Spain — Land of the Bull or the Bunny?
No sooner has the mad March hare loped off but its burrow is taken by the vernal equivalent, the Easter Hare. More popularly celebrated these days as the Easter Bunny, this is not a hispanic custom—its origins being in northern European tradition—but the image of the fast, furry, floppy-eared figure of folklore is more closely associated with Spain than you might realise.
Ask anyone where the modern day moniker of the country hails from and they’d likely, and correctly, assume the Castilian name España evolved from the Hispania of the Roman Empire, who arrived on the peninsula in 206 BCE to rule for 700 years until the Visigoths and later the Moors took up residence. What may be less well known is that despite appearances the term does not derive from Latin, as whatever else the Romans did for Spain they did not name it. Rather they continued with the nomenclature of the Carthaginians who had preceded them by four centuries in being the first non-Iberian civilisation to settle in the territory, establishing trading ports and founding cities after crossing the Mediterranean Sea from their capital in what is now Tunisia. As they ventured further northwards, following the river Guadalquivir into the interior, they discovered a land abundant in a rabbit species unknown to them though similar to a small African mammal for which they had a name, and so came to refer to the region as ‘the island of rabbits’, in their tongue i-spanim or y-spn-y, pronounced I-span-ia.
The Carthaginians are remembered for their great general Hannibal, who took his military campaign in the Punic Wars to mainland Italy by crossing the Alps via Spain with his army on the backs of somewhat larger mammals possessed of even more exaggerated ears than the humble hare. Rome eventually prevailed however, sacking Carthage and taking its territories, the land of rabbits and its name among them. During their subsequent occupation they would mint coins featuring the Hispania-born Emperor Hadrian’s face on one side, and the now eponymous coney on the other.
With the passage of more than 2,000 years, alternative etymologies have been sporadically proposed, the lepus link has largely been forgotten and indeed even the Spanish themselves are often surprised to learn of it. Leaving aside the national obsession with the varied culinary delights of the exquisite Iberian pig—that’s a whole other history—the symbolic animal with which most would associate Spain, both here and abroad, is now undoubtedly el toro de lidia—the noble fighting bull.
My Bonneville with a roadside Osborne Bull, and my matching iconic keyring
Bovine brilliance
Popularly known as el toro bravo, this heterogeneous Iberian cattle is instantly recognisable as a national icon which attracts adoration and generates pride across the population, independent of individual stance on its primary purpose in the arena.
The cultural impact of the bull is perhaps best encapsulated in the brand mark of the celebrated Andalusian sherry and brandy bodega, Osborne, founded in 1772 and now the third oldest winery in Spain—in fact the seventh oldest company of any trade at all. Most famous these days for the 90 or so 14-metre high cut-out silhouette billboards that have dotted the landscape close to major roads since 1956 and are now protected by law for their ‘aesthetic or cultural significance’, the Osborne bull is now a public domain image and can be seen adorning everything from flags, stickers and car bumpers to key-rings—my own included.
Iron Age stone bull statue, Salamanca
But bovine symbolism in Spain is much older than even the venerable Osborne. Verracos are mysterious stone statues of bulls, and sometimes boars and bears, erected by the indigenous iron-age Celtiberian Vettones all over their tribal territory on the northwestern meseta long before the arrival of the legions from Italy.
One such bull totem still stands by the much younger Roman bridge that spans the River Tormes in my hometown of Salamanca, and another just an hour north in the ancient town that lies at the heart of its own distinct wine appellation, set on a bluff above the banks of the Duero, which boasts the name of the beast itself: TORO.
A frequently featured stop on La Ruta de Don Federico, Toro exudes medieval charm, with its 15th century muslim Mudéjar architecture, main square lined with an arched arcade of tiny tapas bars, a network of subterranean bodegas underneath the pavements complete with stone vats and original wooden beam wine presses, remains of a perimeter wall dating to 910 CE, and the marvellous 12th century Collegiate Church of Santa María la Mayor with its exquisitely detailed romanesque Portico of Majesty, depicting in stone-carved relief a vision of the judgement day and subsequent entry into paradise for the penitent and despatch to the underworld of the condemned, brought to lurid life with its lovingly restored original paintwork.
Medieval architecture of the Plaza Mayor, Toro
Wine travellers exploring 17th century underground bodegas of Toro with La Ruta de Don Federico
From the vantage point of the Colegiata, there are sweeping views over the Roman bridge on the Duero below, across the fertile plain known as the ‘oasis of Castile’ where the cavalry of Isabella I defeated the forces of the invading Kingdom of Portugal in a winner-takes-all battle which cleared the way for the foundation of the dynastically unified Spain under the houses of Castile and Aragon which prevails until today.
The Colegiata and its views of the Roman bridge over the Duero leading to the 1476 battlefield and towards Bodegas Piedra
Old wine to the New World
Sixteen years later in 1492, the victorious Isabella and Ferdinand would commission Christopher Columbus to sail westwards on his quest to reach the Indies with a convoy of three caravels, the Santa María, the Niña and the Pinta, the latter of which would cross the ocean blue laden with a precious cargo—one half of the ship was given over to the carriage of barrels of wine from the tiny town of Toro, which thereby has the distinction of being the first wine to be introduced to the Americas.
The structure and body of the local wines, founded on an autochthonous varietal of Tempranillo called Tinta de Toro, ensured they could survive transit on long journeys, and have afforded prestige to the area’s viniculture from at least the 12th century to the present day—the most expensive wine in Spain flows not from the fêted vineyards of the nearby Ribera Del Duero whose famous expressions generally command the highest prices, nor from La Rioja nor Priorat nor the up-and-coming terroir of El Bierzo, but rather from here in Toro, where a single bottle of Teso de Monja 2012 fetches upwards of 1,250—euros not pesetas—before export, whether transported under rigging or otherwise.
Replica of the caravel Pinta, which sailed with Columbus to the New World laden with Toro wine
To celebrate the arrival of the Easter Hare today, I have opted for the more modest Piedra Crianza 2018, a coupage of Tinta de Toro and Garnacha which fittingly sports an image on the label of the seasonal liebre which is so prodigious on the plain here. Produced from 50-year-old bush vines rooted in a 40 hectare plot of sand-covered alluvial rocks—piedra is Castilian for stone—close to the aforementioned battlefield, the crianza spends a year in mostly French oak prior to release but the tannins are smooth and the toasted notes from the barrel-ageing are subtle. Mature red fruits are most prominent, with plenty of blackcurrant too and hints of black cherry and liquorice, while the Garnacha lends a little of its characteristic spice and candied notes.
This vibrant and full-bodied blend is a perfect metaphor for the pairing of the two indigenous animals whose character and image over millennia have given so much to the genealogy and cultural identity of my adoptive home, and perhaps it might now be said that Spain is the land of both the bull and the bunny.
Whatever your choice of wine this Easter — ¡Felices Pascuas!
