A Travellerspoint blog

By this Author: lauracerys

Incredible, In Your Face and In The Middle Of Nowhere

The Three 'Ins' of Las Vegas

sunny 35 °C

Las Vegas is bizarre, mesmerising and downright weird… all in the best possible sense of course. But it’s true. From the moment I arrived I was baffled and delighted as the scenes I had so often seen in films were played out before me. Flashing lights, revelling sounds, extreme and fantastical constructions and generally over the top everything, meant I just didn’t know where to look first. ‘How is it possible that a place like this exists?’ I continuously thought to myself. ‘How are Luxor, New York, Venice and Paris suddenly all in the same street?’. ‘Why are there Romans and pirates here?’. ‘Why does everyone want me to have a nice day?’. ‘And why are there so many options for my burger?’. Indeed, to this day, I’m not sure how or why.

The first thing that intrigued me was the scale of the city and its geographical surroundings. As our plane began its descent into the airport I was surprised by how small Las Vegas was – one bold boulevard surrounded by increasingly diminishing suburbs, until it fizzled out into nothingness. And this nothingness led to awesome scenery. I knew that the city was located in ‘desert country’, but I didn’t actually realize to what extent. In comparison to its surroundings Las Vegas is but a small mark on a wild vast canvas of amber and crimson rock. It is literally in the middle of nowhere, standing alone and slight amidst an arid sea of thirsty earth. But yet this small city, or at least that which us tourists experience, is booming and vibrant and in ridiculous contrast to its barren environs.

The Strip, the area of Las Vegas recognized world over for its flamboyant hotels and casinos, is unbelievable, astonishing and rather absurd. The grand constructions that line the avenue are dreamlike, outlandish masterpieces, inspiring awe, laughter and bewilderment. ‘How have I ended up atop the Eiffel Tower looking out at Aladdin’s bazaar and a Roman fortress?’ you may ask yourself. But alas, Las Vegas is thus. Simply walking the boulevard provides unreal experiences, inconceivable sights and scenes of ludicrous frivolity. Near on ten lanes of traffic buzz up and down The Strip day in, day out, ferrying thrill seekers to and from the various party and gambling joints of the city. At night, neon signs and theatrical light compositions excitingly illuminate from ground to heaven. Everywhere we look there is something or someone to be seen and all around, money is constantly on show, extravagantly displaying her power.

Inside The Strip’s hotels, all you may wish for is available. Whatever and however much you want to eat or drink, it’s possible. If you want to party, you can, whenever you want. The difference between day and night is blurry in the dimly lit swanky bars and gambling halls, and cocktail glasses and slot machines jingle and clink at all hours. Sounds of winnings and failings hover in dizzy clouds, and if it is your desire to spend obscene amounts of money, you will certainly be more than welcome.

Las Vegas… Incredible. In your face. And in the middle of nowhere. I think that pretty much sums it up.

Posted by lauracerys 08:54 Archived in USA Tagged desert las_vegas casino usa gambling the_strip Comments (0)

Getting Dizzy in La Paz

sunny 17 °C

The sprawling Andean metropolis of La Paz is booming, vibrant and rich in history and culture. The chaotic streets are exhilaratingly bursting with life, with reggaeton and cumbia blaring from every corner along with crowd-pleasing pan-pipe classics, and in the distance, through cracks in the city skyline, the snow-capped peaks assert their dramatic presence.


A fascinating mix of people call La Paz home, and a modern latino culture vividly blends with timeless indigenous customs, the fashion alone bringing this to light. Ultra-tight jeans and dangly earrings are seen as much as the humungous, rainbow skirts, bowler hats and brilliantly beautiful, woven shawls. A sense of historical wrong-doing and political discontent is forever present in the air, seen simply in the roles played by different city folk, the mixture of skyscrapers and shacks, or manifested in spectacularly striking murals.

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The heart of the centre is occupied by the Iglesia de San Francisco, a dominating reminder of Spanish influences. From here streets spread like veins in every direction, the rhythm of the city pulsating through them, old, new, rich and poor in a melting pot of contemporary culture. Smart, colonial buildings stand frozen in time, as modern, dynamic La Paz inundates around them, taking on a new lease of life. Traffic howls in the air, and overflowing, rattling mini-buses tare up and down the hills like wild toy cars, dodging random boulders on their way, designated location-shouters adding to the civic hum.

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The colourful and atmospheric markets are a souvenir paradise for visitors to the city. The locals are friendly, the colours vivacious and our shopping eyes are welcomed by a kaleidoscope of possibilities. Bright, stripy trousers, llama wool jumpers, pompommed hats, jazzy satchels… All tourists end up looking the same, adopting the must have trends of the Latin-American trip, and oh do we love it!


A short drive away from the city we find the mountain of Chicaltaya and the Valle de la luna. Both are exceptional examples of the astounding geography of Bolivia and well worth the day trip. The views from Chicaltaya are amazing, stretching to infinity and offering an array of landscapes, whilst the Valle is curious and mesmerising in itself, and satisfies the Indiana Jones in all of us.

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All in all, La Paz is a spellbinding place to visit, providing unforgettable experiences, dramatic environs and an insight into the real Latin America.

Posted by lauracerys 12:50 Archived in Bolivia Tagged markets la_paz andes latin_america valle_de_la_luna boliva chicaltaya Comments (0)

Perpignan – perfect for a quaint hit of French culture

sunny 16 °C


Just a couple of hours north of Barcelona, across the Pyrenees is the charming city of Perpignan, cute, tasty, colourful and perfect for a weekend get-away. It’s so stereotypically French that it’s like being on the set of Amélie, or at a French-themed, mini theme park. The old city centre is full of narrow pastel shaded buildings which during the varying lights and shadows of the day display a delightful spectrum of amber hues, perfectly contrasting with their blue-green shutters. Quaint, winding streets full of fashionable boutiques tantalize the coins in our pockets, whilst sticky patisseries and rustic delicatessens awaken our taste buds with gusts of fine aromas.

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Saturday in the central Place de la République, restaurants are buzzing with locals perched in the afternoon sun, sipping on a bubbly cidre or two and tucking into steaming buckets of mouth-watering muscles and sides of frites. Later they lazily puff on fragrant cigars, always keeping a watchful eye on the televised rugby match, the melody of which flowing like a wave under the din of kitchen clutter and asthmatic exhalations of coffee machines. Every so often, the twee symphony of the old fashioned merry-go-round strikes up and we are transported back in time to days of the belle époque. A short stroll from the square, the crimson-brown castillet sits on the river-side providing Perpignan with a splash of Catalan culture and topping off the medieval ambiance of the old city. Atmospheric market stalls selling tempting local produce embellish the outside, and entice passers by to purchase a little gourmet treat for themselves.


Sunday morning, and Perpignan is sleepy. The only thing for it is a delicious petit dejeuner and a chance to put our year-seven French to the test. The result, is surprisingly effective, and expectedly delicious. Freshly made creppes with fantastically zesty lemons and a warm café au lait are the perfect start to our day, and set the pace for a laid-back few hours of rambling. Just further out from the nucleus of the old city, a labyrinth of quiescent streets amble to and fro, the sounds of city life muffled behind tall tell-tale houses. Now and again we stumble upon a tiny, forgotten square or an enchanting well frozen in time, and eagerly take photos from every angle in an attempt to capture the perfect arty shot. Our stroll continues through bright, fanciful lanes, and fuelled by exquisite scents of lunch-time preparation we dream about rustic southern French life and moreover, ponder about how much wine and cheese we will realistically be able take back with us.

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Posted by lauracerys 08:06 Archived in France Tagged france french catalan rugby perpignan creppes Comments (0)

Una aventura jaipuri de rickshaw... durante el monzón.

storm 35 °C

Más que nada es la ensordecedora cacofonía de ruidos que recuerdo de la ciudad de Jaipur. Los chillidos de los cláxones, los gruñidos de los motores, los aullidos de autobuses al pasar zumbando por las calles, y la disonancia de una miríada de voces gritando a la vez. La ciudad rosada demuestra la India de verdad, y quizá no hay mejor manera de conocerla que como pasajero de rickshaw. Desde el asiento trasero probamos la vida jaipuri por excelencia, con todos sus personajes, colores, perfumes, y caóticos telones de fondo.

Un día conocimos en la calle a un sonriente conductor que prometió llevarnos a ver el Palacio de Agua y los elefantes de la zona, y como que era un domingo sería ‘muy tranquilo sin casi nadie ahí, y gratis además’. Miré de reojo a mi compañero y le intenté dar una mirada de ‘¿que hacemos?’ . Mi reacción inicial fue un fuerte ‘creo que no’, pero un sentido de aventura amenazaba a tomar el control de la situación y decidir por mi parte. Dos voces discutían en mi cabeza, la primera, ‘¡No seas ingenua, claro que no será gratis, te está engañando!', y la segunda, ‘Bueno pues... ¿Por qué no? ¿Algo diferente, no? Y así veré unos elefantes por primera vez en la vida...’

Sabía que fue era error, pero antes de poder entrar en razón habíamos empezado a pasar como un bólido por las calles de Jaipur. El rickshaw se comportó como un cochecito de jugete, esquivando a las vacas y oscilando entre los monstruosos motores mayores. Como una versión vida-real de Mario Kart, nuestro conductor aceleraba a cada oportunidad como si buscara puntos y quisiera ganar a los vehículos demás. Casi chocamos (o al menos a mi me lo pareció) no sé cuantas veces con varios miembros de tráfico, y meintras tanto la bocina soltaba monsergas estridentas y perpetuas.

De repente nuestro chofer detuvo el rickshaw. ‘Mirad’... dijo, ‘¡una vista impresionante del Palacio del Agua!’. ‘¿Una vista?’ pensé para mí misma, ‘¡Pues claro que es gratis si solo es una vista! Ahora lo entiendo... “os llevaré a ver el Palacio"... ¡pero no dijo nada sobre entrar en el palacio!' Otra vez nos rogó subir a su rickshaw. Ahora tocaba la visita a unos elefantes locales. Zigzagueamos por las calles como una avisba enfurecida, girando bruscamente y evitando por los pelos a unos niños que jugaban con una pelota, lo que me y provocó un grito ahogado.


Al poco rato llegamos a lo que parecía un tipo de garaje, y nuestro chofer saludó a un compañero que había salido. Él nos invitó a entrar y me quedé boquiabierta al ver que ahí dentro vivían cinco elefantes. Sé que suena ridículo, pero nada me habría podido preparar para la grandeza de aquellas criaturas. Lo que había visto en la tele no tenía nada que ver con su majestuocidad y su increíble fuerza. Son magníficos, hermosos y terroríficos a la vez. Fue una experiencia inolvidable estar tan cerca de ellos, pero igual de triste verlos ahí en el garaje del amigo del chofer, y no en medio de la naturaleza.

‘Bueno’, pensé, ‘una experiencia…’ meintras entramos otra vez al rickshaw. Pero el tour de nuestro conductor no había acabado. Nos guardaba una sorpresa muy especial... llavarnos a las tiendas de todos sus amigos y meternos bajo presión para que comprasemos algo. ¡Genial! ’¿Cómo podía haber sido tan ingenua?’... pensé y me sentí muy enfadada conmigo misma por haber caído en la trampa de su gira del palacio y elefantes. Pero bueno, sobrevivimos sin demasiados daños económicos a pesar de la adquisición de tres bufandas y dos camisas nuevas. Sin embargo, lo peor estaba por llegar.

Pit-pat. Escuché unas gotas. Pit-pit-pat. Varias gotas más. El cielo de pronto se oscureció tirando sombras inquietantes contra las paredes, y un vasto trueno retumbó por toda la ciudad. Al cabo de unos minutos las calles de Jaipur estaban dramáticamente inundandose, convertiéndose en ríos de rápida corriente. Pese a los esfuerzos del chofer, el rickshaw estaba sufriendo, tosiendo y bamboleándose sin control. Y de repiente, se murió, ahí en medio del agua, ahogado y sin salida. El conductor, ya mojado hasta los huesos, se giró hacia mi compañero y con una expresión entre tristeza, desesperación y enfado suplicó que le auydara a empujar su vehiculito hasta algún sitio seguro. Y con una risita, que no sé si fue por humor u horror, el pobre se arremangó sus pantalones, entró en el agua, y se pusó a trabajar en ello. No quiero pensar en lo que había en esos borbotones de agua, pero después de lo que había visto por los suelos, quizá es mejor no saberlo. Fue un momento de puro caos, y me pregunté ‘¿que hago aquí en medio de todo esto?’. Pero igualmente, sabía que sería algo de lo que me reiría algún día, que sería una historia para contar a los amigos, y que nuestro chofer seguramente ahora tendría problemas más grandes que yo y mi ropa empapada.

Posted by lauracerys 08:41 Archived in India Tagged india jaipur monsoon rickshaw monzon tuc-tuc ragasthan lluvia Comments (0)

Mürren – Like a real life festive film!

snow 0 °C

Arriving in Mürren was so exciting! It was my first snowy holiday and I was eager to see the for myself those scenes that adorn the glossy pages of countless travel books – infinitely deep valleys, perfectly triangular soaring peaks, and cute wooden houses with roofs and doorsteps seemingly heaped with twinkling sugar. I was not to be disappointed…

A fresh lining of dusty snow besprinkled the streets of Bern as we headed towards the hauptbahnhof that morning, and a low mist and biting chill whispered promises of crisp-white backdrops ahead. As the train set off for destination blizzard I fixed my gaze out of the window, keen not to miss even a millimetre of the immense scenery approaching. Everywhere I looked it was as if the train were zooming past life-sized Christmas cards. Beautiful stills of frozen, fluffy blankets and icing-dipped, gigantic trees flickered by, along with the perfectly picturesque alpine villages dotting the lakes of Interlaken.


Gradually the mountains grew in a triumphant crescendo, dominating the skyline, their jagged tops glinting in the light. And the valleys became tighter, and icier as the sun struggled to creep over the dramatic summits. I soon arrived at Lauterbrunnen where I had to board a snazzy panoramic cable car which basically acted as a deluxe lift. The views during the ascent were utterly spectacular. Perfectly shaped trees stretched for miles up and down the valley, giant and elaborate snowflakes, like those made by primary school children, gracefully bounced against the windows, and straight ahead the Eiger majestically and emphatically held my gaze. Our frosty great glass elevator eventually stopped at an old fashioned railway station where I boarded the small train that continued on to the village of Mürren.


Niveous dunes could be seen for afar and an icy breeze composed a wintry waltz in the air. Piles of snow slumped against tree trunks and swamped the little log cabins that bespeckled the train line. We chugged along in slow motion, and eventually came to shuddering halt signalling our arrival in Mürren. The chilly stroll, or better said, epic trudge to the village was simply beautiful. A delightfully quaint miniature church stood enclosed in glittering diamond snow, its spire peeking out from the top. Perfect wooden houses lay engulfed in drifts with sharp, glistening icicles dangling from the roofs like decorative borders. And never far away were truly spectacular vistas of the Bernese Oberland.


Swiss residents and tourists wandered, or ever better, skied the streets in their chic winter wear, never failing to look anything other than cool. How was it possible that they could pull off those giant goggles? How could a thermal onesie look so awesome? They took fashionable and enviable pauses from their pro piste adventures in the warming village restaurants, sipping on sweet hot chocolate or a beer or two, whilst gazing out at the mountain top views and discussing the quality of the snow that day. How I wished I could take on the peaks as they did and swiftly zoom down the hair-raising slopes. ‘One day...’ I thought to myself. But I would have to wait, as my snow expedition had only just begun…


Posted by lauracerys 07:20 Archived in Switzerland Tagged snow skiing ski swiss mürren swizerland Comments (0)

Welsh Patagonia

An American Dream

sunny 13 °C

On the 25th May 1865, 153 disenchanted Welsh adventurers embarked upon the journey of a lifetime to the New World, leaving behind a land than had disappointed them in the hope of more fortuitous days. And their lives would indeed change forever. But what would the future hold for them? What would become of their families? The answer lay but in tumbling waves, ensnaring plains and the majestic might of the Andes…


The story of the Welsh in Patagonia is equally heart wrenching and inspiring, and the unbelievable effort made by the early settlers to form their community in the face of nothing more than a harsh rugged wilderness seems superhuman. Today the beautifully austere Chubut Valley is a place very dear to my heart. My visits there have always been filled with feelings of happiness, astonishment and pride. The overwhelming kindness of the people has made me feel completely and strangely at home, as though part of me somehow belongs there. The efforts of local residents, including many who aren’t descendants of the Welsh but who see an importance in the subject, to preserve and promote the Welsh language and culture in the area is impressive, and during each of stays the Welsh community there has never failed to astound me.


For any Welsh visitor to the region, meeting an Argentinean who is able to speak our language and who seems to know more about our country than we do is astonishing, and the passion towards maintaining the culture is incredibly touching. Countless people dedicate their time to running Welsh activities such as folk dancing, choirs and language classes to name but a few, and the drive behind them and the pleasure people get from them always brings a smile to my face.


Traditional Welsh chapels dot the valley and it is bizarre to see edifices so similar to those in my home town quietly standing amid the Patagonian plains, as if plucked from Pontypridd and plonked in the desert. Even more weird and wonderful, is hearing Welsh hymns resonating in the aisles, and without any hint of doubt we could be fooled into thinking we were back home. Oh what tales those chapel walls must hold, and what characters must have faithfully perched inside them. Oh what victories and hardships they must have bore witness to, such joy, such routine and such grief. The names inscribed in the local graveyards read like any a village in Wales – Jones and Evans, Davis and Jenkins have left their mark forever on those plains and their dreams and efforts echo throughout Chubut still today stretching even as far as the peaks of the Andes.


In the Welsh language primary school and nursery is where I have spent many of my happiest times in the Chubut Valley. Listening to adults and young children alike communicating, playing and learning in the old Celtic tongue is mesmerising. I have many a time been completely awestruck, thinking to myself, “how is it possible that I am in the middle of Argentina singing nursery rhymes from my childhood?” ‘Mi welais Jac y Do’ seems to make as much sense there as it does in Wales. The dedication of teachers and parents to running and developing the schools is deeply moving, and it amazes me that in a country the scale of Argentina, and despite being surrounded by the dominance of Castilian, the language and culture of my small nation not only survives after all this time, but holds prestige. The size of the Patagonian Eisteddfod festivals and the number of contestants each time are testimony enough to the long lasting legacy of Welsh culture in Chubut, and make me believe that it will live for much longer yet. And although to the unknowing non Welsh eye, the towns of the Chubut Valley may initially from the outside appear like anywhere else in Argentina, if they look a little harder and investigate a little further, others too will discover and incredible history, inspiring tales and a warm and fascinating community.


Posted by lauracerys 09:02 Archived in Argentina Tagged spanish argentina wales patagonia welsh argentinean gaiman trelew eisteddfod Comments (0)

Lost in a souq in Marrakech

sunny 26 °C

Wailing oboes and mesmerised snakes. Tantalizing oranges and sweet sticky dates. An enchanting laberynth with vibrant twits and turns and more delights to the senses than we could ever imagine. Getting lost in a souq in Marrakech in undoubtedly one of the most exciting travel experiences out there where the weird and the wonderful perfectly combine in the form of the exotic and the alluring which never cease to impress.

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For those of us who are partial to the odd shopping spree, the souqs of Marrakech are none other than dangerous and can easily reek havoc on our bank balance. Each little shop is a cave of beguiling curiosities, ablaze with colour, enticing us to venture in ‘just for a look’. Like a real life theatrical production of Arabian Nights, the old medina quarter throws us amid scenes of Ali Baba and our dreams of an exuberant Arabian wonderland are played out before us.


Sugar glazed treats and sunset shaded dunes of spices call upon our taste buds whilst jewel embellished tea sets and ornate ceramic tagines provoke thoughts of hosting the perfect riad style dinner party. And if in need of lighting for said arabesque eve, then help it as hand. Brilliant hand made laps of all shapes and sizes vividly illuminate like giant hard boiled sweets dangling from above. And how about a dazzling pouffe or two while we’re at it and half a dozen besequined cushions to complete our exotic scene.


A couple of stalls along and we are greeted by an array of exquisite slippers, colourful and decorative with prominent curled toes sufficient to make any a wise man proud. Polished silver and deep turquoise (some honest, some faux) twisted into fantastical designs wink at us as we pass by and our purses gulp in fear. Displays of bright, jazzy belly dancing outfits never fail to bring a smile to our faces, but seeing men dressed in them, as is often the case in old Marrakech, is more bemusing than sensual.

Narrow amber and terra-cotta passageways lead us deep into the heart of the souq, their next direction and destination always a mystery. Suddenly, a bold secret door emerges and we long to discover the myriad of stories that lay behind it. Now and then we stumble upon beautifully adorned archways and aureate glassless windows, but we’ll be hard pushed to ever find them again, since the souq is an impossible maze of distractions.


Donkeys amble by pulling carts of local goods, and at the turn of a corner an agitated foaming camel makes us a little unnerved. But our attention is soon diverted by a grotto full of intricately patterned carpets, and we curse the luggage size regulations for not allowing us to take one home. Our grief is eased however quickly enough, and we conclude that we’ll just have to buy one (or more likely a variety) of the smaller things we have seen instead. Maybe that scarf, the throw, or one of those satchels? Perhaps that decorative mirror for the bedroom wall? How about that drum or the candlestick holder? Or the basket, the plates and the pink shisha pipe?


The souqs of Marrakech are a whirlwind of colours, sounds and flavours, and losing ourselves amidst their twists and turns of treasures is rewarding and unforgettable, providing us with our own one thousand and one tales to tell.

Posted by lauracerys 07:23 Archived in Morocco Tagged markets morocco camel marrakech donkey spices souq lamps tagine Comments (0)

The Catalan Castells

A fine balance between bravery and insanity

sunny 24 °C

So it’s that time of year again, and La Mercè festival takes over the city I now call home, Barcelona. A whole weekend of spectacular events showcases the city at its absolute best, and quaint old squares are crammed full of performances and party-goers alike, delighting in the unmissable excitement and revelry. Perhaps none more so than Plaça Sant Jaume brings to life the passion, fervour and unique traditions of Catalan culture with its breathtaking display of els castells, in other words, human castles.

Now, for a British person, the first time you find yourself at a castells demonstration, the effect is none other than jaw dropping. Your thoughts range from “They can’t be serious!” to “What about health and safety laws?” and finally to “Is that a five year old climbing up there?!” You would have thought that this reaction would have somewhat diluted over time, but I can firmly declare that it hasn’t. Are the castellers courageous heroes or just mad? I really can’t tell.

So, the aim of the game (it seems) is for teams to construct a specially designed human tower by standing on each others shoulders and making it as high as they possibly can – and believe me, the heights they reach are astounding!

Hoards of supporters and unexpecting foreign tourists fill Sant Jaume square ready for an unbelievable show. The competitors, who have come from every corner of Barcelona, gather in the centre for pep talks and last minute adjustments, eager to undertake the seemingly superhuman challenge ahead. Then finally the moment arrives, and the first movements are made by the structural members of the groups. A blanket of silence gradually covers the spectators. Nervous tension spreads throughout the square and a wind band starts up with traditional music that seems specifically composed to increase the feeling of anxiety in the air.

The castells grow, rapidly gaining height, and concentration is deep – one foot wrongly placed, even a split second loss of focus could lead to disaster. A tremor of muscles from the castellers and a wobble here and there releases a gasp of horror from the crowd, and the hair on the back of our necks stands on edge. Incredibly however, teams remain calm. The towers, now seven or eight levels high, are nearly complete, but the dramatic pinnacle is yet to come. Suddenly, small children, surely no more than five years of age, begin climbing each construction like monkeys, with petrified though determined looks on their faces. Their task is to reach the top of their tower, climb over the heads of the two highest members, raise their hand into the air and successfully descend the other side. And whilst this is taking place, the castles must remain intact – truly a gravity defying feat!

Excitement and fear grows in the crowd - foreign tourists tearing out their hair in incredulity, local aficionados wondering if teams will reach their personal bests. With a sigh of relief all children have made it down the towers. In one corner a team is successfully and meticulously deconstructing their castle, one by one detaching themselves carefully, as if it were a game of Kerplunk. And finally, a roar of euphoria as all members reach the ground in one piece. Arms shoot into the air ecstatically, in awe of the team who in the eyes of the crowd are superheroes. Suddenly however, something catches our eye. Another castle still stands. But something is wrong. It begins with a hint of doubt. A quiver nervously follows, leading to a slight shudder of a knee which dominoes the slip of hands and heels. A cry of panic from the crowd and the castle turns to ruin, painfully collapsing. Bodies tumble on top of one another forming a mountain of limbs and the audience hold their breath in despair. But, it is revealed that everyone is ok, and the fans cheer in admiration for the fallen. Then it is determinedly announced that they shall attempt the castle again! And the crowd are delighted.

Every time I see groups of castellers creating their human towers I am blown away. They truly are amazing. Crazy yes, courageous no doubt. And so perhaps it is fair to say that the Catalan people have invented with their castells the perfect balance between bravery and insanity.

I won’t be joining a team anytime soon.

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Posted by lauracerys 06:08 Archived in Spain Tagged barcelona spain catalonia catalan els_castells castells sant_jaume la-merce Comments (0)

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