I love to witness drumming and our village in Spain is a great place for it. This time we flew over, then took a bus from Reus airport to the Catalan city of Tarragona – famous for its human towers and more. We had a hotel very near to the Mediterranean coast, the sun was shining, and just around the corner lay the superlative Roman amphitheatre. What’s not to like? Graffiti, that’s what. Every spare vertical surface was covered in the stuff.

We were also near the old quarter which has at its centre a marvellous cathedral with that rare, but to my mind excellent, combination of both gothic and classical architecture, plus a sun filled  cloister with orange trees and the ripe fruit hanging from them.

On our second night we were making our way to the old quarter to drink and eat when Margaret stopped me and said, “Something’s going on”. And it was. The streets were free of traffic and people were lining up along the pavements. Then I heard it: drumming. This was an unexpected surprise and I was soon overwhelmed by the repetitive drum rolls and the sight of the everlasting parade of men, women and children dressed as soldiers, plus others seemingly dressed like members of the Ku Klux clan in black or white robes and hoods. There were also many troops of drummers, plus the wonderfully large religious displays carried by many men, some labouring beneath their heavy loads: you could just about see their feet! All wonderful and a complete surprise.

We travelled to our own village on a series of buses and over seriously impressive mountains, finally slogging up the steep hill to our house in La Fresneda. It was cold, so cold. But I found some firewood stored in the garage and soon got a blizzy going in our open fireplace Then, once again we heard drums. The local troop were practising for what we call Good Friday outside the church above us.

The following day the whole village including returning locals and visitors crowded into our imposing plaza (square) at a little before noon. Then the drummers entered and formed a large circle. There were about 70 of them all dressed in shiny black smocks and toting a whole mixture of drum sizes from huge ones that took a strong man to bear, to tiny ones carried by little children. The leader stood as if frozen in the centre with his sticks raised and, at exactly noon, he gave a signal and the sticks and cudgels crashed down onto the drums. The “hour was broken”. Thrilling is not a strong enough word for the emotion that I felt as they continue their drum rolls and the tears coursed down my face. They then began to parade this way and that under the command of the leader's raised sticks The whole performance lasted about an hour.

But this was not the end of the drumming, they were at it again in the evening parading down Santa Aguada, the street in which we live. We could look down on them from our lounge window and watch the vicar singing some hymns accompanied by his little choir of village women: he garbed in red, they in white.

There was more, much more. During the weekend the streets were filled with stalls selling antiques and such and here there was a smaller, more exotic, drum troop touring through the village creating a wholly different set of rolls and trills. They were wonderful too.

Then it was Monday and our village became our own again, the masses had departed and the drums were tucked away until the next Semana Santa. I walked down to our huerto and began attacking the brambles and energetic fig trees that believe the place is theirs. We managed to plant another tree, a Kaki, to add to our beleaguered orchard and I got my irrigation system working to help the trees through the hot arid summer.

A great trip, but soon over. We do love our village and do feel part of it in some distant way. By the way this little account is just a precis of the notes that I write whilst I am over there. Scribble, scribble, scribble.