Fallas: upsides and downsides of Valencia’s great festival

As I write these words, I can hear a distant rattling that sounds like gunfire, as though I were on the edge of a war zone. 

That feels odd, to the point of inappropriate, at a time when 40 million people in Eastern Europe (less the three million who’ve fled) have seen their country turned into a real war zone. Or perhaps that makes it all the more appropriate, since it provides a constant reminder of those brave people, including friends of mine,  battling to defend the freedom of Ukraine. 

The other sound, as well as this bizarre simulation of small arms fire, and quite frequently heavy artillery (about which more later), is the patter of rain on the roof. The two things are not unrelated. But more about that in a while too.

So, what’s this all about?

Well, we’re in the middle of the great annual festival of the Fallas, in the fine Spanish city of Valencia. A Falla is a large monument, a sculpture, covered with figures known as ninots, which can be human (sometimes satirical, perhaps mocking known political characters – I remember some wonderful Donald Trumps) or fish or animals or whatever. 

Originally, they were built of wood. The story is that the first ones were built by carpenters out of their surplus wood, and then burned in a great festival that saw in the arrival of spring. The burning itself is called the cremà, which I believe just means ‘burning’ (sensibly enough) in the Valencian language. The Catholic Church, always good at taking over old pagan feasts, recovered this one, making the last day, the day of cremà, fall on the feast of St Joseph, the patron saint of carpenters.

These days, with the use of modern materials such as polystyrene, the monuments can be twenty metres tall, with two rows of figures. They can be surprisingly impressive, so that one pleasure of the festival is wandering the streets and being amazed by the sculptures.

Modern materials make tall sculptures possible

The other is to see the people who dress up, often at enormous cost, in traditional costumes and stroll around admiring and being admired.

“No Fallas without a kiss”
Traditionally costumed falleros proving the point

There are also fireworks which can, like all fireworks, be spectacular.

That though is about where the pleasures end. Like most street festivals, this one features packed streets through which it can become impossible to force a way, and which act as a major pole of attraction for pickpockets from across Spain – and, who knows, maybe beyond – for whom this is one of the highlights of the year. It cost me a mobile phone at my first Fallas, though I confess that putting the phone in an outside coat pocket was perhaps not the smartest move I made that day.

Also less than delightful is what the cremà has become since the introduction of modern materials. Using polystyrene may well be a wonderful improvement as far as sculpting is concerned, but when 700 of them go up in flames simultaneously, the result may be spectacular but it’s also toxic. There are moves to ban the use of polystyrene, but they’ll be resisted.

But let’s come back to the theme I announced at the beginning, the production of noise reminiscent of a war zone. Like most people, I enjoy a good fireworks display. The noise of the fireworks exploding is, however, merely a side-effect of the main objective of the event, which is to enjoy the glorious colours. Why, the noise can even be an irritant, a bit like the stone in an olive, or pips in a grape.

One of the traditions of the Fallas, however, is to let off huge numbers of firecrackers. These can be the usual type, producing a noise rather like the distant crackling of small arms – as the great First world War poet put it, the “stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle”. But then there are the far bigger ones, which sound like heavy artillery going off – “the monstrous anger of the guns”, to draw on the word master Owen again.

It can be bad for anyone with a weak heart, or anyone who’s suffered the effect of living in a real war zone. A friend of ours who’d lived through air raids was shocked speechless by one of these crackers going off and told us that, much as she liked Valencia, she could never live in a place with such awful reminders of the worst time in her life. 

People keep telling me that it’s traditional, as though that’s enough to justify it. To me, it’s fireworks without the beauty. In other words, it’s like serving up olive stones without the olives, grape pips without the grapes.

The other thing that’s less than satisfactory about the Falllas is the timing. The middle of March. Not the best time for weather in Valencia.

The region is highly fertile. That means, among other things, that it has plenty of water. The bulk of the rain falls in November and March. But last year, November was dry. We entered the new year with reservoirs reaching dangerously low levels. As we hit March, however, it was as though the memo about dry November finally hit the desk of whoever runs the rain desk for Valencia.

“Whoops,” he seems to have said, “we seem to have screwed up . No water in the autumn. That’s not good. We’d better make up for it now”.

And he – whoever this fictitious character is, I’m sure he’s a man – turned the tap full on. This March seems to have been the wettest in the five we’ve seen here.

A fallero couple
Friendly, pleasant - and sadly a little damp

That hasn’t done much good for the spirit of the Fallas. It hasn’t completely stopped people enjoying themselves. Or prevented some of them turning the place into a mock-war zone. But it has made the whole show rather less of the splendid party it’s intended to be (at least, for those who don’t mind the noise).

Poor guys. I may not like the noise much, and feel delighted that we’ve moved out of the city where we aren’t be kept awake all night by it, but it seems a shame to deny people their fun. And I rather think unking March hasn’t done anyone any favours.

Which, on after two years of pandemic-spoiled Fallas, does seem a little harsh.

Yep. They can get quite elaborate...