I was up before the sun for my bus to Valencia so managed to catch up on some sleep on my way there. On arrival I realised my great plan to meet Mish at 'the train station' was probably the worst plan I'd formed on the trip. Number one- my bus was late and I was already past our agreed meeting time. Two- what station is 'the' station. 3- how do I get there? And 4- if I even manage to get to 'the' station, where am I meeting mish?as my feeling of panic grew, I got on a bus which was allegedly going to 'the' station, I took that as a positive sign that maybe there only was one. When I walked up to the station with low hopes a random couple started waving at me, I first I was weirded out, and then saw Mishs backpack in front of them, this must have been Mish's friends from Contiki! I waved back and as they apprehensively inquired, Georgie? I knew I'd hit the jackpot and mish running towards me was further confirmation. Thankfully, crisis averted! On arrival to our campsite, my final promise in Madrid, of no sangria came back to bite me, as I was handed an overflowing cup within moments of entering. I threw my promise out the window and felt secretly happy I'd picked such a good organisation for La Tomantina, and as my. Abs were promptly picked up and carried to my tent, the happiness has blossomed into a bug grin. Yes the tents were small but we were going to have the best time ever, even if we were camping! Again, another stupid thing to say.
The crazy girls from Venice/Ios were also staying here, that should have been another warning sign, but I ignored it. We made the most of the unlimited sangria, and were wasted at 4pm, and already struggling to get it down, another sign. But I was drunk, the cafe had hot chips and the sun was out, why wouldn't I be happy? We were headed off to the water and wine fight that night, I knew nothing about it but a kind stoke worker had told me there was a club hired, and it was an all out water and wine fight. I have to admit I was a little disappointed, I thought it was more local, but still, it sounded like heaps of fun. We boarded the bus at 9.30 after peaking twice already. It was freezing cold, but a jumper was much too valuable to forsake in the water and wine fray so we had no choice but to brave it. It seemed clear on arrival no one bad any clue what was going on, workers or us. There was a bull fight which was optional and the fight would start after that. We opted not to watch the brutal fight and were alternatively left on the streets to freeze with no money, and no clue what was happening. As time passed, I was sober, hungry and shivering, so I headed to a cafe which increased my hunger pains but warmed me up. 3 hours later after both Mish and Em had slept, I was so over it and ready for bed. Stoke staff were at a bar getting drunk and appeared to have no idea what was happening or no care, while the rest of us wo were instructed we wouldn't need cash were left waiting until the 2.30am bus departure. Jack, frustrated and bored went exploring and came back within 5 minutes saying he had found the fight and we were about to miss it. We fled stoke and opted to actually participate in what we had come for, and I'm glad we did, others the next day had completely missed it! It's name pretty much covers it. Walk through the streets from 1-3am and get drenched with water poured on you from rooftops and balconies, and warm back up again with unlimited free wine at the end of the town route. Unfortunately stokes wise planning meant we got all the water part, but managed to just miss out on the wine, or indulge in the wine, and be abandoned in a small town somewhere in Spain, we had no idea where we were. Taking the smart option we gave up on the wine, and began to run through the streets, desperately yelling out stoke, realising we had no idea where the bus was, and we hadn't been given any directions. Out of complete chance we saw a stoke T-shirt and chased it down and an extremely drunk colleague walked us to the bus.
The bus driver got lost, I don't know if it was poor directions (that's my suspicion) or something else, but the half an hour drive there, was an hour and a half back. S as you can imagine, the 6am wake up call after about 2 hours sleep wasn't welcome. 'Wake up wake up, time for la tomantina' they cs,led while hammering loudly on the top of you tents. In a hurried panic I threw on my clothes and headed to the breakfast tent where the food was revolting, I was forced to drink a sangria and were we sat in th darkness for an hour and a half until it was ACTUALLY time to leave. The lead up to the fight was a mixed bag of excitement, seeing lots of familiar faces, shivering in the rain, and anger that the locals were still spraying high pressure, freezing cold hoses all over us, in the middle of a heavy downpour, as if we needed to be more wet. The fight itself, once a GIRL finally made it to the top of e pole and ripped down the ham, was admittedly well worth all of Stokes nonsense. It was definitely more crowded than I imagined but apart from that it lived up to every dream. For an hour, every 15 minutes huge dump trucks rolled through the streets, filled to the brim with tomatoes and crazy locals who would piff as many tomatoes as hard as they could at you, before dumping the remainder off the back and leaving us to go absolute crazy. You were ankle deep in a tomato sludge river, you were covered head to toe in chunks of tomato, clothes streaked with a red tinge, and any hope of keeping your eyes tomato free was quickly crushed, even if you wore goggles. An hour later exhausted and covered, I marched out in an extremely cramped tomato army. As we waded through the sea of sludge which smelt putrid and now reached shin level, you couldn't help but laugh ad you looked around. Every girl would need about 5 washes of her hair to rinse out the tomato, every boy had less skin colour visible than tomato, and it was clear not one garment of clothing would be saved from this festival. Locals kindly gathered on the streets with their hoses to wash us down but seemed to get a sick pleasure after pelting us with tomatoes, to also nearly blow us away with their extremely high pressure hoses. I made my way back to the bus and to my surprise was allowed straight on, dripping wet and still half covered in tomato, I felt truly sorry for whoever had the clean that bus because the stench sitting inside for 15 minutes was overwhelming. I sprinted to the shower off the bus and managed to be sixth place in line but already there was no hot water and you had to push the button down continuously to get any water, remove your hand for a second and the flow would stop. As you can imagine, it was a difficult process when I really needed two hands to massage all the filth out of my head, with water ideally washing it out simultaneously. But beggars can't be choosers, so I left the sheer with my body clean, and the majority of tomato out of my hair.. At least it didn't smell as bad. I finally bumped into the elusive Thommo who I'd been hunting for the entire two days, who had struggled with flights, delays, and had missed the big event. I felt so sorry for him so even though it was ring, miserable weather and the last thing I felt like was drinking, I poured myself a sangria and helped him drown his sorrows. Things escalated quickly from that first sip, and Thommo was the drunkest and most outgoing I had ever seen him be. The wheel of misfortune was being spun continuously and in the end both Thommo and I were punished for our gamble. It seemed as though everyone was content to continue getting drunk around the campsite which I was more than happy to do, but Thommo was keen fr the afterparty and after his awful day, I couldn't leave him so I hesitant,y left and got on the bus to what undoubtedly was the worst afterparty in history. Firstly, there was only about 40 people there in an enormous club, secondly an acoustics band was playing- not exactly party vibes, and the free drinks ended at 12, but there was no bus home until 3.30. Stoke had done it again. We decided to rebel against their cruel regime and commenced the hunt for food, which soon turned into a hunt to get back. After 2.5 hours of walking in circles around Valencia I had never wanted to be anywhere so badly as that horrible afterparty. We seemed to be doomed, and we received 'no comprendez' on every corner. Thommo came up with all sorts of wild plans of sleeping at the station for two hours, catching the train back at 6am and then somehow walking the 7k to our campsite by 9am, on no sleep. I was delirious, cold, hungry and so so tired, so I caved and decided money was irrelevant, and no matter what it cost me, I would get to bed quickly. I hailed the next cab and we were off and 40 euro later I was back in my cold and uncomfortable tent.
After telling tales of our miserable night, and eating an even more miserable breakfast, it was time to leave. Stoke memories may not have been so pleasant, but they certainly made for good banter, as every single person on the hour long train had something different to complain about. It's always the interesting moments that make for interesting stories. Right?
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