The Romería

Cleverly dodging through a side street to avoid the gathering swarms of spectators, we continued walking into town on a street parallel to the procession but deserted.

Almost. Coming towards us was a pushcart decorated with flowers, fruit and biscuits and draped with brightly striped cloth to hide the sides of a supermarket trolley.

Lorenzo paused to greet us, reaching into his trolley. 'A little wine?'

He and the couple walking with him wore traditional Gomeran costumes and had guitars slung across their backs. We spent a pleasant few minutes sipping red wine from plastic mugs and toasting each others' health, Saint Sebastian, the whole splendid concept of fiestas and, in particular, today's Romería.

'But,' Lorenzo said suddenly, 'you're missing the procession! It's already started.' He thumbed towards a distant murmur of drums.

'So are you,' I pointed out.

Lorenzo nodded. 'Claro! Of course. I'm far too old to push a cart that far. We're going to wait at Silvio's then join in later.'

Silvio's is a bar. This is the healthy realism of the true Gomeran. A romería is conceptually a very serious occasion, but the trick is not to treat it so seriously that you spoil the fun. In essence it's a pilgrimage in procession to a holy shrine, and for maximum spiritual benefit it should involve a pitiless uphill trek along ancient pathways in torrential rain. The Gomeran version traverses wide, traffic-free streets in gentle winter sunshine.

But to be fair, completing the course can take anything up to three hours when you're strumming and dancing the whole way.

We arrived at the town square just before the procession, which was led by a group of young folk dancers energetically leaping and twirling to show how it's done. The steps are more complicated than they appear and tourists who try to join in risk looking like the dancing hippos in Disney's Fantasia.

Close on the bouncing heels of the dancers came their accompanying musicians, armed only with the tambor - a smallish drum - and Gomeran castanets, which are called chacaras and are a lot beefier than the prissy Sevillian variety. They were beating out a primitive rhythm accompanied by a weird, chanting song that is so viscerally Gomeran it sends shivers down my back. You can tell it goes back a long, long way, perhaps as far as the guanches, the Berbers of North Africa who were the first to set up home here.

Next up was a row of beautiful young ladies parading elegantly in traditional dress. The girl with the red banner was the Romera Mayor, symbolic leader of the celebrations, while her companions were Romeras de Honor who hadn't won the contest the other night but looked just as gorgeous anyway.

Their job was to continue looking beautiful and to smile for the spectators, the official photographer and their Aunty Margarita.

And then we were into the romería proper, an endless succession of musicians and dancers, still on their feet and twirling after their protracted journey into town.

Somewhere in the middle of all this we spotted Luzma, a neighbour, parading behind a small cart decorated like Lorenzo's with flowers and fruit. Perched on top of the cart was a chihuahua the size of a hamster wearing a flared skirt and cheeky straw hat.

Luzma beckoned us over. 'Have a dulce!' These are Luzma's festive speciality, sweet nibbles made from gofio*, almonds, honey and lemon, and I can't resist them. 'Have another!'

Further back along the street was a seething logjam where, if you peered above the bobbing heads, you might glimpse the dignified figure of San Sebastián perched silently on his pedestal. This was the focus of the pilgrimage and its entire justification, the spot where every musical group paused to play a song in homage to the town's patron saint while their dancers danced and the TV crew tirelessly filmed them.

San Sebastián deserves special attention in another story, but he was surely enjoying this brief release into daylight from his claustrophobic niche in a windowless chapel. And he should be pleased that, despite his painful history, he is now able to inspire such innocent pleasure for so many people.

In the town square the procession spread like a river at its delta, swirling around dozens of tables hygienically covered with white paper. The town council, astonishingly, contributes giant pans of freshly-cooked paella to this annual event, along with free wine, beer or fizzy.

Cynics might ask why the council should pay for paella and booze when the schoolkids need more books, and what about the potholes in the roads etc etc. But for me it's only wonderful that a local authority should pitch its three penn'orth into a day of such warmth, colour and good cheer.

* Gofio: toasted maize or other cereals finely ground into flour - see the story dated 15 November 2015

Here come the Kings!

We spot them first by the dust cloud, as in those old Westerns where the bad guys in black hats are distant specks raising the desert sand with galloping hooves.

'There they are!' yells Paco with his sharp eyes. 'Los Reyes!'

Los Reyes Magos! The Three Kings are on their way to visit our village! Far from being bad guys the Kings are a once-a-year miracle. As any child below the age of doubt will tell you, long ago the Kings took weird-sounding gifts to the infant Jesus but now they bring prezzies for the rest of us.

Being North African in origin they normally trot around on camels but this afternoon, perhaps through time constraints or a shortage of camels, they arrive at our village perched in the back of dust-stained Army Land Rovers, by way of the dry riverbed for dramatic effect.

Paco, who is happily locked in permanent childhood and tends to lead the pack on such occasions, scampers towards the first Land Rover as it comes to a halt.

The King rises to his feet, an imposing figure in colourful robes with a white beard the size of a gooseberry bush and a spiky golden crown. This could be Gaspar or Melchor but not Baltasar because he's the one with dark skin and a Moroccan turban.

Paco doesn't care which King he's got, he knows that the sack this King is reaching into contains - golosinas! Sweeties! Handfuls of them! The Reyes Magos throw them to the kids with reckless abandon.

Baltasar beckons J towards his Land Rover and lobs a few sweets towards her, traditional hospitality for the foreigner.

They drive off through the village scattering yet more golosinas behind them, chased by a posse of squabbling children. A typical scene on the fifth of January when Los Reyes Magos finally turn up after sleepless nights of anticipation by the kids.

That same evening the Kings enter the main square in town, usually more elegantly on camels (imported from neighbouring Tenerife), and after due ceremony are led to the stage where they seat themselves in royal splendour on golden thrones to receive supplicants in person. The tiny ones they take on their knees, the better to hear their secretive whispers. (They wouldn't be allowed to do that in Britain any more, which is terribly sad.)

Imagine the scene tomorrow morning, the sixth of January, as little Laura (for instance) wakes at four o'clock with a sudden thrill of excitement. She switches on her bedside light and eagerly examines the plate on which she left three chocolates to help the Kings get through their busy night. Have they taken them? They have, they've all gone!

And the shoe over there by the door, into which she stuffed a bunch of nice fresh weeds for the camels. The shoe's empty, they've eaten their food!

The Kings have been! And there, beside the bed, are her presents!

What a wonderful job they've got, these three ancient Kings who bring so much excitement and pleasure.

Unfortunately there's a newcomer invading their territory these days. Papá Noel - Father Christmas or Santa Claus - has enthusiastic backing from the barons of commerce who would dearly love children to receive presents on Christmas Day as well as Three Kings.

Parents are much less enthusiastic. Little Laura probably found only a token packet of sweets hanging from the tree on Christmas Day, although some weaker souls are beginning to succumb to the pressures. It's increasingly common on Christmas morning to see children wobbling around on new scooters or rollerblades.

My best hope that the Kings will survive this unwelcome competition is that nobody really knows what to do with Papá Noel. He doesn't have a role to play here. Mostly he just hangs about in shop doorways trying to look useful. Sometimes he climbs up walls on little ladders to relieve the boredom.

And looking on the bright side, he brings with him the novel concept of snow, an unknown phenomenon on this subtropical island but it looks very pretty in the shop windows. And it leads to delightful anomalies such as this year's seasonal icons dotted around the town, three Arabian camels accompanied by an endearing snowman with a carrot nose.

Feliz Reyes, and let's hope that in some distant day the real world will also manage such happy harmony.


Postscript: a letter to the Kings
I couldn't resist adding this. The magic of Los Reyes starts a couple of days before their arrival when Los Pajes Reales, the Royal Pages, visit the island to receive children's letters specifying what presents they would like and why they deserve them.

The Pages look like Arabian versions of Buttons in a pantomime and I bet they have fun reading the letters. (Don't tell the kids though.) This is one of them, translated:

Dear Kings
My name is L.... and I live in San Sebastian, La Gomera. Last year my behaviour was average. But as I think you are good I would like to ask you for HAPPINESS for all the children of the world.
For me I would like a bicycle, some roller skates and a story book.
A kiss and a hug for all three of you.