Saying sorry in Seville

There’s been a lot of muttering lately about the word ‘sorry’ and the reluctance of politicians and bankers to say it — an unrealistic expectation, given that the logical follow-up is resignation.

There’s been a lot of muttering lately about the word ‘sorry’ and the reluctance of politicians and bankers to say it — an unrealistic expectation, given that the logical follow-up is resignation. In Seville, they have a more sensible approach: instead of demanding personal apologies, they muck in for a mass penitence lasting a week.

Before attending my first Semana Santa this year, I’d imagined it to be a punishing affair involving penitents shuffling on their knees. As I discovered, it is anything but. A week of stirring spectacle and rousing music experienced from the comfort of a balcony or bar is not what we in Britain would call a penance; in fact it’s what we call a festival.

There’s something here for every sector of the community. Oldies can sit and watch the world go by in a good cause, when not scraping last night’s wax deposit off church floors. Young girls can wear their most alluring — and surprisingly revealing — dresses. Young men can prove their machismo by hefting 1,500kg floats on the backs of their necks for hours on end. Children can beg for candy, collect big balls of wax and, if privileged to carry candles in procession, sneak drips on to fellow penitents’ capirotes — garments conveniently restricting peripheral vision. Local musicians, meanwhile, have a field day. With drums and trumpets following the images of Christ and brass marching bands escorting the Virgin, there’s a gig for every amateur in town. And the tradition of serenading the pasos (floats) with saetas (flamenco verse) means even singers past their prime can stop the show.