La Fiesta de Sant Martí, Menorca (2023)
A hand on the lookout balcony shot into the air and the band stopped. The frantic buzz of the crowd dropped to a low hum and heads turned to a corner of the square where an unlucky soul’s encounter with a horse had laid him him out on the sawdust, two medics with a stretcher pushing towards him through the congregation.
This is the San Marti Fiesta in Es Mercadal, Menorca, a centuries old festival celebrating the village’s patron saint and one of many that happen on the island through the summer months. Festivities last for two days and are a mix of solemn Masses, rituals and celebrations, but the undisputed highlight is El Jaleo - a raucous form of dressage, carried out in the narrow, crowded streets of the town.
I’d been to this event as boy. It seemed smaller then - fewer people - but this year the plaça was packed and people lined rooftops and spilled out of windows and balconies. Pastelerías, usually selling delicious Menorcan cakes and pastries were now pouring gallons of pomada, the local gin and lemon drink, and groups of teens openly smuggled the liquor in litre bottles wrapped in plastic bags.
El Jaleo is a demonstration of artistry and horsemanship that takes a lifetime to master. With an almost imperceptible twitch of the reigns, skilled riders execute dressage moves with names like the Spanish Walk, Half-Pass, or Piaffe, but the show-stopper is un Bot. A simple touch to the shoulder and the horse rears up on its hind legs in a regal pose - the iconic image of Spanish horsemanship. Younger riders lack finesse, while the older, most skilled, defy gravity - their horses suspended in the air for an impossibly long time. Once the sole domain of men, it was pleasing to see many women amongst the junior ranks of riders starting their lifelong journey in this art.
If the highlight of the fiesta is El Jaleo, then the undisputed kings are the horses. The Cavall Menorquí is a purebred indigenous to the island. Only black, with a slim, majestic silhouette, the horses are trained for months in advance of the event to ensure they remain calm in the chaos of the crowds and noise.
The injured man is stretchered out of the arena to a hero’s cheer and the band strikes up it’s jolly tune. The horses enter the plaça in twos, paying homage to the mayor before beginning their dance. The crowd moves like trapped water. As a horse approaches we swell backwards in a wave till we crash against the boarded up windows of the shops. The horse rears and hands rush out to prop up both rider and animal before gravity reasserts its dominion and half a ton of muscle and bone finds its way back to earth.
For 90 minutes the horses come following a structure and hierarchy developed over the centuries and when the final two enter the square a new energy erupts in the crowd. Dog-collared, unshaven, with bright eyes and a radiant smile, the priest representing the clergy receives a rockstar’s welcome. I’d had a preview of this as I’d followed a procession of riders touring the backstreets before the main event, the priest greeted with cheers and reverence - a reminder that amongst the gin and hooves this was still a religious celebration and the priest is at its triumphant centre.
These events are important. They connect us to the past, to our history, and there is something so quintessential and timeless in the image of a priest on horseback parading through the whitewashed streets of a Spanish town, an adoring procession in tow.
In the main square, the priest finishes his dance and exits right after bringing the crowd to a joyous crescendo. Eventually the horses are replaced by tables and bars issue an endless flow of meats and cheeses while music and laughter fill the narrow streets, lasting long into the night. The next day, the festivities will continue and the horses and riders will return to the square, this time before the midday mass in a more sober, but equally energetic affair. But that’s for mañana.
