The first thing I saw was the crowd surging forward towards me, everyone sprinting in a panic away from Sol. Was there an errant car careering down the pedestrian street? Or, god forbid, a bomb? (Unfortunately it’s a possibility in the back of many people’s minds as local elections approach in this country with an active local terrorist organisation.)

Then I realised that it wasn’t the whole crowd that was fleeing for its life, just young black men carrying white sacks. They’d had pirated DVDs, imitation designer handbags, belts, wallets and sunglasses spread out for sale on a white sheet, had yoinked up the corners to make a sack and were running with their wares as fast as they could at the first sign of the authorities.

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Easter in the south is a curious event. Visiting the small town of Priego I was caught up in elaborate traditions involving spectacular processions, excessive conglomerations of people, and some surprising peculiarities.

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So I tried chorizo the other day. As a vegetarian for the past seven years, this was, shall we say, quite a strange experience. The occasion was my Spanish teacher’s birthday: she brought some chorizo to share with the class, in line with the custom here of giving, rather than receiving, on your birthday. Initially I abstained, but as she told us about the origins of the food I started thinking. And as the rest of the class tried not to spit out their mouthfuls at the teacher’s description of collecting the blood shooting from the pig’s neck, I sadistically reached for a taste.

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