Already audible in the distance is an insistent drumming: diddle-diddle, diddle-diddle - PAM PAM PAM!
In an adjacent street a man is hurrying in the opposite direction from everyone else, looking slightly anxious. Fairly tall, fairly slim, fairly old but still upright, he is trying not to be noticed. This isn't going to work because he is a familiar figure in these streets, easily detected by his white Edwardian sideburns and the Australian-style wide-brimmed hat glued to his head.
Several people are kind enough to warn him he's in the wrong street, the procession is approaching along the broader pedestrian thoroughfare. He assures them he's aware of that but has something else to do first.
This is true but evasive. Finally an English friend passing by, a lady of forthright opinions, unafraid to question the questionable, pauses and demands to know why he's going the wrong way. Caught with no hope of escape, he has to admit it: his urgent mission at the moment is to go the wrong way deliberately. He is trying to get away from La Gran Cabalgata del Carnaval, the carnival cavalcade, highlight of the year for many Gomerans.
At least a dozen of these drums walloped enthusiastically are at this moment creating the diddle-diddle rhythm in concert with a similarly sized group clacking chacaras, the weighty Gomeran version of a flamenco castanet. Interspersed at regular intervals is the PAM PAM PAM of a seriously large drum banged from both sides.
'It hurts my ears,' our hero explains pathetically. Although hard of hearing, he suffers from the strange paradox that he is over-sensitive to loud noise.
'So why,' pursues the forthright friend, 'do you come into town at all when you know there's the carnival procession? Why not just stay at home?'
Fair question. The thing is, the drummers will be followed by a troupe of dancers twirling prettily and then the carriage bearing La Reina del Carnaval, the Carnival Queen. He needs to watch that go by because the daughter of a Gomeran friend has the honour this year of being chosen as - well, not actually the Queen herself, but one of the two Damas de Honor, the Queen's Ladies in Waiting.
From a safe distance he watches the drummers reach the Plaza de Las Americas, the town's main square, still banging away. Finally they stop and begin to disperse into the crowd. He runs back along the street and reaches the plaza just in time to find the Queen's carriage already halted and the Queen being helped down, closely followed by her costume. That needs explaining: the Queen is still decently if skimpily clothed but her costume is a self-supporting, soaring piece of architecture created from feathers, wire, glittery cloth, beads and extraordinary imagination. These things are works of art.
He rejoins his wife at the place where he'd abandoned her and they wander off to see the rest of the procession. Fundamentally it's a series of travelling parties, with most of the carriages recognisable from previous years although redecorated to suit this year's carnival theme. All are noisy and some are very noisy with front-mounted boomboxes, but they're a little less daunting than the drums.
And perhaps not quite as noisy, either, as the Sardine will be in a few days' time.
Carnaval ends (notionally) with a weird event called El Entierro de La Sardina, the Burial of the Sardine. Our sideburned Englishman has attended it many times in the past because it's great fun and also pleasingly irreverent. A mock funeral, it begins with a slow, solemn procession through the streets, led by a small cohort of drummers beating a slow marching pace ahead of a funeral carriage on which lies a sardine the size of Moby Dick. Made of painted paper on a wire frame, it usually boasts scarlet Marilyn Monroe lips and sexy eyelashes.
Accompanying the corpse is an archbishop in fine flowing robes, wielding a chamber pot into which he dips a pastry brush to flick holy water over the watching crowd. He may occasionally fortify himself from a packet of holy cheese-and-onion crisps and a glass of blessed whisky, supplied by his fawning acolytes. Behind and around him are the mourners, hordes of wailing women in slinky black dresses, most of whom are actually young men. Young men are genetically programmed to enjoy shrieking hysterically.
The cortège finally arrives at the beach where the deceased sardine is burned rather than buried despite the event's name. In true Spanish fashion, this sad ceremony is followed by a communal feast of grilled sardines.
Also in true Spanish fashion, although this event definitively marks the end of Carnaval nobody can bear to stop and there will be another procession and dance at the weekend. If I were the Sardine I'd be a bit miffed about that, but of course it doesn't get chance to find out.
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Carnaval goes back a long way, being another of the many pagan celebrations cleverly assimilated by Christianity and especially by the Catholic religion, which welcomes any excuse for a party. It's obviously linked - along with the Easter celebration of rebirth - to ancient festivities marking the end of winter and arrival of spring in the northern hemisphere.
In the Christian calendar Carnaval offers a chance to feast and dance shortly before the 40 days of austerity known as Lent, itself a precursor to Easter. The most important day during the celebrations, which typically extend over a week or more, is Shrove Tuesday, the day before Ash Wednesday. In Britain it's better known as Pancake Day and in other countries as Mardi Gras, which is French for 'greasy Tuesday' because - but no, let's not get diverted. In Gomera and Spain as a whole it's martes de Carnaval, Carnival Tuesday, so there's no confusion here about what it's for.
The Entierro de la Sardina symbolises the end of the carnival shenanigans and gluttony, a clear enough metaphor. But why the sardine? Why not a mullet or tuna? A pig, goat or turkey?
As usual there are conflicting theories but the one I find most convincing puts the blame squarely on Carlos III of Spain. He was a big fan of tradition and after coming to the throne in 1759 he insisted the people of Madrid should fast and take things seriously during Lent but, as encouragement, he indulged them in an orgy of eating and drinking in the run-up. He even arranged a splendid fiesta for the final day, at which everyone would feast for free on sardines, a rare luxury in Madrid. Unfortunately by the time the fish had travelled from the coast across mountain, valley and plain to reach Madrid they had all gone rotten, so they buried them and dined on free meat instead.
A story like this was never going to be forgotten quickly and the final feast became an annual event with the sardine as its symbolic martyr. From Madrid it spread to the rest of Spain, the Americas and much of Europe. In Britain we ended up with pancakes and lemon juice.
