I’m en route to the UK, to celebrate the wedding of a niece, the 65th wedding anniversary of my parents and, if I recollect correctly, the Assumption of Our Lady straight into Heaven. Though in the last case the festivities will, of course, be marred by the non-attendance of the celebratee. Who ever comes back from Heaven?

Anyway, it’s an appropriate time and place to give an unsolicited testimonial to Brittany Ferries, who do a grand job on their Pont Aven boat, ploughing between Santander and either Plymouth or Southampton. To be honest, I wasn’t knocked out by last night’s Michael Jackson impersonator but it seemed every other person on the boat was. Including the entire crew, packed into the rafters. And I have to admit that the guy looked so creepingly authentic I kept waiting for him to keel over with a heart attack. But, when he failed to oblige, I crept early off to bed.

So . . . Saturday’s bullfight. Long-time readers will know I’m decidedly ambivalent about this Spanish institution. And I have two daughters whose attitudes are literally poles apart. So I hope one of them never reads this.

First off, I scoff at people who deny the cruelty of bullfighting. On the other hand, I find it impossible to disagree with those who rave about its (occasional) artistry. And no one will ever convince me it doesn’t take great courage to get into the ring with the magnificent bulls. I would never ban it. But, that said, I don’t often attend a corrida - for the not-very-laudatory reason that they can, frankly, get very boring. And I’m not very proud of the fact that I seem to get inured quite quickly to the outpourings of blood. For which I blame my genes.

Anyway, in the boredom stakes, Saturday night was an exception.

First of all, I was there with Pontevedra’s largest and most raucous peña, Gin Kas. Membership of which is conditional on your being prepared to hacer el ganso. Or play the fool. (This, by the way, might well be conclusive evidence of the claim that Pontevedra audiences are not the most knowledgeable and serious in Spain.)

Secondly, the evening was special in that each of the first five bulls was dispatched quickly with a single sword thrust between the shoulder blades. Meaning none of the awful multi-stabbing atrocities that often unfold.

Finally – and most importantly – the final bull was ‘pardoned’ - after a combination of an angry and brave quadruped and an angry and talented biped had given the crowd something to remember. Only twice in more than a hundred years has a bull been allowed to leave the Pontevedra ring (just about) alive, to be nursed back to a life at stud. So, it’s understandable the crowd was pretty delirious at the close of the corrida. Even the breeder of the bulls was carried out on someone’s shoulders. In fact, I think I might well have been.

So, no. For so long as the Spanish people want to retain the institution, I would never ban it. But I still won’t be going very often. And I will always believe that, if they could just bottle the first five minutes of every ‘fight’ – when the torero faces an uninjured bull alone – then they might just have something to sell to the rest of the world. As it is, no bloody chance whatsoever. Even in Spain itself, it’s a tougher and tougher row to hoe. Which should be a crumb of consolation for those readers who regard as insane anyone who doesn’t totally support their outright rejection of bullfighting.