Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain.
- John Masefield
IBIZA – The joy of off-season. The stimulating conversations, the surprising encounters. The boat rides to secret coves. The hiking in enchanted forests that smell of rosemary, thyme, and pine.
MADRID – I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a strange thrill every time a bull shuddered and fell to its knees, the final spasm of death clear even from the top row of seats.
The steer ran awkwardly and the bull caught him, hooked him lightly in the flank, and then turned away and looked up at the crowd on the walls, his crest of muscle rising.