What is the best press trip you’ve ever been on? Farmers Weekly’s Phil Clarke recalls how a trip to Spain opened his eyes to the realities of bullfighting.
One of the more regular complaints I hear (and make) in this era of multimedia journalism is how the number of press trips (once referred to as “jollies”) has reduced.
The advent of instant communication, the ever-increasing demands on people’s time, and the escalating cost of travel and accommodation all conspire to ensure we stay firmly tied to our desks.
There are of course exceptions – I believe the machinery reporters on Farmers Weekly do occasionally get to see the inside of a tractor factory or an international trade show. But for the rest of us, these sojourns are few and far between.
I therefore consider myself lucky to have lived through a time when being taken to exotic places and lavished with extravagant gifts were all part of the modus operandi.
Sometimes, when I lay awake at night, I cast my mind back to those halcyon days and ask myself “what was the best trip I ever went on?”
My time as Europe Editor was especially fruitful on the freebie front, including a piss-up in a brewery in Salsburg, swimming naked in an ice-cold lake with fellow EU hacks near Trondheim, and a tugboat trip down the Tyne when it was the UK’s turn to host an “informal Council” in Newcastle.
But the “best trip ever”? Well, my mind always returns to the visit I made to Seville in the early 2000s, hosted by a couple of aspiring young Spanish land agents. As well as enjoying the sights, sounds and cuisine of that fabulous city, I was taken to an estate in the hills of Andalucia to witness the rearing of fighting bulls.
I’d always had a passing interest in bullfighting since reading Earnest Hemmingway’s Death in the Afternoon as a student. And it quickly became clear to me the extent to which bullfighting was ingrained in the culture for a significant section of the local populace. My hosts’ girlfriends were as enthusiastic as anyone about the so-called “art form”, telling me that banning bullfighting in Spain would be like banning the Royal family in the UK.
Seeing the whole set up on the rearing farm was fascinating. The farmyard included a mock-up bullring in which the dams were tested for aggression, with only the most “uppity” cows selected for breeding.
Their male progeny were then kept in large herds and left free to roam across open pastures with the minimum human intervention possible for at least four years.
Part of the justification used by the whole industry was that the bulls had a good, natural life lasting far longer than that of any animal intended for commercial meat production – before facing an “honourable” death in the bullring.
On my visit, one of the bulls was being loaded into a trailer to be transported to some venue – possibly a sale, or maybe a fiesta. I viewed it from a platform just a couple of feet above the race and the sheer power and menace of this snorting, reluctant, wild creature were palpable.
But what would I make of an actual bullfight? Despite Hemingway’s obvious enthusiasm and my own innate reservations, I’d always persuaded myself to reserve judgement until I’d seen it for myself.
It was a few years later – at an international egg conference in Madrid – that my chance came when, with an evening to spare, I headed to the bullring. I was not even sure anything was on, but there was indeed a fight that evening and I paid my €5 for a cheap seat up in the Gods to witness what I’d often thought about.
The pomp and ceremony building up to the fight were captivating – the music, the parade, the costumes. The crowd around me seemed to be a cross section of Spanish society – including teenage boys and girls more interested in each other than the goings on in the ring, and old men and their wives who could only afford the cheap seats.
And then the fight began – the first bull charging into the ring, already handicapped by a couple of banderillas in the neck to start the flow of blood.
The next stage saw the picadors mounted on armoured horses using lances to further weaken the animal’s neck and shoulders. In the first fight, the bull actually lifted and dumped the horse immediately below me, before being drawn away by men with capes.
These banderilleros then took over, running at the animal to stab more barbed darts into its shoulders, before the final stage, where the matador took over, inviting charges and passes with his cape to tire the bull before attempting to kill it with a single thrust of his sword between its shoulder blades and into its heart. The dead animal was then tethered to a team of horses and dragged from the ring to a roar of approval from the crowd.
I can honestly say it was the most horrific, despicable thing I had ever seen. Yes, the bravery and athleticism of those who would put themselves in the path of an angry bull were impressive. But how such cruelty was allowed in the 21st century was beyond my comprehension.
That was in 2012 and I had a feeling that much of Spain had subsequently banned bullfighting. But further research confirms it has not. The north-eastern region of Catalonia did introduce a ban in 2012, but four years later the national government overturned it on the basis of “cultural heritage”.
Since then, a few local bans have been put in place, for example in the Canary Islands and parts of Catalonia. Opinion polls also suggest a majority of Spaniards now oppose the practice, and attendance is in decline across the country.
But the fact that Spanish law still sanctions the activity, and this is endorsed by EU law, is something I find appalling and struggle to comprehend.
This article has been written in response to a Guild request for “behind the bylines” content. Do any other members have recollections of fantastic press trips from yesteryear that have made a lasting impression? If so, do submit them to Andrew Shirley at andrew@aseditorial.com
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