Day 16. 5269 km. 95 hours riding.
We’re just about to irremediably decide that Portugal had nothing interesting to offer us, when, in a forgotten village, named Vila Ruiva, we run into a crown gathered around a big corral. Yes, that’s right, it’s a corrida. A fierce bull was running around, horns first, chasing the Sunday toreadors, who, with great heroism bordering self-sacrifice, were taking the plunge into the corral to provoke the beast.
We’re just about to irremediably decide that Portugal had nothing interesting to offer us, when, in a forgotten village, named Vila Ruiva, we run into a crown gathered around a big corral. Yes, that’s right, it’s a corrida. A fierce bull was running around, horns first, chasing the Sunday toreadors, who, with great heroism bordering self-sacrifice, were taking the plunge into the corral to provoke the beast.
Truly heroic, right? Except that the rural heroism was facing a beast that was actually a gentle calf – a sort of Bambi with moist eyes, who would rather smell dandelions and listen to Julio Iglesias in the intimacy of his stall. The fierce horns were tied with strings to his juvenile horns and nobody actually got closer than 2 meters to the beast.
I don’t know if this story has an end, if finally some guy dressed as a buffoon showed up to kill the beast, because the action was almost on idle and seemed to take up the whole day, so we got going. And we would have never imagined where we would end up!
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