set off at a jog in the middle of the street and slowly accelerated to a sprint all the while either throwing the drunks and first-timers out of my way – and that of the bulls, thus to safety – or hurdling them where they lay. The entire herd, a tight pack of six with a couple of one ton steers in the front, came up on my left hand side and I looked down admiringly at the silky black flanks pulsing and surging next to me, the modern incarnation of the wild aurochs which in other breeds we have converted to a hornless, harmless box of meat and milk on legs. However, lost in this atavistic reverie, I failed to spot another runner go down in front of me and I hit the asphalt at a flat sprint.

The one rule of bull-running, especially in Pamplona, but even other, more ancient runs like Cuéllar (which I wrote about for the Financial Times) is do not get up, the bull’s horns are low for evolutionary reasons, and on your knees your gut appears at the height of the herbivore’s ancestral enemy the wolf. This was the fatal error made by 22-year-old American Matthew Tassio in 1997. (The last death was actually a very experienced Spaniard called Daniel Jimeno Romero in 2009 two days before my own first run. Since Ernest Hemingway first went to Pamplona in 1923 and wrote his dispatches which, along with this first novel The Sun Also Rises, made the city famous, fifteen people have died.)

However, lying in the middle of the street with at least four one ton oxen and four hundred people about to run over you, I reverted to my torero training and rolled sideways, bringing down a certain number of people on top of me, but far fewer than would have been the case had I stayed where I was. As I reached the gutter I felt two strong pairs of hands grab my shoulders, and was hauled to my feet by my old friends John Hemingway (the author grandson of Ernest) and Graeme Galloway (a Scotsman who is larger than life or any description I have room to give.) I carried on running but the moment and the herd had passed. However, for this year, it was good enough. There will be others.

To paraphrase the opening of the passage with whose closing lines I began, if I could have made this enough of an article, it would have had everything in it. It would have had Matt Carney, an Irish American veteran of Iowa Jima who started the whole ‘foreigners running with bulls’ thing since Hemingway chose not to get in the street, a difference over which they fought as described in James A. Michener’s great book Iberia. It would have had Tom Gowen who arrived with terrible scars inside and out from his time in the Marines in Vietnam. It would also have had his old friend Robin Kelley O’Connor, a former wine expert from Christie’s, who has similar abdominal scars to Tom, but from a bull which saved his life twice, once by making him miss a flight on which all passengers died, the other when they had to open him up again years later and found other, hidden things that shouldn’t have been there at all. It would have had José Antonio Sanz Amador who has saved the lives of many a foreign novice, something made more amazing by him being deaf and mute, although this year he was in jail for something we can’t talk about. And Jim Hollander who came here before all of us to run and now is the finest photographer here (as his book shows), taking it as a break from war zones around the world.

And the Hoskins boys who run in the black and white colours of their rugby team, the Barbarians, the youngest of whom, Owain, had his photo go round the world on Saturday as he leapt over a sea of human and bulls in the biggest pile-up in decades at the mouth of the bull-ring that put twenty-three in hospital, while he escaped unscathed.

Owain's jump¡Viva Pamplona! y ¡Viva San Fermín!

Alexander Fiske-Harrison

P.S. Not to forget the recently turned 50-year-old and friend (in that order) Gary Masi, my co-contributor to Running The Bulls With Hemingway (& Other Pamplona Tales) Matthew Clayfield and his newcomer friend Joseph Woby, Tim Pinks whom I helped a tiny bit with his book Bullseye, Ray Mouton who wrote the book Pamplona, Jesse Graham who wrote the one called San Fermín, Rolf von Essen, Martin Sundberg, Robert Kiely, Warren Parker, Carl Butrum, Victor Lombardi, Reggie Gooden, Carlos Manriquez, the Lombardos, Deidra Carney – daughter of Matt – Catherine Donnell, Maggie Duggan, Pete Sheen, Joan Murray, Deanna, the Pentons, the Prices, Peter C. Remington, the Milligans, the Denaults, Victor, Debbie and Chloe and Gareth and oh God, the list goes on and on, no wonder they edit me… (I even forgot my father Clive!)

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Alexander Fiske-Harrison, Bill Hillmann and Nicolás Haro win Cuéllar

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Burladero

(from Burladero.com)

The Taurine Cultural Association of Cuéllar, Segovia, (EHToro) will present the award for la divulgación, ‘the revealing’ of the encierros, ‘bull-runs’ of Cuéllar, in its fourth edition, during the next fiestas of the encierros of Cuéllar, declared of national touristic interest for being the most ancient in all Spain.

EHToro Trophy

The jury, composed of aficionados and bull-runners of the encierro came to the verdict of granting this prize… Read on at The Last Arena.

 
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The Editor.

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El artículo de Alexander Fiske-Harrison en el Financial Times sobre Cuéllar y Pamplona (en español)

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Para el artículo de Alexander Fiske-Harrison en el Financial Times sobre Cuéllar y Pamplona (en español), haga clic aquí.

El editor

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Los jinetes de Cuellar entregan los toros de lidia a las afueras de la ciudad. (Foto: Nicolás Haro)

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