However, Christmas in Catalunya is very different from Christmas in Britain. Christmas in Catalunya means talking shit. Again.
Santa Claus, with his snowy beard, red suit, jolly chuckle, and habit of breaking and entering via the chimney on Christmas Eve, is evidently far too unbelievable a character for the sceptical Catalan children. Enter the cagatió. The 'shit-log', as the name suggests, is a bit of tree with little twiggy legs attached and a smile painted on what is supposed to be the face that is designed to be given a good beating (think John Cleese à la Fawlty Towers). And what happens is this: the children feed little tió biscuits and orange peel, possibly given a bit of a stroke and have some songs sung to it, which is to encourage it to 'shit' presents on Christmas Day. On the day itself, children are allowed to whack the log with another stick and out come the sweets and fruit, as if by magic, from underneath a blanket. Santa with an organic twist, I feel.
As for the religious aspect, many people feel that is has been grossly obscured over recent years by more material priorities. There is indeed much truth to this observation, yet I would like to put forward another side. The Catalans have their splendid tradition of the Nativity scene, or the pessebre as it is known as here. They are taken quite seriously, with all the figures in their rightful places: Mary and Joseph, looking down at their new-born son; the shepherds gathered to pay homage; baby Jesus swaddled in his manger; the caganer squatting somewhere around....
The 'what?', do I hear you collectively cry? The caganer. This is blatantly the most important person in a Catalan pessebre. He is the one with his pants down in the corner, possibly with a bit of stomach trouble, relieving his bowels. Why such a person exists is a little hazy: one story has it that he is actually one of the shepherds and got caught short; other arguments suggest that it is another manifestation of the typical scatalogical sense of humour here. Whichever way we look at it, this little tradition is one that should be more recognised than it currently is, if only for a giggle.
The curious thing about a Catalan Christmas (for us) is that the day for opening the main presents isn't until the eighth of January, when the Kings arrive. It is slightly more realistic, given that we celebrate the birth of the Son of God in December, that the presents would come along with the kings a week or two later. After all, travelling through sand isn't as unproblematic as people may suspect. However, I am willing to bet that it was a slightly better journey than the one I endured in order to get back to England, for the Three Wise Men had wisely chosen to go via camel, not with a certain air company (let's call them Ryan's Air) who had decided to slash about 99.9 recurring % of their flights from Girona. Prices were of biblical sums and when I finally arrived in Manchester had to suffer the shame of smelling like a brewery, since the baggage-handlers had taken about as much care with my rucksack as the Duke of Edinburgh with his diplomacy skills, and left one of my two bottles of French chestnut beer smashed to smithereens and coating all my lovely Christmas clothes in eau de bière. Whilst attempting to clean up a bit on the train up to Carlisle, I managed to cut myself on a piece of glass. All the Kings had to worry about was draw straws to decide who should give baby J the best present of gold.
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