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Published: June 19th 2011
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Seville, the capital of our favourite spanish region, Andalucia, is famous for two things - its bitter oranges that the British favour for marmalade and the week long Easter festivities of Semana Santa.
The famed orange trees are all around us, filling the air with a fabulous scent. With our packs on our backs we weave our way through the bustling crowds in search of our hostel. It’s pouring down with rain and having already caught two buses (the second of which takes us in completely the wrong direction) and a tram, we’re relieved when we find it tucked in behind a grand church in full Holy Week preparations. Men (and presumably women) dressed in pointed hoods and long cloaked gowns reminiscent of the KKK are among the crowds and a group of bearers (having completed the morning’s rehearsal) exit from the back of the church with their gowns tucked under their arms. The balconies jutting out from the buildings around the city are decorated in red velvet banners and as we head out in search of lunch we spot a group of men busily setting out wooden chairs in rows ready for the evening’s parades.
All this frenzy
is in aid of the annual Holy Week festivities. In each of the city’s churches lie grand floats featuring Jesus and Mary intended to be paraded through the streets by the carriers who have waited their lives for the privilege. The streets are covered in various colours of wax- evidence of parades from the days previous.
We stop off at the bus station to purchase some advance tickets to Tarifa and as we step outside, the heavens open and the rain pelts down in buckets. We weave our way back through the streets and duck in to a back street tapas bar to dry off. On the television we can see live footage on the streets of Seville. Umbrellas poised, crowds seem to be gathering outside one of the city’s major churches, awaiting the departure of the float. But inside, bearers, hoods removed, are looking forlorn with some in tears as the news is delivered to them that the moment they’ve been waiting for will not come; they will not be proudly carrying the float through the adoring crowds to the cathedral tonight. The risk of the rain destroying the precious structure is too great. It’s not a question
of doing it at another time, this is their one and only chance. A full schedule of departure times and pre-determined routes have been meticulously prepared and can not be deviated from.
We head back out in to the streets, admiring the lines of visitors waiting to enter the churches to catch a glimpse of each float. Keeping an eye on the sky, with each patch of fine weather, a period of rain soon follows and will each passing hour, our hope of seeing one of the parades dies.
We are fortunate enough to catch a peek inside the city’s main Cathedral before it closes. Its vast interior rivals most cathedrals seen in Europe so far and after a quick look around, we head back to our hostel amid another downpour. We’re in a shared room in an attempt to avoid the high Holy Week prices and are glad of it as our room mates help us to further understand the parade schedule and we set the alarm for 5:00am in the hope that if the midnight or 2:00am floats depart, we’ll be able to catch them upon their arrival at the cathedral.
The moment the alarm
sounds we jump out of bed and head out in the dark streets. It’s the early hours of Good Friday, the highlight of Holy Week, but sadly the streets are deserted, the fold up chairs are packed away and the streets are wet from the last bout of rain. The excitement from the night before has petered out and our room mate receives confirmation from a passing taxi driver that none of the floats were able to leave and takes a suggestion of an early morning cafe from him instead.
We wander the streets for some time, revelling in being the only people about and imagining what could have been. When we grow hungry, we walk to the river where we find a van serving early morning coffee and chirros to passers by heading home after a late night out. The fatty sticks of fried dough give us energy and we set off on an expedition along the river and back and forth across the bridges until the sun comes up. After another bite to eat at the hostel, we climb back in to our bunks to catch up on lost sleep.
After a shower, we are encouraged
by the apparent sunny skies and head back out for a better look at the Alcazar. Finding a tapas bar nearby, we order cheese, ham and tortilla to enjoy with some red wine. While inside, the rain falls in sheets and the pavement is freshly soaked when we emerge.
We want to see more of this beautiful city and walk in the direction of the river, cross the bridge and find a long queue waiting to enter the Capilla de los Marineros. We don’t join the line but are fortunate enough to find a perfect view of the Virgin surrounded by tall candles upon a silver float through the open doors at the entrance.
Back on the other side of the river we find another church with a much shorter line and decide to join it. What we find is breathtaking and we lament having not been able to see these incredible floats move through the streets on the shoulders of the cloaked men and women.
We now understand how to read the parade timetable and enjoy wiling away the afternoon alternating between wandering the streets and ducking into cafes. Every now and again we find one
with the TV on (always set to the Seville Semana Santa program) and enjoy watching the goings on in and outside of the churches from the comfort of a cafe. It should be said that aside from the frantic and hopeful chasing of the parades, we have thoroughly enjoying viewing the beautiful Andalucian architecture that fills the city. It really is a beautiful place. As the hours pass by we realise that our chance to see a parade has passed and can only hope that the weather fines up tomorrow in time for the Easter Sunday finale for the sake of the remaining bearers and crowds who’ve come from all over Spain to experience the spectacle.
As we wave goodbye to the city of oranges the next morning (boarding bus to the south coast) we wonder; the saying goes, the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plane so for this to be true, the remainder must surely fall during Semana Santa.
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