Drunken Moments...

It started off as a joke... "Yeah, we could go to that festival in Spain where they chuck tomatoes around". But then a few investigations turned into a bit of a plan, and a few weeks later we were on a ferry to the Continent.

La Tomatina is held in Bunol, a small town about 30 miles west of Valencia. It's held on the last Wednesday in August every year. We reckoned it was about a thousand miles each way, so we'd have to make rapid progress to get there in time to find out what the hell it was all about.

Cold Reality

We took the Portsmouth to Caen ferry on the Friday night. Not being seasoned ferry travellers we didn't take any bedding aboard and soon found everyone else rushing around for the best seats to sleep on. Next time I'll book a cabin! We arrived at 6am in a grey and dismal France. After shaking off the hoards of Brits circling around roundabouts totally lost, we headed down via Le Mans. It was a dull drive. It was raining, there was too much traffic and we weren't making enough progress. We decided to take the toll roads and just travel flat out with the intention of getting as far south as possible, hopefully Biarritz.

We eventually arrived in Biarritz at about 7pm, the TVR echoing along the narrow streets, turning heads. We'd decided to camp in Biarritz, and parked up at the first site we came to. The site was full of backpackers and we looked pretty out of place in the 'S'. The site was full so we went to leave. Ahh.... the damn starter motor didn't work. Embaressing moments followed whilst we kept trying, even rocking the car in gear in an attempt to shake the starter motor into life. Luckily it then fired up and we made a rapid exit.

Luckily the next site we tried had one last space free which we snapped up in our pigeon French. A heavy night on beer and tequila followed, together with dancing on the tables, a scary ride with mad French lads after hitching a lift and then getting back to a tent soaking from the rain. Luckily I'd had too much to drink to care.

Dream becomes Reality

Sunday morning was damp and grey. We were both feeling the effects of over-indulgence, yet we had to make it over the Pyrenees and into Spain that day, so we had to get cracking.

It took some time to get to the foothills of the Pyrenees, but the roads were clearer than we'd experienced so far. The scale of the map was such that we didn't have enough detail so ended up on some of the more rural routes to the border. When we did get back on the main road (I think it was the D934), the clouds were clearing the sun was shining and the roads were empty. This was why I wanted to drive the Pyrenees. The road winds its way up the mountain, through passes carved out of the rock. It was glorious - hood down, sun blazing, twisty roads, full throttle, engine echoing around the valley.

It took about half an hour to reach the top of the moutain, and it's a journey I can't wait to repeat. At the top was the Spanish border.

Europe being what it is these days, there's no border control, so after a short break (and photographic session), we headed down the other side. The Spanish side of the mountain has wider roads. A fast descent down through some short tunnels (always dropping a gear first!).

Eventually it flattens out to a more desert like landscape, very dry with not much vegetation around. Then a hop up over some hills again. The Spanish roads are very wide up the hills and can be taken at great speed. We were sailing past the little traffic there was.

Sunday night was spent in the town of Zaragoza. This is a quite large town which we knew nothing about. Eventually we bungled our way into a hotel. The exchange rate was well in our favour and we spent the night in a very nice hotel for only £45 per room. We went out on the beers early in the evening, although it wasn't until late that nightthat we discovered the old town where all the decent bars and restaurants were.

"You are not playing Gran Turismo..."

We took the N234 out of Zaragoza, down towards Turuel. This is a almost dead straight road across the desert-like landscape. From there, after getting lost due to the terrible signposting, we found the N330. This is not signposted from the main road, so took several attempts to find it. This involved heading down into a sleepy Spanish village. Not sure they were still sleeping after we'd gunned the engine throught the narrow streets - so irresponsible!

The N330 starts out as a windy B road which is in terrible condition. We managed about 50 mph around until we got stuck behind a lorry. Dropping a gear, we made a mad dash past in one of the few straight stretches. The road's bumpy and we grounded a couple of times as we flew down it.

Then, we turned a corner to find an blue EU sign by the side of the road.  A European Union subsidised roadbuilding scheme. They'd just finished a long stretch of it. The road was smooth, empty and spectacular. 90mph over high bridges, through cuttings and out into the countryside. We had about 3 hours of windy empty, spectacular motoring in which we only saw about a dozen other cars.

Mad Dogs and TVR Drivers

This took us down to the motorway which heads into Valencia. We'd made it by Monday afternoon! This gave us time to get lost again .

The car was really turning heads. This could have been because it was so damn hot (38 degrees) and no one in their right mind should be in a convertible, because of the strange hats we'd fashioned out of boxer shorts, or because the car was looking good and making a great noise as we sped down the streets.

We bungled our way into a cheap hotel on the beach. Here we had to pay someone to 'look after' our car overnight. Seems we might have been in a dodgy part of town. To give credit to the guy, he was still out there in the middle of the night conning other people or checking over the cars.

We went out to early, not being accustomed to Spanish hours, but had a great night in the bars, the open air clubs. A quick warning though - don't leave anything unattended on the beach for even the shortest of times, everything was getting stolen. We met a guy who'd had his sleeping bag slit open and his passport stolen as he slept on the beach.

The Main Event

The day of the event we travelled to Bunol by train. There's a direct, if somewhat slow service from the North Station in Valencia which takes about 45 minutes. We were amazed by the number of people heading there. We got a train at about 8 in the morning and already it was full. Mainly Spaniards, but a fair smattering of Aussies, Kiwis, a few Brits and some loud Americans.

On arriving at Bunol at around 9am, we were confronted with a real party atmosphere. The music was playing and the beer was flowing already. A ten minute walk down to the main street found us amongst hundreds of people milling about and drinking in the bars.

The locals were busy setting up the hoses and covering their houses with plastic sheeting to stop staining! After a couple of huge beers, we heard things starting to kick off in the street. The whole event takes place in one street about a quarter of a mile long. At about ten o'clock they turned on the hoses. It was going to be a baking hot day, and now there were thousands of people in the street waiting. With the crowd chanting out for water, the hoses were turned on and the fun began.

After about twenty minutes we were soaking wet in our t-shirts and shorts. At this point the 'done thing' is to rip all the shirts off. A little disconcerting at first, we soon got into the swing of it and wet knotted t-shirts were flying through the air. The crowd of thousands was singing and it was an atmosphere the like of which I'd never experienced before.

Just before midday with the street now crammed shoulder to shoulder with people, a rocket shot into the air with a loud crack. A huge cheer went up as this was the signal for the lorries to enter! As we peered up the street, we saw the first few tomatoes flying through the air. A huge dumper truck was crawling it's way throught the crowd as people climbed into the back. As it inched its way through, it raised the back and poured plum tomatoes into the road. As it reached us we got crammed up against the wall, and then absolutely pelted with tomatoes. After a couple of minutes I realised that the barrage wasn't going to let up until I retaliated.

One hour, six trucks later and calf deep in pulp another rocket went off and the throwing stopped. Never have I experienced such a fantastic atmosphere. Thousands of people fought, totally good natured with almost no incident in slippery, messy and sometimes painful circumstances. It has to be the most insane thing I've ever done!

Afterwards, we headed back up to the bars near the station for post-festival beers and a hosing down from the locals. Still stinking of tomatoes and now burning badly in the hot sun, we got the train back to Valencia, where a very understanding cab-driver took us back to the hotel to wash out properly.

Return to the Pyrenees

We made our way back via Barcelona. The roads from Valencia up to Barcelona are pretty dull, since they're full of lorries avoiding the tolls. Next time around, I'd probably take the toll roads to avoid them.

The route back through the Pyrenees was sensational. Mile after mile after mile of road winding its way around the hillside. There was traffic, but only enough to provide some entertainment for overtaking. We passed a classic car rally heading in the opposite direction who seemed as interested in the TVR as they were in their own classics. From there, we headed back up through France, finding more fun roads to blast down.

Well all in all, it was a simply fabulous experience in the car, and the festival was an expirience of a lifetime.