Festivals, Festes, Ferias, and Fiestas
Navigating two of Spain’s most fun and notorious festivals: Las Fallas y La Feria Andaluza de Valencia.
A month has now passed since Valencia celebrated the nerve-shattering, boom-erous, blast-erous, explosive, Feliz-fuelled, kaleidoscopic extravaganza that is ‘The Fallas Festival’.
After many years of anticipation, this year’s iteration was my first Fallas Festival, and I must admit that I was blown away in more ways than one.
Whatever one’s thoughts may be regarding this festival (is it a necessary festival of explosion, or an ecological disaster?) there can be no denying that this Jewel-in-the-Crown of Valencia’s events calendar is something outrageously special.
Las Fallas: Failures by name, but not by nature
For those unfamiliar with it, the Fallas festival is a crazy Spanish tradition, that centres around fireworks, pyrotechnics and gigantic bonfires. However, rather than lasting a mere weekend, this fire-filled cacophony of light and sound begins on March 1st and lasts… not for a single day… or a single week… but for nineteen consecutive days and nights until March 19th!
Each year, Valencia’s population swells by over 2 million, welcoming party-goers from all over Europe and the Americas. Party tents line the streets, where Falla Groups (special members-only societies) party hard. These parties often last until 4am, as the Falla groups celebrate the erection of gigantic (and highly artistic) sculptures, offer flowers, and adorn traditional clothing.
To be, or Ninot to be
Each Falla group is responsible for creating sculptures (known as ninots), which are entered into a city-wide competition. After a month of display, one single ‘winner’ is elected as the annual ‘premio’. This ‘winner,’ is permitted to be saved from an apocalyptic night of burnings, which signify the end of the festival.
The ‘winner’ dedicates a smaller ninot, which is inducted into the city’s Museo Fallero for posterity.
The festival is the culmination of a year of hard work for the Falla groups. The competition isn’t solely for the sculptures. Each group promotes a female member called a ‘Fallera Mayor,’ who is entered into what can only be described as a medieval beauty pageant.
An expensive do
Each bespoke silk dress can cost over €10,000.00, and the additional gold jewellery is equally expensive. Witnessing the detail and expense attached to this tradition, I felt a little glad I …only… have a son! (Although he can be expensive in other ways!)
These traditionally-styled, carefully-designed, painstakingly-sewn and embroidered costumes, be it for a woman, man, girl or boy, each represent a serious amount of hard work. They are, in themselves, works of art. In addition, the list of tasks required to bring festivities to fruition must be endless.
Just weeks since the final ninot was burned to ashes, the planning for Fallas 2027 has already begun. The Valencian Community’s dedication to this festival can only be described as impressive, given the amount of time and passion invested by those involved.
The Valencian perspective
Despite its ever-increasing popularity, there does appear to exist some mixed feelings amongst the local population in regard to hosting such a massive event on their doorsteps. This year, many of my neighbours staged a mass exodus; retreating to their country houses, rather than stay to witness the street battles of petardos (small fireworks, that children take great glee in throwing at you) and nightly firework displays. Moreover, those who are aligned with green political views, see the mere creation of so much smoke, anti-social sound and literal burning of money to be excessive.
What you need to consider
A gentle word of warning.
For anyone thinking of coming to see the event for their first time in 2027, BE PREPARED!
Expect relentless noise, parties, fireworks, and people having too much fun.
For those intending to attend next year’s festival, I would warn against booking accommodation close to the city centre. Equally, for those who may be easily spooked by the sound of random fireworks going off, the intensity of these bangers is immense. Though probably not measurable on the Richter Scale, they can and do, pack a massive vibratory aural punch, especially if you happen to be standing too close.
I write this from the viewpoint of somebody whose apartment is situated close to the epicentre of The Fallas. This gave me nineteen sleepless nights in which to form my opinions; good job I’m not getting up for work!
Negatives aside however, if (grenades) fireworks exploding morning till night sound fun; or finding yourself jammed into a twice-daily crowd of over 100,000 people viewing daytime firework tickles your fancy; then you, and your inner child, could be in for one hell of treat!
Feria de Andaluz
Moving on to the next festival…
For over a week now, as I’ve been on my daily run along the running track in the Turia, I’ve noticed the emergence of a large tented village in the centre of the riverbed. Situated near the Bridge of Flowers, it has been growing in size day by day. This is Valencia’s offering (albeit smaller than the Fallas) to the annual Andalucian Flamenco Fair.
A personal admission…
Having previously been a complete philistine, up until attending last year’s fair, I had completely failed to appreciate what Flamenco dance was all about. Yes, I know, slap me with a wet lettuce why don’t you? It’s a disgrace, isn’t it?
Unlike most other genres of dance, Flamenco initially appeared far too aggressive for my liking. With its angry-looking staccato moves, it seemed to be more akin to a bullfighter taunting a frenzied bull, rather than being an actual dance. Moreover, the typical Spanish machoism associated was off-putting to say the least.
Don’t roll your eyes and start tutting like that — this isn’t a David Swift’s moany special, I promise!
But, not for the first time in my life, I seemed to have got it all wrong.
Learning the beauty in Flamenco
On the first Sunday afternoon of last year’s fair, I wandered along out of curiosity to see what was going on. The place was crowded. The vibe was carnival bright, teeming with colour, and laughter. From family elders, down through the generation line to the tiniest of children, folk were congregated around oodles of food-filled tables both outside, and inside the passion-filled marquees.
Dance troupes permeated the entire fairground from end to end; each group dancing in tempo with their own particular local region’s brand of Flamenco music.
Never cross an Andalusian Abuela
On the main stage, a purple and black costumed dance troupe had begun to perform. I moved in closer to get a good view. An elderly lady poked me in the back and muttered something in Spanish (which admittedly I didn’t understand) then hobbled off again to return to her table where around thirty costume-clad participants sat and dined. As I turned around to see this lady re-taking her seat, I received the ‘hey, move aside stranger — you’re blocking our line of vision’ look from several of the other seated elders. I’m not a meany. I did the right thing. I moved aside out of their line of view then carried on viewing the dancers on stage.
Moments later, I watched a very similar thing happen to a lady who’d been standing a couple of metres away from me. She also got the poke in the back, this time from someone from a different family’s table. I glanced at her and we shared a wry smile before she too, shuffled along.
Meanwhile, on stage, the twirling and extravagant hand gesturing had intensified, as too had the sense of drama. I was close enough to observe the dancers’ facial expressions. Multi-percussive vibrations raised the tension higher and higher. Swishing and swirling their way through tightly-choreographed pathways, the dancers stepped up a gear. The lead female stamped her foot down with an emphatic, commanding force that signalled the entire troupe to instantly freeze-frame. Her purple-sequined outfit shimmered reflectively in the warm breeze as she, stood statuesquely amid the front row of dancers. They stared down toward us mortals down below in the audience.
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The lead dancer herself chose to lock eyes with me. Her passion-filled, panting stare pierced my own stare for several seconds. I felt she was operating from a higher state of consciousness. It was as though she had become a portal through which the entire history of the Flamenco tradition could be viewed. In that moment I came to an abrupt realisation.
Yes folks, I’ll admit it … (sorry about the forthcoming use of a cliché) in that moment I had an epiphany! Maybe not quite in the Stephen Dedalus, James Joycean sense, but nevertheless, it was a definite epiphanic moment. I came to realise there was a lot more being acted out on that stage than a mere dance. This was an emotive presentation of love, anger, longing, lost love, new love, rurality, sexuality and much more rolled into one. And I do have to admit, that for a brief moment I could feel my eyes welling up.
Hmm! I could, of course, have just been dehydrated.
Moments later… a click of the fingers and the trance ended, the flow resumed with ever-mounting energy and prowess and normality was resumed. I strolled away feeling like a true convert. Since that day, I have converted to become a huge fan of Flamenco. I cannot recall their names, but I’ve seen several performances around the city, my favourite being one I came across one Sunday lunchtime at Fábrica de Hielo close to the beach at Malvarrosa. It’s my dream to see it live and direct in Sevilla!
I was hoping to publish this item several days ago, but, having decided to write a quick poem to add, it has taken me until today to finish it. I hope you enjoy it. Ciao for now!
Poem: The Awakening in the Garden
(A Tribute to the Andalusian Fair, Valencia 2025)
I’d walked into The Turia with clouded eyes,
Past the orange trees, under pale blue skies.
To me, it was all noise, just a frantic display,
A storm of shadows that would be in my way.
I’d missed the point, I’d missed the art,
The secret language of the human heart.
Then the guitar sighed, a low wooden hum,
And the world grew still, as I became numb.
In front of the stage by the bright fair tent,
I came to learn what sorrow meant.
Thwack! The heel struck the hollow board,
Cutting the air like a sharpened sword.
¡Tacón! ¡Golpe! A rhythmic fire,
Climbing the scales of a wild desire.
The dancer stood, a statue of lace,
With a thunderous pride etched into her face.
No longer a blur or a confusing sound,
But a lightning bolt rooting me to the ground.
The palmas clapped, my heartbeat in sync,
Bringing me right to the dizzying brink.
The singer’s cry, a jagged, raw gale,
The saddened words of a sombre tale
The swirl of the mantón, a soft silkened swing,
The snap of the fingers, the pluck of a string.
In that dusty swirl, the truth became clear:
There’s no room for doubt, and no room for fear.
It’s the soul in a fever, the blood in a song,
The place where the broken hearts all belong.
I’d arrived a stranger to such rhythms and pace,
But I’d left with a knowing smile on my face.
The Turia flows on, and I’ve changed my view
The spirit of Flamenco has now claimed me too.
David Swift — April 2026
PS … by the way, as I write, the Andalusian Flamenco Fair for 2026 is actually about to begin and will be around for a couple more weeks should anyone fancy going along. Adios!
Honk! If You Love the NHS
Speaking of surviving nineteen days of eardrum-shattering fireworks… if my attempts at dodging petardos (or trying to replicate that intense Flamenco stomp) had resulted in a broken wrist rather than just a ringing in my ears, I’d undoubtedly be gathering fresh material for a sequel to my latest book!
If you enjoyed this grumpy-old-bloke rant and have a taste for sharp-elbowed comedy, you will absolutely love my new satirical novel, Honk! If You Love the NHS. It takes a gloriously chaotic, affectionate, and hilarious look at the very institution tasked with patching us up when we inevitably trip over our own feet (or get deafened by Valencian pyrotechnics). Grab your copy today!
(Before my hearing fully recovers and I catch you reading something else!)
About the Author
David Swift is a UK based author and educator hailing from Yorkshire. His varied working-life has taken him into such diverse arenas as the building trade, the ambulance service and horseracing. Since gaining his BA Hons Degree in English from Leeds University, David’s main focus has been his writing, which he manages to combine with a busy life of travel and teaching. Apart from enjoying the exhilaration of surfing the waves, both in the UK and Spain, David is also a massive fan of live music.
