July has just passed, and in northern Spain one of the most famous fiestas of all took place, that of San Fermín in Pamplona (6th–14th), where the enciero (‘running of the bulls’) every morning is covered by national and international TV. The celebration is ostensibly in honour of the city’s patron, San Fermín, a member of a senatorial family and supposedly the city’s first bishop, who was martyred c.300AD. The streets are thronged by people dressed in white, with red kerchiefs around their necks, colours symbolising the saint’s purity and the blood spilled in his martyrdom (admittedly in Amiens, in northern France).
Fermín was baptised in Pamplona by St Saturninus, bishop of Toulouse, and an extra-large manhole cover marks the spot where the well he used is located, outside the Church of San Saturnino (Saturninus), at the junction of the Calle San Saturnino and the Calle Mayor. This is directly on the Camino route, just after the ayuntamiento (city hall) and you may have walked over it without knowing. Pilgrims and Camino goers walk down the end of the Calle Mayor past the church of San Lorenzo on the left, in which a chapel houses the relics of San Fermín, which are encased in a statue of the saint in the guise of a bishop, and processed on the first day of the fiesta.
While the fiesta is largely a secular affair, the relics are nonetheless venerated, and many of those running with the bulls (especially locals) will visit the chapel to pay their respects to the saint and pray for an injury-free enciero. While I lived in Pamplona (2021–2), I stopped in on occasion and noted that the chapel was almost never empty. Heartfelt prayers for help, like those of a young lady I recall crying in the front row, seemed to be a daily occurrence, and while all I could do for her was nip around the corner to a pharmacy and buy her a packet of tissues, it seems that San Fermín hold a place in the hearts of those who walk, those who run, and those who sit.
Denis Casey 