It’s now November. Clearly. And I ask myself, what can we celebrate at this time of year? Rain, wind, too much time has passed since Summer, and Winter, (pagan, state and/or religious) holidays are too far away… But there is one ray of hope. If you’re English.

In Spain we have had the 1st of November as a holiday, and have a couple more coming up in December. But the only British, and in this case English, vaguely randomly comparable holiday to any local holidays that exist, is Guy Fawkes Night, or Bonfire Night on 5th November. Today, in fact. Sadly, it’s not even a Bank Holiday, but nevertheless, its mere existence fills me with joy.

Apart from always having been an unabashed fan of fireworks and man’s attempts to emulate the wonders of nature and the night sky, (though I do feel bad for our pets, or should I say our owners) it is a source of annual amusement to me that we commemorate this day at all, let alone the unusually (for the Brits) extrovert way in which we do it. What it boils down to is we celebrate the fact that someone attempted to blow up the Houses of Parliament. Or are we celebrating the failure? Regardless, what really gives me pleasure is that it’s one of those “we need no real excuse for a party, so let’s twist this event that happened 400 years ago into an annual commemoration when we can unashamedly set fire to things” affairs. You know, one of those holidays. Common as heck. The whole community comes together around a bonfire and throws the “Guys”, (homemade straw figures of Guy Fawkes) onto the bonfire. And then we eat jacket potatoes. A perfect evening.

In Ottery St. Mary, in Devon, there’s a local tradition of running with a burning barrel of tar through the narrow winding streets, possibly commemorating the Gunpowder Plot, or maybe to remember the tradition of lighting barrels of tar along the coastlines as beacons during threats of invasion. In any case, Pamplona for the English. Which cleverly and oh so subtly, brings me back to Spain. Didn’t see that coming, did you?
It’s well-known that the Spanish need no excuse for a fiesta. We Brits have a harder time justifying ourselves. Hell, the 1st of May, a national holiday all over Europe becomes the first Monday in May so as not to cut into the working week too badly. In December, the puente in Spain of the 6th and 8th of the month can fall in such a way that the weekend is prolonged until Thursday. Delicious.
However, perhaps because they are so used to it, perhaps because there are so many, the Spanish have a curious attitude to their fiestas. It varies from town to town, from city to city, and indeed, in large fiestas, there is an incredible sense of community and the letting down of hair, but at least in some parts, there are local celebrations twice a year, aside from the innumerable national holidays and “puentes” or long weekends, throughout the year, and fiestas are very similar to a normal weekend. By that I don’t mean that more activities aren’t planned, but that the locals can remain fairly indifferent, even weary. Who knows, perhaps it’s better to celebrate less often and in a grander fashion (one only has to look at Notting Hill), than to lose the sense of celebrating something together, simply because what should be something out of the ordinary has become as much a routine as anything else in daily life.

In Jersey, they have an annual celebration, called The Battle of Flowers, in August. It involves floats made from flowers, by parishes and associations, all working their booties off throughout the entire year, designing, constructing, choreographing and creating, all for one day of potential glory. And yet it embodies the idea of a community together, a shared holiday. It used to end with the violent and joyous destruction of the floats, a veritable Battle in the streets. Now, Health and Safety has frowned repeatedly, and their frowns have grown wider and more pronounced, so that this section of the festival has been prohibited. As has the tradition of throwing a goat from a bell tower in the town of Manganeses de la Polvorosa in Spain. Apples and oranges.

There are so many other holidays I could talk about, many of which begin with the best intentions but end up being ostentatious, politically influenced or quite frankly extremely wearing, and yet I still have faith. I suppose what I’m trying to say is: Is it too much to hope that holidays, be they national or local, won’t lose their sense of community and become a chore? If they do, what on earth is the point in celebrating?

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