The Festival of San Fermin takes place each year in Pamplona, a fairytale city in the far north of Spain, the heart of Basque Country. Better known elsewhere as the “Running of the Bulls”, it is just one of many similar events which occur throughout the Iberian Peninsula. The tradition has been observed since medieval times across Portugal, Spain and even Southern France, but having been immortalised by Hemingway in The Sun Also Rises, Pamplona enjoys an unrivaled degree of fame.

I first learned about San Fermin as a small boy watching the six o’clock news. Despite reports of trampling and goring, I was spellbound. Quirky regional traditions are often intriguing, but for whatever reason, those with significant potential for dismemberment seem to capture my imagination – riding giant logs down Japanese mountainsides, chasing three kilograms of Double Gloucester down steep English hills, and of course, running with the bulls in Pamplona.

In 2013, San Fermin coincided with the end of a month-long rock climbing course I had undertaken in Northern Spain. I had a mere 48 hours until my flight left from Madrid. The timeframe was tight, but achievable. Along with two friends, I boarded a bus in the charming hamlet of Potes. We left behind medieval architecture and postcard landscapes, exchanging them for the squalid city streets of Santander.

Hiring a rental car is often an onerous process, but this time was particularly stressful. There was some confusion regarding the booking, resulting in three legs on the metro bus, one frantic taxi fare, and plenty of grammatically abhorrent Spanish accompanied by wild gesticulation. Against all odds, I finalised the contract as night fell on the city, and with the timidity that only a $5000 insurance excess can ensure, I eased the silver hatchback into the mean streets.

We drove through the night, passing the industrial outskirts of Santander. The evening wore on and fatigue set in. The flare from an oil refinery danced ominously in the distance. A routine police check became a puzzling ordeal in an unfamiliar tongue. A takeaway coffee only marginally cooler than the Earth’s core scalded the roof of my mouth.

Eventually, we arrived at Pamplona, strung out and stretched thin. We felt like “butter scraped over too much bread” as Bilbo Baggins so eloquently described. The seats went down and we plunged into a deep sleep, three grown-ass men crammed inside one very small car.

Dawn came too soon. We emerged from the car with a heady cocktail of sensations – confusion, exhaustion, tension, elation. Later, in the Old Quarter of Pamplona, we waited nervously in a crowded, narrow lane. Fireworks erupted and a visible, visceral wave of panic swept through the mob – the run had officially commenced.

The bulls thundered past us at La Curva, which luckily did not live up to its other moniker – Dead Man’s Curve. Dozens of hooves slid over the cobbles as the powerful beasts negotiated the sharp turn, thankfully without incident. It was over quickly. Just like an average lover, the average encierro lasts no longer than 3 minutes.

The excitement, however, was far from over. The frenzy in Pamplona was matched, perhaps even exceeded, in the streets of Madrid. Bereft of maps and too skint to refuel, I managed to turn the mundane procedure of returning a rental car into an adrenaline sport.

Madrid is a complex urban labyrinth with some of the heaviest traffic in Europe. White knuckled and drenched in fear sweat, I negotiated the maze of one-way streets, narrow lanes, impenetrable round-abouts and malicious cabbies, all while the orange fuel light blinked at me in accusatory morse.

I circled the city, hopelessly lost and increasingly desperate. The fuel light increased in tempo as the car began to run on fumes. With a profound sense of dread, I realised I was moments away from pushing the car through the streets as my flight boarded without me. Suddenly, mercifully, the rental car office appeared…

AND IT WAS BLOODY WELL CLOSED!

I parked the car on the street, dropped the key in the box, and never looked back. It was returned – yes, it was late, it hadn’t been checked by staff, it was parked outside the garage, it had an empty tank and far more kilometres on the clock than had been our allowance, but it was indeed returned. I fully expected to be detained at the airport by jack-booted thugs in the employ of the rental agency, but I managed to board my flight without incident.

Good golly, I thought, what a ride! Who knew rental cars could be so thrilling? But after all, it was Hemingway who said: “There are only three sports: bullfighting, rental cars, and mountaineering; all the rest are merely games.”

…or something like that.

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