The tissues were not needed for an annoying sniffle. They were not needed to dab away a breakaway tear at an emotional moment. They were needed to block up our ears; torn in half and twisted into a cone they produced makeshift, but perfectly serviceable, ear plugs. The clue was that the majority of people cradling an arquebus were also sporting ear defenders.
The One True Cross was doing a tour of the town of Abanilla supported by the Captains, Pages, Queens, the Faithful and the Holy Brotherhood of the Vera Cruz. The Town Band, the Santa Cruz, were out too and when that Cross appeared at the church door the arquebuses made an awful din and covered us in smoke and soot. "It's a salute to the Cross," said a man, "no bullets in them today."
We caught up with the shooters a little further down the route, salvo after salvo, then one of the girls in the funny frocks bowed to the armed guard escorting the Cross and they let go a volley as well. Distinctly odd but good fun.
An old, temporarily skinnier but still flabby, red nosed, white haired Briton rambles on, at length, about things Spanish
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