The San Fermin festival is something that has been on my bucket list for a long time. Ever since I had heard about it years ago and saw a video of people running for their lives through the narrow, cobbled streets of Pamplona whilst bulls chased after them, I knew it was something I wanted to do and something I would do.

Every year from the 6th to the 14th of July, thousands of people from around the world descend onto the small, University city of Pamplona in Northern Spain for the San Fermin Festival. The roots of this ancient celebration date back to medieval Pamplona, where St. Fermín, the city’s first bishop, is commemorated through festivities that mark his martyrdom in the 12th century.

The main attraction (and the reason I wanted to go) of the festival is the running of the bulls. Every morning of the festival at 8am, barricades are erected,  remnants of last night’s revelry are swept away and passed-out party goers are shifted, all in preparation for the run where -usually 6 but sometimes more- bulls are let out onto the streets of Pamplona. Those who opt to participate, run in front of the bulls down an 825-meter stretch of narrow streets of a section of the old town of Pamplona. The run ends in the Pamplona bullring where the bulls would be held until the afternoon’s bullfights where they meet their demise at the hands of a matador.

As the bus pulled into Pamplona train station from San Sebastian, I looked out the window to what I can only describe as a scene straight out of that of The Walking Dead. Seemingly lifeless bodies littered the floor of the station, the aftermath of arriving on day 7 of the 9 day sangria fuelled festival. We got to our accomodation and immediately put on the traditional white ensemble—pants or shorts, a shirt, and the signature red scarf—a uniform universally embraced during the festival. During the festival you will not see a single person not in this outfit. Luckily we had sorted out the dress at nearby San Sebastián before arriving.

A distinct smell becomes very apparent as you walk through the old town; urine and vomit. Whilst the San Fermin festival might have been born on religious roots, it is now nothing more than an all out party, day and night. The bars seemed endless, pouring generous servings of beer, sangria, and the strange yet surprisingly tasty concoction of red wine and coke.

I had planned to participate in the bull run the very next morning so walking through the route was very high on my agenda. Beer in hand I walked to the starting point of the run. To my surprise, the bulls were already there and you can actually line up to have a look at them. Of course, this seemed like a great idea to me and I eagerly looked at the bulls that I would be sharing the running track with the following day. I know bulls are big but seeing them up close like that… they are fucking huge. I walked the route, all 825 metres of the course, making mental notes of particularly narrow sections that I wanted to avoid getting myself stuck in.

There is a particular point on the course, La Curva that features a 90 degree turn and has been dubbed ‘Dead Mans Corner’ because of the gorings that have occurred in that part of the run. No thanks, I thought to myself.

A sleepless night ensued. With only 16 people dying from the bull run since 1910, I relatively liked my odds. Stay away from the horns and I’ll be fine was the reoccurring theme going through my head. Voluntarily running in front of 1 ton bulls was not everyones idea of fun and when that 6am alarm went off, I was beginning to think it wasn’t my idea of fun either.  At 6:30am the streets were packed. A combination of people vying to get the best seat for the bloodbath, media & photographers and then the runners themselves.

It was clear some runners had been out all night and I felt as if this tipped the scales towards not dying ever so slightly in my favour once more. At least I was sober. Not confident… but sober. The police in Pamplona actively go through the crowds of people participating before the race to deem if anyone is too intoxicated to do it. One bloke next to me performed a sobriety test in front of the police by walking in a straight line. He passed.

The massive clean up truck spraying down the streets of the previous nights debauchery was almost complete, and the route was clear of all sangria and beer cups, rubbish and bodily fluids. A loud announcement was projected to the whole of the old town in many different languages:

‘If you are not running, clear the path now’

It repeated this over for about 5 minutes. I felt like I was on the hunger games. I positioned myself in what I thought was a fairly safe spot. A wideish section of Estafeta street, the last straight before the bulls entered the bull ring. The air was charged with a mix of anticipation and adrenaline. At 8am on the dot the first rocket can be heard which indicates that the bulls have been released from the pen. Shortly after a second rocket is heard which means all 6 bulls have left the pen and are now on the streets. The adrenaline and shakes were peaking as you see the people behind you begin to start running. The most terrifying part of the run is you can’t see the bulls approaching at first, due to the large amount of people in the way, but you can hear their bull bells getting louder and louder. I hoped that the bull I provoked the night before at the pen wouldn’t recognise me.

Within a flash I was running for my life, trying to evade the obvious bulls but also the cascading domino effect of fallen runners. The pure adrenaline momentarily drowned out the chorus of the crowd, as my focus narrowed to not getting gored. In the split second before the stampede, time seemed to slow, and the run became a blur of motion and chaos. A quick look across my shoulder to ensure all the bulls definitely had passed me, as I made my way into ‘Plaza de Toros’ easily the narrowest section of the course right before entering the bull ring.

Reaching the bullring after all the bulls had been through was a strange mix of elation and triumph. It felt weird to be cheering that I had not suffered an early demise at the hands of a bull in Northern Spain, a situation that I voluntarily put myself in. But there I was … cheering nonetheless.

Not one of the smartest things I’ve ever done but definitely one of the most fun.