Guide Pesadillas Taurinas (Spanish Edition)

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Pages Front Matter Pages Civilising the Exception: Universally Defining Terrorism. Terrorism: Limits Between Crime and War.

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Secret Evidence and Its Alternatives. The U. I notice it every day, whether I am close by or far away, for wherever my steps lead me in life, I run into my fellow countrymen and women. To unite me with the memory of my people, that history which stretches from the Laja de los Hierros, with its prehistoric rock carvings from the era of the Turdetanos, or the first Roman inscription in Spain, which was found on the Mesa del Esparragal and which today is conserved in the Louvre museum. In the jigsaw puzzle of my memories, they are pieced together with the long-disappeared Visigoth churches, or the two sentinels which stand watch over our town; the castle and the Parroquia 3.

To open any festival or a fair is a great responsibility; you are made welcome and invited to enjoy a few days of greetings and shared embraces, but this is more than that, it is about opening the feria which formed part of your childhood longings and concerns; you are obliged to carry out an exercise of confronting your memories and returning to the past; you are obliged to sit down and contemplate part of your own life, and also to acknowledge the selective gaps in your memory.

With this backward look, the first feelings of nostalgia start to flower, distant voices make themselves present, places you no longer visit start to become familiar again. I was back once more in the courtyard of the Beaterio 4 during the break, and found myself once again trying to avoid the attentive eyes of the Sisters and teachers in order to to go off and play.

I was back on a Saturday afternoon in this park, which once again had walls, and we ran round and hid from Angelito when he turned off the lights and it was time for the curfew. I was able, as well, to wander through past ferias which filled me with excitement every September like the sun setting on a summer which refuses to end. And I saw myself in my new costume, in the house of my grandmother Pepa, who gave me 20 duros to buy odds and ends; I saw myself waiting in line to buy candyfloss, while thinking that there had to be something magic about that pink cloud which you could eat; I saw myself frightened to death on the ghost-train, and I saw myself holding my parents' hands to go up on that big wheel which appeared to me so enormous and majestic.

I was very small, and I remember that I wanted to grow up so I could go up in those swinging cradles on my own, to fly up high, to go round and round without stopping, to discover what it felt like to be alone so high up, and to stay in that same place for ever.


To come home, year after year, to meet up with people who are pleased to see us and whom we are pleased to see, to go back to our beginnings, to know that we are not alone; that is what the feria still means to me and to the majority of those who had to go away in search of a better future.

There were many such people, and there continue to be too many. We are everywhere.


Or, in the past, like Maria Francisca Ulloa la Partera, the midwife who came from Utrera to help give birth to three generations of Alcalainos, and after whom one of our streets is named. I have been able also to return to my adolescence, when a yellow card on the bumper cars was a treasure which gave us enormous but short-lived power. I revisited the Alambique, the Luca, the Paco Nono disco, the municipal marquee, the bullfighting club, and that of the Friends of the Camino, when those exciting September days arrived.

I went back to dancing sevillanas and taking part in the procession, partly on the cart, partly on horseback and partly walking, and getting some soup at the stopping-point on the way to build up the strength to reach Los Santos. And that's the great thing about it, that everybody loves it. There may be people who don't believe in gods or in religions, but who still believe in the Virgin of the Saints, in that old lady who is waiting in a corner for anyone who leaves her an offering, a prayer or a complicit wink.

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I remember how proud I felt when, as the provincial delegate for Culture, I was able to contribute to the restoration of the paintings in the dome of the Sanctuary. Deep down, here amongst us, I felt as happy as if I was contributing to the restoration of the house of an old friend. How many people have you seen born! How much talent under these skies!

Give me a welcome, under your resounding blue sky, that I will remember you by with joy, forever, forever I could speak of Sainz de Andino, who founded the Madrid Stock Exchange but whose liberal ideas led him into exile in France on two occasions. He opposed the return of the absolutism of Fernando VII, like many of us who continue to oppose absolutism of any kind, above all that of people who believe they are always in the right. I could speak of other legendary characters of ours, like Batata or Potoco.

I could speak of the cork-gatherers, the farmers, and in general, the efforts of workers to bring forward our land.

To those remembered and those anonymous, to those of yesterday and those of today. To those who carried out their household tasks day after day. To the young women who struggled, studied and worked to have a better future. To the grandmothers, to all those women who gave up their leisure time to dedicate themselves once more to caring for children, this time their grandchildren. To them, because they are supporting us in these years of change between the reality we have now and that which we aspire to construct.

To their daughters, mothers in their turn, who don't want to give up their dreams, their professional careers, their own lives. Women who have to balance their time, coping with being away from the home, doing two or even three jobs each day … And to all the others, those who have gone away, those who have returned, those who have come here for the first time. Those who crave knowledge and who go to the Adult Learning Centre to study what they couldn't before.

Those who make ends meet, those who can't make it to the end of the month, the widows, those who live alone, those who don't get discouraged, those who help others, those who suffer in silence, those who decide to speak out, those who resist, those who dream … To those many women that make this town, each day, a better place to live in. One of the best places to live in, to share. And it's true that names don't matter much here, as we well know from the Calle Real, which has had so many other names but which goes on proudly calling itself Calle Real.

Like the Plaza de la Cruz, which is known as the Alameda.

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A capricious construction of playing-cards, fragile and whiter-than-white, on a hill which rises up from the emerald green of the countryside. For me, that deck of cards takes shape as if forming part of the story of Alice in Wonderland. And in any case it is a hand full of hearts, including gazpacho, la Coracha, el Picacho, and the fervour for our patron lady. But above all, it is somewhere we can take real pride in feeling ourselves brothers and sisters of this landscape, witnesses to the centuries, accomplices of the Gazuls, that keeps us trying to prevent our town getting gored by life's horns.

But above all, it has a supportive and charitable heart which beats more strongly than ever when the feria arrives. A few years ago, I had the honour of giving the opening address at the celebrations of St George and I asked our patron saint to convert himself into a messenger of peace. I requested that friendship and conviviality should be the queens of the Fiesta, with tolerance and respect as our dancing partners.

I implored him to slay the dragon of ignorance, evil and injustice, and to go on fighting every day for a future full of hope and love. Today I address our patroness, our Virgin of the Saints, patroness both of those who believe and those who don't. And I ask her to banish evil and meanness.


That she should not forget us in the business of living our lives, nor in the worthy business of working each day with energy and confidence in a better tomorrow. Let us build a culture of peace, where there is no room for contempt toward the dignity of others. Let prosperity and well-being reign in our town.


And let time stand still during these days of Feria, let the hours not pass. Let us all be together and let nobody be left out. They say that the future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams. Translated by Claire Lloyd Footnotes 1. A leading socialist politician and former government minister who died in For example the oddly-named Paseo de la Playa. There were healthy colonies of these falcons because there had always been food for birds of prey.

They are from the family falconidae , birds that hunt by day, of medium size cm , with the habit of hovering, moving the body from side to side in flight, in order to dive vertically and take the victim by surprise. They have a short, curved beak and a stocky head, and the plumage depends on ithe sex.

The male is a brownish-red colour, with black marks on its back; the upper part of the head and the tail are blueish-grey, and the feet are yellow with black claws. The female is lighter-coloured with transverse stripes. On reflection, I think he was referring to children who did not apply themselves. Regarding the brother-in-law, I never found out where that came from, unless it was to do with the success these birds had when hunting. We youngsters liked to go up to the castle, check out the nests and take a kestrel chick to raise it.

Once I was lucky and managed to get one. It was covered in white down, like cotton wool. I knew from the other kids what sort of food it needed; crickets, scraps of meat, small reptiles, baby birds, mice and other small rodents. They soon got used to whatever they were fed. That white plumage was soon shed and the kestrel reached the stage where it was ready to attempt to fly.

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  • One boy said it was best to cut off the tips of its wings, so it couldn't fly away, and to paint it red or green like a parrot, in case it escaped. In the back yard of our house was a drain where the dirty water ran out. The kestrel prowled around the opening and put an end to all manner of insects and vermin. My little brothers and I used to piss and shit in that drain. One day, I was squatting down doing my business and without my noticing, the kestrel came up and pecked me on the willy.

    It made me jump and I made such a noise that my father came over straight away, and seeing that the kestrel was attacking my privates he swiped at it then kicked it up onto the roof, and I never saw my falcon again. I cried for two reasons; firstly because the pecking had left me with a sore willy, and secondly because I had grown fond of the kestrel. When I come back to the town, I go up to the Plaza Alta and look at the castle tower, where you can still see the odd kestrel, but there are only a few left, very few.

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    I am going to ask the mayor to declare them a species in danger of extinction. Publicado por Bob Lloyd 2 comentarios. There was a sort of lane with shacks and corrales on both sides. It was about metres below the wall and tower of the castle. The coracha was a sort of wall, which protected the path between the water tank of the Beaterio and the fortress. Locally the whole area round there was also known as La Coracha.