As an MEP, Daniel Hannan meets many challenges, but perhaps his private passion for 'toreo' presented him with the most daunting yet
My wife was far from happy with me. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, she thought I was an utter ass. "You can't possibly spend a week fighting bulls," she said. "You'll be killed."
'Toreo' or bullfighting: 'a kind of ritualised dance, a tragedy with only one correct outcome'
"But, darling, they're tiny little things. Two-year-olds. Babies, really. And anyway, they're not even bulls: they're, er, cows."
"That doesn't change the fact that you're hopelessly unco-ordinated." She had me there. None the less, I was determined to go ahead with it. And, reader, it was wonderful.
Bullfighting will never have an especially sympathetic hearing in this country. People often put this down to our sentimentality about animals, but I think it has more to do with our sense of fair play. It all stems from an 18th-century mistranslation.
The rendering of corrida de toros into English as "bullfight" - rather than the literal "bull running" - suggests to the Anglo-Saxon that he is watching a competition. This immediately makes him want to support the underdog.
Whereas the Spaniard is watching a kind of ritualised dance, a tragedy with only one correct outcome, the Briton thinks he is watching an uneven contest, and becomes indignant.
Although many British people find the concept difficult, toreo is an art. I don't mean this metaphorically, in the sense that one might describe a technically brilliant footballer as artistic. What I mean is that the whole purpose of the spectacle is to give aesthetic pleasure.
When a matador calculatedly pulls the bull so close that it is almost plucking the embroidery from his suit; when he seems to be drawing it on an invisible thread; when he combines the lines of its body with his own to present a series of classical tableaux, he is not simply risking his life. He is turning the presence of death into beauty.
I mention all this to explain what I wanted to achieve in Spain. It was not, as my friends tended to assume, to get an adrenaline rush. If that is what you are interested in, I recommend that you run in front of the bulls in an encierro, a hugely enjoyable thing to do. Nor was it anything to do with proving my manliness: the animals I stood before were far too weedy for that.
No, I simply wanted to deepen my aesthetic appreciation of the fiesta. I have been watching bullfights since childhood. There comes a point, though, when your theoretical understanding of something runs up against the paucity of your practical experience. Just as someone who plays the piano, however badly, will enjoy listening to a concert pianist on a different level to someone who doesn't, so, I reasoned, a few rudimentary passes in front of an animal would give me a better perspective when I next sat in the stands.
Finding animals to practise on, though, is not easy. The essence of the bullfight is that it is the first encounter between a toro bravo and an unmounted man. The bull learns as the corrida progresses. In particular, it learns that it is unprofitable to charge at an insubstantial cloth, and begins to look for the matador. The matador's skill lies in conspiring with the bull's instinct (which tells it to charge at an advancing object), against its intelligence (which tells it not to expend itself on airy nothing).
For the drama to work, it is imperative that the animal should never have encountered such a situation before. To cape a fighting bull on more than one occasion is not only illegal under Spanish law; it has been banned by the Catholic Church since 1565.
Hannan: faced his first cow after two-and-a-half days of practice
How then do the ganaderos (as breeders of fighting bulls are known) assess their stock? The cultivation of the fighting bull, bos taurus ibericus, is every bit as delicate as the breeding of racehorses. Indeed, rather more so, in that the racehorse breeder is interested, ultimately, in just one characteristic: speed. The ganadero, by contrast, must take account of hundreds of inherited traits: stamina, eyesight, horn configuration, promptness in responding to visual stimuli, fixity in following a target.
Each ranch has developed its own characteristics over generations, and the ganadero is constantly striving to improve his line; yet he is not allowed to test an animal and then sell it to the ring. So he relies on testing the putative mothers.
This trial, or tienta, is generally carried out by a professional matador, acting on the ganadero's bellowed instructions ("I've already seen her on the right, damn it! Keep her on your left, and with her head well down!"). Once he has seen enough, the ganadero might be prepared, for a fee, to let an amateur - such as myself - have a go. A search of the internet had led me to Coleman Cooney, who runs a bullfighting school in San Diego.
Every year, he takes a party to Spain for a week of tientas interspersed with drill. Ours was a typical enough group: a young Venezuelan who hoped to turn professional; a daredevil Colombian; a Mexican American, who had already killed several times; and a screenwriter from New York. One of the curiosities of modern toreo is that, although the festival is more popular than ever, the tradition of the aficionado práctico has almost died out in Spain, and is now mainly pursued by foreigners.
Our week began with some intensive toreo de salón: that is, practising the correct passes alone, or with someone simulating the movement of the animal. The first thing that struck me was the extraordinary weight of the muleta (the piece of red serge draped over a stick used by the matador). When held with the sword, it weighs well over two pounds. After a short while, my wrist and forearm begin to burn like the devil.
I realised, too, how difficult it is to carry out a classical manoeuvre elegantly. To keep your arm at the correct angle, to pirouette without shifting your ground, to create a kind of liquid sculpture with the cloth - these things are hard enough to do in front of the mirror, with no bull present. Seeing them done gracefully in the face of the animal, when every nerve in the matador's body is screaming at him to get out of the way, is what makes toreo mesmerising.
We did most of our practising in the park alongside professional toreros, who were unvaryingly friendly and generous with their advice. You could recognise them instantly by their build. Matadors, conscious of how they look in their suits of light, are careful not to over-develop any muscles, except those in their wrists. As a result, they look almost like crabs, with slim, girlish figures and enormous forearms.
After two-and-a-half days of practice, I faced my first vaca brava. It seems preposterous to describe her as a cow: she had been bred to charge over hundreds of years, and resembled a domesticated cow only in the sense that a she-wolf resembles a labrador bitch. I don't say this in order to try to build her up: she was too small to do much damage. But she was an especially nasty specimen, with an uncanny tendency to hook with the horn. When I stood in front of her, I forgot all about technique, and concentrated on getting her past without being hit.
Determined to make up for my miserable performance on the first vaca, as I went into the ring the second time, I asked the delightful Ecuadorean matador who was instructing us: "May I try her on the left, maestro?" "Why not?" he said, in a rather doubtful tone. I should explain that it is more dangerous to work on the left since you always carry your sword in your right hand.
When your muleta is also on your right, the sword-point is pricked through the cloth, offering the animal a larger target. Not content with this idiocy, I also decided to face the beast square-on, rather than in profile.
Hannan in action: 'on the final day it began to come right'
This style, de frente, is applauded by purists; but it obviously means presenting a larger target still. It may have been very classical, but it didn't come off. One moment, I was posing like the great Juan Belmonte himself. The next, I was spinning through the air, and everyone was rushing in to distract the animal.
Taking a knock can be rather embarrassing. Tientas are surprisingly formal affairs. Before stepping out, you are expected to nod at the breeder and say: "With your permission, ganadero". It is bad enough to perform clumsily; being caught makes you feel especially gauche. The fact is that, when you get in front of an animal, your instinct runs directly counter to correct technique.
When the animal charges, for example, it is reflexive to draw in your elbows, which is both unaesthetic and counterproductive, since it pulls the charge on to you. It is natural to step backward which, again, is both ugly and stupid, the animal being attracted by movement. And it is difficult to stop yourself bending forward. This is not foolish, but it is extremely unattractive: few things look as silly as a torero with his arse sticking out.
I trained hard the next day, when we faced four large vacas bravas from the celebrated Montalvo ranch. Again, I took a couple of bruises. But, at last, I was able to start working on my technique: keeping my feet still and my body and arm at the correct angle.
On the final day, and on the last of the eight animals I faced, it began to come right. I had been trying all week to pull off one decent circular series: that enchanting movement where the torero seems to wind the animal around him without shifting his ground. Somehow, on the last vaca, it happened. Every time I pivoted, she turned beautifully and followed the cloth. Three times we went round, four, five.
"¡Bien! ¡Bien!" shouted the gruff old ganadero and, bursting with pride, I flipped my hand around and sent her away from me with a chest pass. Then I strutted away like a matador, without looking over my shoulder, the muleta trailing on the sand behind me. And, since my camera film had run out by then, that is how it shall stay in my mind's eye.
