A Travellerspoint blog

Entries about catalonia

When Catalans go for a picnic.

sunny 20 °C

My Catalan hometown of Terrassa, for a reason I have never fully understood, is an important centre on the Spanish jazz scene, and hosts a lively and popular festival each year. Locals flock to sun-drenched squares and prestigious venues to watch fantastic performances of classics old and new and take in a few rays and a few wines as they shuffle and shake to the invigorating beats. The highlight of the season is surely the ‘Picnic Jazz’, an all-day open-air concert in Terrassa’s central park, which people of all ages seem to enjoy with fervour. The music is unarguably energising and uplifting, but the thing that has always fascinated me most is the actual concept of a ‘picnic’ to the Catalan people, something that completely floored me at my first ‘Picnic Jazz’.

Now, to the everyday Brit, the idea of a picnic may consist of a cheese roll, a packet of Hula-hoops and a Penguin if you’re lucky. So, based on what was available to me in the local shops, I made myself a baguette, packed some Lays (Spain’s answer to Walkers) and threw in a few Estrella’s for good measure thinking that would suffice. (No, they don’t sell Hula-hoops and Penguins in Catalonia). And off I hopped down to the park for a cracking day of music and sunshine.

After an hour or so of smooth, melodic vibes it was time to tuck into my lunchbox delights, and I ripped back the foil and gobbled down my squashed baguette with glee. Delicious! Soon after however, I noticed a group of locals deep in concentration, constructing something that had four legs and a gas canister. They were also un-wrapping no end of utensils, pots and pans. It seemed that they had literally brought the whole contents of their kitchens with them. I was perplexed. What were they doing? Why did they need all that paraphernalia? And then, out came the cool boxes.

Onions, peppers, tomatoes, chicken, prawns… I was more and more mesmerized by the minute! They chopped and sliced, pruned and seasoned, and before long appeared a vast paella dish, and I suddenly realised what they had been so eagerly assembling – a mobile paella cooker! Unbelievable! ‘They can’t be serious?’ I thought. ‘For their picnic they’re gonna make a full-on paella?! In the middle of the park?’ And indeed, they were.

picnic.jpg

A fabulous aroma soon took to the air provoking deep within me serious food envy. Team-Paella were officially awesome! They stood around their mobile kitchen chatting and grooving to the music, sipping red wine and cava and stirring their paella now and again, no doubt to ensure their pristine, culinary standards. There before my eyes fresh fish, meat and rice were bubbling away amidst saffron and exquisite Mediterranean flavours. What they were breezily creating was a gastronomic, finest-restaurant-worthy feast. I threw a pathetic glance at my Lays. ‘My picnic is shite’ I huffed to myself.

The organisation and coordination of Team-Paella was truly applause-worthy. Soon their rustic feast was ready, the vivid colours of their saffron infused rice and bright, juicy vegetables gleaming within their heaped, steaming pan. They quickly put together a production line of plates, cutlery and napkins, and mouth-watering mounds of paella were shared amongst the group. They all coolly and unexcitedly tucked in as if coming to a park, setting up a kitchen and preparing a hot, delicious feast were a completely normal thing to do. But then I suppose for them it was. The more I looked around the more I began to notice the standards of other picnics taking place… homemade Spanish tortilla, whole legs of Serrano ham, brick-like chunks of Manchego, fideuà and traditional stews. It was a day of revelations. A day of discovery. A day of deep, cultural understanding as to what it means, and what happens, when Catalans go for a picnic.

picnic2.jpg

Posted by lauracerys 03:13 Archived in Spain Tagged park catalonia jazz picnic paella terrassa Comments (0)

Més que un club.

sunny 20 °C

Més que un club’, (more than a club) Barça’s motto really is somewhat of an understatement, for it is so much more than a football team. It is a culture, a beacon of hope, a way of life and is inextricably intertwined with Catalan identity. Its political connotations are undeniable, and Barça acts as both a fervent expression and international ambassador of the Catalan ideal. ‘Tan se val d'on venim, si del sud o del nord, ara estem d'acord’… ‘It doesn’t matter where we’re from, be it the north or the south, we are all in agreement’ proclaims the team’s anthem, and true it would seem, as for almost everyone I have met during my time in Catalonia, Barça is one of the main symbols of Catalan culture, one of their proudest emblems and their biggest international export. The pure joy they bring to people can be seen on endless occasions. For me the most explosive expression of true devotion to the team was witnessed whilst experiencing thousands of fans taking over the Rambla in celebration of winning the Champions League – flags, flares, horns and fireworks filling the street like a Barça themed flying circus. It was then that it truly, dramatically and profoundly hit me, that Barça really is more than just a team.

barca4.jpg barca5.jpg

The intense awe manifested toward the club is captivating, exciting and mesmerising, and never more so than in the run up to and ardent final encounter between Barça and Real Madrid, when bars are brimming, literally to over-flowing point with burgundy-blue-clad die-hard fans. A deep and historic rivalry exists between the two and is passed down from generation to generation, for better, or for worse. For better, in the innocent pride shown by children toward Barça – sometimes they will turn up for English class and shout with bursting joy,Mira! Mira Laura!’ – ‘Look Laura! Today I’m wearing my Barça shirt!’. ‘Y mira també!’ – ‘And look! I’ve got the matching shorts too!’. Their excitement is so sweet that I can’t help but giggle. There is perhaps a ‘for worse’ however. With the increasing hype surrounding the call for a referendum on Catalan independence, Barça has, whether it wanted to or not, become a tool used by many locals to express their political desires. And children have caught on. During a recent match I attended at Camp Nou some (probably no more than) five year olds were (no doubt copying what they have been hearing around them recently) chanting In-De-Independència!’. This made me feel a little uncomfortable, as they probably had no idea what they were shouting but had learnt from those around them that this is what is now the norm to chant during a game.

barca3.jpg

Anyway, politics aside, experiencing first hand a Barça match at Camp Nou is unforgettable. As we climb higher towards our stand and finally pop out amongst the sprawling seats, the impact of the sight before us is none other than overwhelming. The feeling that takes over as a miniature us is packed amongst a mighty sea of over 98,000 is exhilarating. And as the Camp Nou gloriously towers around us we really sense the dominating and truly impressive power that is Barça. And then come the goals.

Now, I am by no means a major football fan, but watching Barça play is like watching a smooth, contemporary dance. Between fashionable launches to the back of the net, players pivot and twirl, flick and slide, with an ease and grace more often than not reserved for the stage. But, I guess in one sense that is what Camp Nou is – a stage. A stage for dramatic performances, enthralled audiences, rose worthy triumphs and heart wrenching defeats. And the players, to the football world, are like Shakespearean actors or products of the Russian ballet – seemingly flawless professionals treating the crowds to an unforgettable show with a standing ovation almost guaranteed. What honour the players must feel (we hope) and what an inspiration they are to millions far and wide. And we mustn’t forget the 1.5million euro donation Barça makes each year to Unicef – surely an example to all top league sporting teams.

The figures speak for themselves. Barça is a footballing victory machine. But on top of the endless goals and titles, they represent something much more profound in this corner of Spain. Something that needs to be seen to be believed. Something that needs to be heard. And moreover, something that needs to be felt. The pride, the emotion, the excitement, the expectation – they all form a part of what Barça is today, simply, més que un club.

barca.jpg

Posted by lauracerys 15:18 Archived in Spain Tagged football barcelona spain catalonia barca catalan Comments (0)

The Day of the Book and the Rose

sunny 22 °C

Spring is fast approaching. The floral scent of warmth is beginning to fill the air and the sky ever-changing into a deeper shade of blue. And just around the corner is El Dia de Sant Jordi - Catalonia’s national day, a true spring-time celebration and undoubtedly one of the best occasions on which to visit its vibrant capital city, Barcelona.

The 23rd of April is a special day in numerous countries around the world with Jordi, or George, being remembered and celebrated in many different ways. But the events held in Barcelona really are something to be seen. Las Ramblas, normally a chaotic, tourist fun-fair, is transformed into a romantic, artistic, living gallery filled with vivid colours, endless curiosities and classic charm. And there is an infectious feeling all round of national pride and joy. Relating back to the legend of Jordi, the princess and the dragon, it has become custom for men to present their beloved women with a rose on this day, and Las Ramblas is subsequently abounding with fantastic, captivating and at times awe-inspiring rose stalls. Infinite and exquisite, scarlet petals beckon our attention and hypnotize us as if they had fallen straight out of a fairy-tale. And it’s not only the traditional roses that take centre stage, but yellow ones, blue ones, purple and even rainbow ones - a true spectacle, and fully worthy of their gathering crowds.

jordi2.jpgjordi1.jpg

Coinciding with the story of Jordi, the 23rd of April also marks the anniversary of the deaths of both Miguel Cervantes and William Shakespeare. Of course, never ones to miss a reason to celebrate, the Catalans have added this into the mix as well, and the date has therefore become known as ‘the day of the book and the rose’. And the literary world has of course got in on the action, making it now typical for women to mark the occasion by giving a book to the man of their life. And so apart from the beautiful and bountiful displays of roses on Las Ramblas, book stalls also stretch far into the distance providing a uniquely curious yet enchanting atmosphere. Book signings are common practice and throughout the day across the centre of Barcelona famous Catalan writers and TV personalities can be seen enjoying the festivities and posing for photos with their fans.

jordi3.jpgjordi4.jpgjordi5.jpg

El Dia de Sant Jordi truly is an unforgettable day to be in Barcelona. A magical sense of celebration is felt all round and the pride of local culture expressed to the fullest. It is a perfect opportunity to really begin to understand Catalan identity, and what better way to do so than by wandering the adorned streets of historic Barcelona. All that’s left to do is to hope that someone bestows us with a book, or a rose.

jordi6.jpg

Posted by lauracerys 13:16 Archived in Spain Tagged barcelona spain books catalonia roses las_ramblas sant_jordi saint_george Comments (0)

White, Blue and Bougainvillea

sunny 28 °C

A warm sapphire shore soothes the pebbles beneath, softly embracing them again and again, as if unable to say goodbye, whilst just up ahead, wooden fishing boats gently bob and sway, as if placed there only for decoration. As I take in my surroundings the subtle sound of sweeping waves whispers like background music to the scene, and I am struck, in awe of this truly idyllic place in which I have just arrived… Cadaqués.

Cadaques1.jpg

Cosily nestled at the foot of a hair-raising collection of cliffs and hills, Cadaqués is an undeniable jewel of the Mediterranean. And the best part is, before moving to Catalonia, I had never heard of it, as it is untouched and unspoiled by the catastrophic mass tourism so often found along the Spanish coastline.

As I wander the overwhelmingly beautiful alleys, everything I lay my eyes upon seems unequalled in rustic charm and ends up a poor victim of my camera skills. Cute, white-washed houses dazzle in the sunlight, acting as huge canvases for resplendent, overhanging bougainvillea and vibrant, blue-green window shutters. Dainty cafeterias and quaint, hidden tavernas are buzzing with life, their customers tucking in to mouth watering plates of fresh sea food and luring abundances of tapas. I decide to take myself on something of a food tasting bar crawl, and am elated with the delicious results.

cadaques4.jpg

Later, as I head uphill through cobbled, winding streets to the centre of Cadaqués, I pass beckoning little shops selling all kinds of appealing trinkets. I try my very hardest not to give in to shopping temptations and am eventually lead to an adorable old church from which there are spectacular, flawless views of the town and coast. From certain points of the harbour below, this church can be seen rising above, a picture perfect landmark gracing the panorama of the town

cadaques3.jpg
cadaques2.jpg

Continuing on from said harbour, walks up to and along the steep headland lead to scenes of unrivalled beauty – breathtaking, almost bewitching vistas of an azure open sea along with the delightful discoveries of tempting, secluded and secret coves. It is no wonder that Salvador Dalí set up home in the vicinity – what place more charming, more inspirational could possibly exist for an artist?

I wish I too had a house here, where I could wake everyday and burst open the shutters onto a radiant morning. I could look out onto a dreamy street below, onto striking flowers, onto small boutiques or onto a bakery filled with delicate treats. I could listen to the sounds of a true sea-side town, fishermen old and young chattering in their boats and the never ending song of a bright blue bay. Stunning, gorgeous, unforgettable. I long that Cadaqués should never change and will stay like this forever.

cadaques5.jpg

Posted by lauracerys 12:57 Archived in Spain Tagged beaches spain catalonia dali cadaques Comments (0)

What Bibs, Plastic Gloves and Spring Onions Have in Common

sunny 16 °C

I’m perched on a wobbly chair swigging from a cup of woody, red wine, eagerly anticipating what is to come. February has arrived and the Calçotada season is in full swing across Catalonia. I don’t really understand what I’m doing here, or what’s about to appear in front of me, but I’m resoundingly assured that it is something which is not to be missed, that it is a true celebration of Catalan cuisine. I glance around me, inquisitively taking in my surroundings. I’m at what appears to be some kind of farm/factory. Outside there are barrels filled with calçots, giant spring onions and a local delicacy, queuing up ready to be tossed onto a giant charcoal-smothered barbecue. Smoke and flavour billows through the air and weather beaten men stand around with pitch forks and shovels, prodding the prized veg and attending to their every need. Around me, are long tables filled with families and friends clamorously chattering, debating, gossiping, their cups and plates permanently brimming with whatever the waiter bestows upon them. I ponder whether the scene being acted out before me is indeed the definition of rustic?

Before long I’m presented with a giant bib and a pair of plastic gloves. I’m perplexed. I thought we were going out for a traditional Catalan meal? But I’m fervently advised that these items are not some kind of bizarre fashion statement, but a vital tool if I’m to avoid a disastrous outcome to the day. I process the information, but confusion still leads the way. Suddenly, the feast begins. Mountains of pa amb tomàquet, the famous local tomatoey bread, are brought to the table along with piles of robust, steaming artichokes. I mirror those around me and decorate my helping with a dash of salt and oil, not forgetting a dollop of hearty romesco sauce – the epitome of Catalan accompaniments. The starters are fantastic, abounding in simple, delicious homemade flavours, and naturally I help myself to seconds.

Soon the moment arrives to don my bib and gloves and I sense, that it’s show-time. There in my protective gear I feel like a surgeon about to start work on a patient. I look around at my friends – we all look ridiculous. Before long heaped silver platters piled high with calçots are noisily and ungracefully brought over by the waiters and plonked down in front of us. Suddenly it all makes sense. Suddenly I understand the need to dress up as some overgrown plastic baby – the calçots are filthy! Smeared in blacker than black charcoal from their barbecue expedition, they indeed could do some serious damage if they were to come into contact with my clothes. I begin to worry that they could even stain my face! And I inquire as to how you even go about attempting to eat a calçot? I’m told to watch and learn.

I copy the Calçotada veterans around me who are professionally and smoothly stripping the sodden outside layer of their chosen calçot away. Then, as if it were a perfectly normal way to eat, they raise their arm and dangle said spring onion from above, then nibble away from bottom to top. “You can’t be serious!” I utter. “What’s the point in that? Why can’t I just use a knife and fork?”. I receive bellowing laughter in response. I don’t get it. So, I try it their way. Impossible. I nearly poke myself in the eye with my calçot, and escape with a mere cheek splatter – which now means it’s smeared in charcoal. Seriously, how can the others chomp away so effortlessly? Maybe it’s just me being an idiot? By now my friends are on their second. I give up, and utilize my plate and cutlery. Gasps of horror and jests are thrown my way, but I’ll be the cleanest at the end of the day.

I have to admit, I wasn’t so sure about this whole barbecued spring onion business, and had severe doubts as to their tastiness. But, I am pleasantly surprised – they really are delicious! And along with the endlessly flowing cava they are going down a treat! Soon the waiters bring over trays of butifarra sausages, sizzling lamb chops, mounds of chips, and forests of salad, not forgetting the typical mongeta beans. There is literally no room on the table or my plate for any more food. But on it goes finding spaces wherever it can. The feast is overwhelming – a quintessentially rustic, country banquet, and I’m loving every minute of it! But I am so, so full that by now I feel like the Michelin man, as though I’m going to have to be rolled home, and when I’m offered desert and coffee I give a dazed shake of my head. It has been a fantastic and unforgettable experience, really giving me an insight into true Catalan culture. But if I eat anything else, I really am going to burst. So I bid thee farewell Calçotada, and shall see you again next year!

calcotada1.jpgcalcotada2.jpg

Posted by lauracerys 07:03 Archived in Spain Tagged food spain catalonia rustic calçots cava Comments (0)

The Piste Novice

La Molina

snow -3 °C

A swirling gust grazes my ice-kissed cheeks and provokes an unnerving wobble and sway as I dangle from above. Beneath my bizarre-feeling over-sized feet lays a sugary quilt stretching far and high, and trimmed with snow-dusted conifers. Slowly but surely the distance between myself and the picture perfect flurry below becomes troublingly greater and I grasp my poles tighter, for dropping one now would be disastrous. As beautiful as the views from my seat are, the realization hits that I will soon have to attempt a smooth exit from my current position, and horror sets in as I realise I have now idea how to go about it. I begin to ask myself why on earth learning to ski seemed like such a good idea.

I approach the unloading station and try to position myself correctly with my equipment in the right places. But confusion and panic takes over and the confounding challenge of getting off the ski lift in one piece becomes overwhelming, and ultimately impossible. I tumble into a frosty heap and my jacket fills with snow. Brilliant. Scrambling around like a new born foal I try to stand up again, but it is frustratingly difficult when your hands and feet suddenly have two-meter-long attachments! Eventually I am gallantly helped to my feet by a monitor. He sees people like me coming a mile off, and deep down is no-doubt thinking to himself, ‘idiot’.

As I take a glance at the blizzard-blasted surroundings, the reality of my situation dawns on me. ‘I’m at the top of a mountain’. ‘There’s only one way down.’ ‘And I don’t even know how to start… let alone stop’. I shuffle and drag myself to the threshold of the piste and my stomach knots as I gaze downward. Oh God. Save me now. I slowly push off and try to remember what the instructor told me. Pizza-pizza-pizza-pizza! That’s the shape I need to make with my skis isn’t it?! That’s how you’re meant to control your speed isn’t it!? I can’t slow down! Why isn’t it working!? Bang.

‘Maybe this is what the face of a snowman feels like’, I think to myself as I lay amidst the snow. ‘Frosty. Drippy. Blurry.’ Great. I check all my limbs are intact and notice that I am now only wearing one ski. Weird. I could have sworn I was wearing two…? Suddenly I notice one a few meters further up the piste. Shit. That’s mine. One - how the hell am I going to get to it? And two – how am I going to stick it back on to my boot? I look around me, in the hope that some form of a solution will jump and out rescue me. And luckily it does. One of the pros sees me in my snowy heap and takes pity on me, smoothly picking up my ski and handing it to me without a falter, and then coolly swooshes on down like a slalom racer.

I try to push myself back up onto my feet, a seemingly impossible challenge whilst stranded on an icy slope. My knees begin to shudder and a tremble takes over my arms with the pressure of trying to lift myself from such a strange position. I eventually force myself up and my joints unleash a throb from the effort of such a physical feat. I lay out my abandoned ski in front of me, itself tricky thanks to my position on a slippery slant, and it nearly escapes and takes a long slide down to the bottom of the piste. I rescue it just in time.

I try everything to get my ski back on… pushing, forcing, crouching, shimmying. Why won’t it work? I get frustrated and impatiently slam my foot down. Click. I’m in. Success. But the glory is short lived as I look out at the long slope ahead. Slowly, cautiously, and no doubt with a ridiculous posture I attempt my descent once again. I’m trembling with fear and have no doubt forgotten to breathe. Meanwhile, a group of five-year-olds whiz past me, elegantly turning and curving without a care in the world. Embarrassing. How come they know what to do? How come they don’t fall? How come none of them will ever make a complete knob out of themselves? I’m picking up speed and attempt to turn myself into some kind of snow plough. Nothing seems to work. I can’t stop! It seems the only option is to just go with it, try to keep upright and hope for the best.

The wind howls as it crashes past my face and giant snow flakes bounce off my goggles fogging my vision. But there’s no time to worry about being able to see. I have to focus on staying alive! I’m accelerating no end and my joints rattle as the clattering contact between skis and slope sends ripples through my body. I feel like a kind of George of the Jungle meets Yeti character, propelling though the snow without a hint of grace. ‘Don’t fall! Don’t fall! Don’t fall!’ I say to myself, maybe even out loud.

Suddenly, and finally, the end is in sight. I can see the bottom of the piste. And the slope seems to be evening out. Yes, it’s getting flatter! And I’m slowing down! I pizza, I snow plough, I do whatever my legs are willing to and attempt to bring myself to a halt. And eventually, I stop. With incredulity I look around me. I glance back up at from whence I came. I did it! I actually made it down! I’m still quivering from the stress, but I feel like a legend. I! Me! I skied! I am officially cool! And surely if I did it once, I can do it again. Surely I can only get better!

And just like that the overwhelming fear of taking on the piste disappears, and I can’t wait to try it all over again!

lamolina1.jpglamolina.jpglamolina2.jpg

Posted by lauracerys 05:36 Archived in Spain Tagged mountains snow skiing ski catalonia piste la_molina Comments (0)

When The Bizarre Becomes Real

sunny 7 °C

When a giant feather-bower-embellished willy drives past, you know that Sitges Carnival is finally in full swing.

Spectators line the streets, packed against shop fronts donning inappropriate fancy dress, excitedly awaiting the big event. Suddenly soul-shuddering drums explode into blazing, palpitating rhythms and a grand display of the burlesque and the bizarre pulsates through the heart of the town. Radio-hogging tunes of the moment are blared out and clouded with tropical, salsa beats, and for a moment we forget that it’s winter and pretend that we are in a far off balmy destination grooving under exotic coconut trees. But alas, it’s cold and we make a mental note that next year our costume should be more weather appropriate. That will no doubt be forgotten though, as the exuberant fun and spirit of carnival will surely lead us astray.

Eccentric and fantastic floats squeeze through the brimming and awkwardly narrow streets with flamboyant confidence and ease. Booming with vivaciousness they wobble at times with the insatiable party spirit of carnival-goers. Truly impressive artistic feats pass before our eyes with theatrical flourishes and thunderous energy, and house a multitude of striking, vociferous characters. Glittering, sensational, outlandish and lurid they dance the night away, posing for cameras and rousing the atmosphere. As we take in the extravagant, celebratory surroundings colourful costumes excite and delight and leave us wanting more, eager to see what else will make its way down the street… and you can bet your bottom dollar, it’ll be increasingly ridiculous and outlandish. Mermaids, Mad-Hatters, Freddy Mercurys or peacocks, who knows what you may behold – at Sitges Carnival, it would seem that anything goes!

sitges1.jpgsitges2.jpgsitges3.jpgsitges4.jpg

Posted by lauracerys 12:55 Archived in Spain Tagged barcelona catalonia party carnival sitges Comments (0)

Los Reyes Magos

sunny 12 °C

When the decorations are boxed up again and the January blues well and truly kicked in in many countries, festivities are still in full swing across Spain, with the highlight of the season still to come – the Feast of the Kings, or Los reyes magos, to many, more important than Christmas Day and traditionally the time for exchanging presents. The eve of the 5th of January for Spanish children must be the most anticipated time of the whole year, where a magical parade of drama and spectacle, vivacious colours, and booming characters bring to life a century’s old tale in true flamboyant style. The spellbinding arrival of the gift-baring Three Kings to their town, accompanied by a dazzling entourage sometimes a thousand strong, must be overwhelmingly exciting for them, and provides a glittering and extravagant finale to the Christmas period.

A buzz of activity hums through the air all day long in preparation for the evening’s festivities, and excitement bubbles away reaching boiling point at around 6pm. Friends and families great and small choose their place wisely as they line the streets to await the theatrical parade of the Kings, the children’s fizzing enthusiasm and intrigue by now uncontrollable. Suddenly, the faint murmur of a drum is heard in the distance harmonising with rumours that they are finally on their way. Gradually the beat grows stronger, slowly developing into a grandiose, regal rhythm, announcing that royalty is indeed approaching. Trumpets galore break into a flourishing fanfare, and from around the corner appear the forerunners to the kings’ infinite party.

reyes2.jpg reyes4.jpg

Richly robed choruses file by at a triumphant pace, the endless members acting out well their royal duties. Colourful messengers carry the Christmas letters written by the children of the town. Horse riders try their best to look majestic whilst controlling their vessels amidst the crowds of people. Brass bands, wind bands, and troupes of drummers keep the momentum going and rouse the festive spirit of all around. Flag bearers tell us of the exotic origins of the kings and flame jugglers delight and warm us as they pass by.

reyes3.jpg reyes5.jpg

Soon the streets explode into a roar of excitement – the Kings are here! The hoards fervently cheer and applaud as the lively, glittering carriages approach, a true show on wheels. Their royal highnesses, Balthasar, Melchrior and Gaspar, wave to their fans like superstars showered in glory, embracing the emotion of their subjects with joyous, festive outcries. The locals go wild as the Kings hurl sweets into the air, stretching their finger tips up high to catch some or scrambling to the ground to scoop up any that escape them. Filling your pockets with as many as possible is a must. Some even go as far as hanging upside down umbrellas over their balconies for maximum sweet-catching potential.

reyes1.jpg reyes6.jpg reyes7.jpg

Los reyes magos is a truly magical evening where the whole town seem to come together to celebrate what for them is perhaps the most important part of Christmas. The awe-inspired look on children’s faces as the Kings float past is enough alone to create a wonderful atmosphere. But, the whole thing really is great fun for adults too, letting out the child in all of us. If there’s one thing Spain knows how to do well, it’s celebrate!

Posted by lauracerys 09:27 Archived in Spain Tagged spain catalonia christmas parade kings reyes_magos Comments (0)

(Entries 1 - 8 of 9) Page [1] 2 » Next