Griff Rhys Jones: The day I became wary of finding local colour on holiday
So we get back to Mahon, the capital of Menorca, where we’ve spent a week exploring blue coves and eating fish. The idea is for us and two friends to spend our final evening here, overlooking the two-mile-long fjord-like harbour. We were tired, but we had a good hotel – and I was pleased because I had found it, rather than Mrs Jones (a rare event).
The “Garden of Dandelions” (which sounds better in Spanish) is in a grand mansion built at the time of the British occupation. A number of these “colonial houses” cluster in the centre – the council has decorously restored Ca n’Oliver just around the corner – but our place is not a museum, it’s a set of insanely comfortable rooms with an orange tree-shaded courtyard. And I crave comfort. We want one night of luxury. It’s our last 24 hours.
And, what’s more, the Festes de la Mare de Déu de Gràcia is exploding across the city. How jolly. We saved this as an in-the-know treat for our friends – something mad and magnificent and authentically Spanish. Stepping out, we go around the back of the cathedral and find a field hospital: three or four ambulances, six or so trolleys on wheels. Paramedics peer dolefully around the corner. Then the noise hits us like a warm wave. Shiny, handsome stallions crash into the crowd. A 30-piece Menorcan version of a mariachi band plays frenetic, endlessly repeating fanfares from a long dais in front of the cathedral.
Each horse rears. It prances forward. Hands reach up to touch its chest (for luck) and the best horses totter 20 yards on their hind legs, waving their hooves, while their stylish riders in 19th-century cavalry uniforms lift their hats to the roaring multitude. The passageways reek of horse. The back streets throng with more riders. What a find. What a spectacle. Music, dancing, steeds, dancing steeds, fireworks and Spanish panache.
The following morning, medieval pipes start honking early. Giant effigies strut and twirl down the tiny passageways past our bedroom windows, heading for a ceremony in the cathedral. Oh, what colour, my dear. But we must depart. This is local stuff. We are but transient observers. We must order taxis for our flights and ferries (and another fresh orange juice). We have an hour spare, so we go out for a last look at the horses, parked up everywhere like exhausted football hooligans, moored to lampposts and trees, drinking from wheelie bins full of water. It’s a John Ford film. The banditos are in town. But we have to go – though, checking with the hotel, there is currently no taxi.
Anna has been trying for an hour. “It’s festa.” The town is sealed off.
We have less time now. The hotel is tired of ringing. Nope. Not a taxi anywhere. I guess the cabbies are riding horses, or drinking themselves insensible out of wheelie bins full of wine. Even the cafés and restaurants are shut. Could we steal a few horses and ride them to the airport?
We walk down to the dock, where the cruise ships usually come in and ruin the place. Not today. No ships. It’s a carnival. Plenty more bloody horses though. We stand by the taxi rank for a bit. We ring the number ourselves. Now we really are foreigners, aren’t we? Nothing.
Finally I spot the car rental place. Behold the true miracle of the Festes de Gràcia: not a weeping Madonna, or a statue coming to life, but Carla – at work behind her desk. She laughs at the very notion of a taxi. “Next door there’s a disco.” She points. “They are only just coming out.” She has one car left.
We clamber into a 20-year-old convertible and try to wind our way through the streets to get our luggage. Of course all the roads are closed off. Of course we have to park 10 minutes away from the hotel and of course we have to lug the luggage through the crowds, past more ruddy swirling giants.
I remember once I had a sinking boat and I sailed up to Aldeburgh in search of help. It was carnival day. Some chance. It’s not just a Latin thing. Be very, very wary of local colour, the world over. Festivals require total commitment and you need to hold out to the very end. You bloody tourists, you.
