Parrots, sausages, and beans.

When one goes to a market simply to mooch around and paw at the various things on display, one doesn't often realise or appreciate the hard labour and gruelling starts the vendors have suffered to make (usually) a pittance. Before Sunday the 4th of March 2012, I was one of these people who fell into this category. Not any more.

My friend spent weeks preparing for this one day, slogging at a full-time job, then coming home to knit boots and brooches as Top Gear flickered in the background, or designing pieces of delicate silver jewellery which she then gave to her boyfriend to polish. After two weeks of very little sleep, and an offer of help from yours truly, the night before the big day arrived. We squashed everything into the car: stock, the stall, chairs, overnight bags, and there was just enough room for three of us to breathe. Our lodgings that night was a friend of my friend; I had never had the pleasure of meeting her, but we were acquainted very quickly, as she had to perch on my lap to show us where to go to park. It was a pleasant evening of wine and pizza and making paper bags - even confessing one is an 'arts and crafts retard' does not exempt one from work.

Sunday morning in Sant Llorenç de la Muga dawned chilly and without caffeine. (Two sharp intakes of breath - Sundays have mornings? No caffeine?!) 6 a.m. is never a good time, and without coffee the pangs of fatigue rapidly evolve from some sort of hideous mould into snarling beasts of grumpiness. Our toes were frozen to the point of pain. Add onto that setting up a stall which took about 2 hours in the end, and I was feeling slightly murderous, so it was fortunate that a bar was 30 seconds away...

After a while, however, the caffeine kicked in and the sun slowly crept over the horizon, chasing away the long shadows and draping itself softly onto the cheese stall opposite. More people began to arrive, knocking together bits of wood and lengths of metal. The occasional hearty bellow of laughter from a baker or one of the organizers smothered the relative quiet like a fat kid sat on a cat. As the morning waned into noon the customers started to amble into the main square. I have no idea when the things my friend sold were sold because I decided to abandon her and get to know the town.

Sant Llorenç is a beautiful place situated near Figueres in northern Catalunya. The streets and houses in the centre are of a light stone, and old-style lamps cling onto the walls to light the way. One of its unique features is that it seems to have a parrot able to wander freely, calling out a welcome of 'Hola' to enchanted passers by. A waterwheel and a wine-press lounge in a children's play area; while I was taking pictures some young girls were sketching the wheel - who knows, they could be the next Picassos!

Beer o'clock rolled around, as did the hour to lunch. It so happened to be the festival of mongetes or beans, and for 5 euros one could sample botifarra i mongetes (sausage and beans) and a glass of wine. I cannot emphasize enough the need for a well-organized queuing system here: my friends and I were first in line (after a whole palava of running out of botifarres) and were pretty much the last to be served. My suspicions are that we are simply too British for our own good in these situations, as all the Catalan people were served before us! Even tutting and glaring silently had no effect on the somewhat belligerent cook.

 The way to get attention, it seems, is shout and cry and huff noisily for all you're worth, possibly even throwing in a bit of dramatic ticket-waving. This may call for a Queue Appreciation Society.

At five p.m., in honour of the beans, there was a bean-spitting contest. To cite my friend: "I love the Catalans; they'll celebrate anything!" The aim was to hit a target by spitting out one bean; unfortunately, I was behind the stall at this point (making myself useful) and have gathered no photographic evidence.
It clouded over at this point and people started to scoot off in search of shelter and a cosy warmth. Yet we stayed firm, stretching the tarpaulin over the stall and eating our Nutella crepes.

Twelve hours we were there, from 7 till 7; twelve hours of chatting, knitting, writing, exploring, joking, selling, watching people go about their business.... All in all, it was a good day, but I truly take my hat off to those who tend their stalls as a main business. I would not have the patience or the willpower to battle the elements and the tough economic climate in which we are now stagnating. It's something I can now tick off my list though: 'got over being an arts and crafts retard'.