To Pamplona: Hemingway, Bulls, and an Anniversary to Remember

Right, so we left Zaragoza in good spirits, bellies full, van loaded up, and Mary still quoting Hemingway like we were some lost characters in one of his books. Pamplona was next on the list, but this one was different. It was our anniversary. Thirty-five years of marriage, if you can believe that. 

Now, before you go thinking we spent it eating tinned sardines in the back of the van, we actually did this one properly. For once, we ditched the van for a real hotel. The sort with an actual bed that doesn’t require twenty minutes of assembling, towels that don’t feel like sandpaper, and a breakfast that wasn’t made on a two-ring gas hob. 

Pamplona Feels Like a Place Where Something’s Always About to Happen 

Pamplona has a proper buzz to it. Even without the bull running in full swing, you can feel something simmering under the surface. Maybe it’s the endless Hemingway references, maybe it’s the amount of wine being consumed at all hours of the day, but whatever it is, it feels alive. 

Mary had booked us into Hotel Maisonnave, right in the heart of it all. She likes her comforts, does Mary. I’ll admit, I didn’t complain when I saw the shower pressure. And the bed. Oh my God, the bed. I could’ve cancelled the rest of the trip right then and just lived in that bed forever. 

But no, we had an anniversary to celebrate. 

Fancy Food and Slightly Unexpected Emotions 

Now, we love a good meal, and we went all in for this one. A proper Navarran feast. Lamb that fell apart the second you touched it, some ridiculous sausage I couldn’t pronounce but happily ate, and a bottle of wine that cost more than the van’s last oil change. 

By the time dessert arrived, Mary got teary. 

“Thirty-five years,” she said, staring at me like I was someone worth being sentimental over. 

And then, somehow, I was getting a bit misty-eyed too. Don’t ask me why. It was probably the wine. 

Hemingway Would’ve Loved Us (Probably) 

The next day, we did what every tourist in Pamplona does—follow Hemingway’s ghost around like he was about to jump out from behind a tapas bar and give us life advice. 

First stop? Café Iruña. The place where Hemingway used to drink and write and drink some more. There’s even a statue of him propped up at the bar, looking like he’s about to tell you your life story whether you asked for it or not. 

Mary made me pose next to it. 

“You’ve got the same rugged charm,” she said. 

Which, let’s be real, was absolute nonsense, but I’ll take what I can get. 

The Bull Run: Happily Watching Other People Risk Their Lives 

Alright, let’s be clear: we did not run with the bulls. I’m not that daft. 

But we did manage to get ourselves a little balcony spot to watch. 

And let me tell you—absolute carnage. 

You’ve got the real runners—lean, focused, probably half-mad. Then you’ve got the tourists—wide-eyed, still half-drunk from the night before, realising too late that bulls are, in fact, massive and fast. 

One lad tripped, went down hard, got back up and ran like his life depended on it. Which, to be fair, it did. 

Mary spent the whole time clutching my arm, alternating between gasping and laughing. 

By the time the bulls had charged through, we were buzzing. Watching it was enough adrenaline for me, thanks very much. 

Pamplona in a Nutshell 

So yeah. Pamplona gave us exactly what we needed. A bit of comfort, a bit of adventure, and a proper excuse to avoid washing up for two days. 

We packed up the next morning, properly happy, feeling a bit soft about each other, and ready for the next stop. 

San Sebastián next. Tapas, sea views, and probably some very expensive drinks. 

But that’s a story for another day. 

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