the British Bull Run We’re all familiar with the running of bulls through the streets of Spain. Not only, and most famously, in Pamplona, but closer to home in towns like Gaucín and San Roque. You may think this is a barbarous foreign habit quite at odds with the innately civilised instincts of the British, but you’d be wrong. As late as Victorian times, bull-running was alive and well in that notorious hotbed of Latin loodlust, Stamford, Lincolnshire. It all began, according to tradition, in the time of King John. William, Earl of Warren, was standing idly on the battlements of his castle one otherwise dreary 13th November, watching two bulls fighting in a meadow beneath. Some ill-advised butchers, who had presumably been drinking too deeply of the powerful local ale than was good for them, strolled into view and attempted to part the combatants. Their chosen method is unrecorded, but a bucket of cold water would hardly seem sufficient. Whatever the case, the bulls took pardonable exception to this interference in what was a personal dispute, and one of them ran amok in the streets of the town, causing, it is said, “a great uproar”. Why the other one did not join him is a mystery not worth pondering. The Earl, whether out of a desire to protect his faithful serfs, or simply for the hell of it, mounted his horse and galloped after the rampaging beast. So exhilarated was he by the ensuing sport that he donated the meadow in which the fight had started to the butchers of Stamford on condition that they provide him with a bull to harass in similar manner each succeeding 13th November. Even today, the field in question is known to the townspeople as “the bull meadow”, perhaps in honour of the legendary beast, possibly in reference to tradition’s unlikely tale. A 19th Century description of proceedings has left us a vivid picture: About a quarter to eleven o’clock, on the festal-day, the bell of St Mary’s commenced to toll as a warning for the thoroughfares to be cleared of infirm persons and children; and precisely at eleven, the bull was turned into a street, blocked up at each end by a barricade of carts and wagons. At this moment, every post, pump, and ‘coigne of vantage’ was occupied, and those happy enough to have such protections, could grin at their less fortunate friends, who were compelled to have recourse to flight; the barricades, windows and house-tops being crowded with spectators. The bull, irritated by hats being thrown at him, and other means of annoyance, soon became ready to run; and then, the barricades being removed, the whole crowd, bull, men, boys, and dogs, rushed helter-skelter through the streets. The first object was to “bridge the bull”. It was chased onto the bridge that spanned the river Welland, where the mob, oblivious to the bull’s size and ferocity, overwhelmed it by force of numbers and pushed it into the water. Having thus terrified and humiliated the beast, the townsfolk might have repaired to the nearest tavern to toast their bravery and success, but no. If the bull survived its fall from the bridge and the danger of drowning (as it generally did) it would struggle up the riverbank into the meadows, where the chase would continue. In November, the fields would be little more than mudbaths, and the consequent slipping and sliding of both hunters and quarry would be a source of unbridled merriment, at least to the human participators. Eventually, when everyone grew tired, the bull would be put out of its misery, and its flesh sold cheaply to the people, who rounded off the day with singing, drinking, and a heartwarming beef supper. The first recorded attempt to outlaw the tradition seems to have occurred in 1788. The mayor of the town stunned the population by proclaiming that bull-running was “contrary to religion, law and nature” and was punishable by death. This had always been true for the bull, but news that it also applied to the human participants came as a shock. The mayor did have one influential supporter in the Earl of Exeter, who in spite of his title lived close by Stamford in Burleigh House. Indeed, the earl may well have been the instigator of the decree. Nevertheless, the bull was run as usual that year, and when they ill-advisedly showed themselves out of doors the earl and the mayor were duly jeered and insulted by the mob. They tried again the following year. This time the mayor called in a troop of dragoons to enforce his will. The dragoons stationed themselves at St George’s Gate, the entrance to the town through which the bull traditionally passed. The bullards, as the aficionados were known, approached, led as usual by a woman wearing blue ribbons. Before them raced the bull. “Stop them!” cried the mayor. “No”, said the leader of the dragoons. “These good folk are merely walking peaceably upon the King’s highway.” “A fat lot of good you are,” said the mayor. “Clear off, you useless rabble.” To great cheers the dragoons ran to join the bullards, and the bull-run continued. For a long time afterwards there was no serious opposition to the festival. In fact, the townspeople couldn’t get enough of it. They set a new annual run for the Monday after Christmas, and threw in a few impromptu ones here and there whenever life in Stamford threatened to become dull. Election time was particularly busy. No candidate could hope to win unless he provided the people with a bull to be run. In 1831 the Conservative party actually campaigned beneath a banner bearing a representation of a bull. Some found this deplorable, but as many again applauded it and spoke forcefully in favour of the bull-running tradition, saying it inspired courage in those who took part, as well as agility and presence of mind in the face of danger. Good old English virtues. As for causing distress to the bull? Poppycock! But trouble was looming. The RSPCA was founded in 1824, and by 1833 it had its sights set firmly on Stamford and its annual running of the bull. Stamford’s reaction was predictable. Who were these namby-pamby Londoners to tell them what to do? The popularity of the bull-running soared. In 1836, the society tried again, sending several of its chief officers to the town. 13th November fell on Sunday that year, so the Godfearing Lincolnshire folk postponed the running until the following day. By the evening, feelings against the interfering busybodies were running high. They were assaulted, and the mob, having despatched the bull, used what was left of their energies to smash a few windows. The RSPCA took out warrants against eight men for disturbing the peace and conspiring to “run and torment a bull”. They were sent for trial at the next assizes, to the indignation and anger of the people of Stamford, who saw it as an attempt by a bunch of effete toffs to persecute honest working men and rob them of their amusement. In the event, five of the eight men were acquitted, and left the court to the cheers of the crowd, who saw it as a great victory. They declared the 1837 run would be the best and biggest ever. But the toffs were not quite beaten. The Home Secretary had a quiet word with the mayor of Stamford, telling him this bull-running thing really was atrocious, as well as illegal, and he should take immediate measures to stop it. A few days before the run was due, dragoons were again deployed, and this time they were accompanied by a large force of police. Guards were stationed at every possible entrance to the town to prevent the bull getting in. For a while all seemed peaceful and then, as if by magic, a bull suddenly appeared in the streets, apparently having been smuggled in somehow by a sympathetic landowner. The run was on, and chaos reigned as dragoons and policeman ran and rode this way and that in total confusion while the bullards cheered themselves hoarse. The run seems to have been ignored by the authorities in 1838, but in 1839 they renewed their efforts to put a stop to it once and for all. Yet again a bull was smuggled into the town. This time the alleged culprits were a group of special constables. But it was a poor specimen — young, and with little fight in it. On this occasion the authorities were able to capture it easily and lead it safely away. It was the end. The cost of employing the soldiers and police was heavy, and it was paid by the town, which had better things to do with its money. As November 1840 drew near, a delegation of prominent townsmen asked the mayor to send a message to the Home Secretary. If he would refrain from sending in the troops and police, they would ensure that no bull-running would take place. And from that day to this, none has. Has anyone ever undertaken a study of the incidence of Lincolnshire surnames in Gaucín?

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