Linked to this fascination has been a long-standing desire to take one, just one, decent photograph of a firework exploding. Through successive cameras I have tried to persuade myself that I am getting closer to that illusive shot. On some shameful occasions I have resorted to downright trickery and taken a small detail in a shot and blow it up to make it appear as if the explosion of colour thus captured was a result of careful composition.
Friday’s attempts produced shots which were as inept as anything that I have ever produced. A triumph for consistency at least!
I would not call my efforts a total failure but neither were they the opulent success that I seek.
I struggled to the beach this morning weighed down with a full Lidl fair-trade bag; a new towel; sun lounger and self-inflatable airbed.
I think I can fairly say that when I was finally established on the beach my lounger/airbed/towel combination put me at the “high-end” of the comfort zone – and rightly so.
I am still reading the Kindle copy of The Guardian that I bought days ago: I have even read the Sports section, and even further the cricket reports! This is not healthy. And I have read precious few real books this holiday as well!
The Family arrived at lunchtime and we had a pollo a last from La Pava: decidedly sub standard and the chips had to be tried to be believed. The croquettes seemed to have been made with pointedly tasteless sawdust, but the chicken itself was moist and tasty.
As we are well into our Festa Major we went into town in the evening and failed to hear the singing in the main square, as it had not started on time. To compensate we went for a drink: a small beer and miniscule tapa for €1.30 which is excellent value – but please note that I used the adjective “small” to indicate the amount of beer in the glass. After god knows how long after the last molecule of beer had finally evaporated from the desiccated glass I decided (alone) to have another. The rest of the Catalans were quite happy watching the world go by behind an empty glass. It is unnerving to find people who are so easily satisfied with one paltry drink. I needed another one just to steady them. The nerves that is.
Our walk back to the cars was enlivened by my sighting fireworks (!) in the main square and so off I rushed accompanied hand in hand by one of Toni’s nephews. The poor boy travelled rather faster than he anticipated and also suffered something of a whip-lash effect as I wove my twisty way through the crowds with the hapless child flapping along behind.
When we got to the main square I had to lift the kid up so that he could see. And I was unable to take photographs!
Luckily his father soon joined us and placed his son on his shoulders and I was able to shoot away at the rapidly vanishing group of revellers who were waving fireworks on sticks at the crowds.
It is a tradition of people to dress up in sacking and, looking exactly like characters from some medieval woodcut prance around with lighted fireworks. Hardy (or stupid) members of the public are invited to dance with them under the fiery rain of burning sparks.
There is also a dragon. Each town has its own mythic beast which, bedecked with fireworks, makes its way through the streets burning passing citizens. This is fun. Officially.
There is a vague nod towards Health & Safety in the form of procession marshals and some barriers but the whole thing would have been laughed to scorn at the initial planning stage in the UK. But, as I am so often told, “Remember Stephen, this is not Britain.”
The “firework” setting on my camera was far too sensitive to take pictures at close range and with the incidental lighting from the street lamps and merely produced the sort of white-on-white shots which would have gladdened the heart of any self-respecting Russian Supremacist painter. Rapidly adjusting the setting I managed to get one or two shots but nothing as good as I got when using my old Canon with the real viewfinder!
Still, two lots of fireworks in two days can’t be all bad.
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