The Branding of the Bulls

* Warning: this piece contains graphic content and images. *

Six o’clock this afternoon brought me and Guillermo to La Cobatilla, the finca (farm) of José Murube. José’s family have been breeding bulls at La Cobatilla since it was built in 1848. Today, the old cortijo held yet another herradero; the branding of the bulls.

When we arrived, Guillermo led me through the open courtyards of the whitewashed cortijo until we reached a bonfire. I was confused, and very warm. Then we turned another corner, to find twelve people standing around a rectangular chute made of solid metal, which held a young bull of about eight months old. The bull was bellowing and, as yet, I didn’t fully understand why. Then one of the men walked past me holding a long wooden pole with a metal tip, which bore the Murube brand. A great deal of smoke came from the right-hand side of the chute, the bull bellowed, and the smell of burnt hair filled the air. The penny dropped. The end of the chute swung open, and the bull ran past me, out of the open gate and into the field. 33 more bulls to go today. 30 more tomorrow.

I was invited to come and watch the process from the other side. I had watched the first branding from the left. The left-hand side of the chute is completely solid, except for two holes through which the men pass chains. The right-hand side opens on the top half, like a wardrobe. From the right I saw everything.

The narrow ends of the chute have sliding doors. The back end is up against an opening in a high wall, which leads into the pen where the rest of the bulls are waiting. Five men stand on a balcony above the pen, holding long metal rods. They drive each young bull through the narrow entrance and into the chute. The men on the ground trap the bull’s head in the sliding oval-shaped hole on the front of the chute. The bull kicks and struggles. The doors on the right are opened. Men reach under the bull’s belly to grab two chains, which they wrap around it’s body and pass through the holes in the left-hand side of the chute. The bull is effectively hoisted off its feet. The vet takes a note of its markings, and calls out the number it will be branded with. José the father injects it with anti-parasite and anti-infection liquids, José the son gives it a shot of vitamins so that it grows up to be strong. Men come over from the bonfire with the brands, and hold them against its skin. Carmen - a sweet, fashionable young cousin of 20 - sprays over the wounds with a healing spray. The wounds turn silver. The cupboard doors are closed, everyone stands back, the front end of the chute is opened, and the bull runs out.

It made me wince just watching. The bulls were clearly in a great deal of pain. Somebody noticed a big lump on one animal’s jaw. The vet lanced it with a big knife. The bull cried out, blood poured from its jaw, but the vet hadn’t succeeded. He tried again, and again. Slowly, the bull became still. It blinked. It blinked more slowly, and groaned quietly. I thought that it had died until the vet tried again and, this time, hit what he has looking for. White gunk poured out of the wound. This too was sprayed silver. I think the bull might have looked relieved. I felt sick.

The Spanish bull breeders don’t see the animals as I do. For them, el herradero is quite an occasion. The whole family turned out, people were taking photos with the bulls, and towards the end they started exchanging stories about the dramas of years gone by. The men laughed together. José smiled from behind his cigarette. His bright blue eyes were sparkling. Marta - José’s daughter and Guillermo’s girlfriend - was there of course. She wouldn’t miss it for the world. Her mother and father both breed bulls, on competing farms. I asked her if she’d continue the tradition. “Of course,” she said, “it’s my passion.”

Wearing a pretty top and big hoop earrings, Marta looked at once completely at home and completely out of place when she picked up one of the long branding-poles. She’s much shorter than all the men. She had to raise both her arms above her head to position the brand correctly, so that it pointed downwards and lay flat against the bull’s back. Despite my misgivings about the process of branding, I was still impressed that she could do it. “She’s been doing it since she was this big,” said one of the men, holding his hands remarkably close together.

“What, like eight years old?” I asked.

“No, no, before that.”

Marta led me by the hand and took me towards the next bull. Then, like teaching somebody to play golf, she put my hands on the stick she was holding and pressed them onto the bull’s side. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little willing. I wanted to know at the end of the day that I had done it. But, when it came to it, I didn’t want to do it. When the brand was hovering over the bull’s body, I didn’t want to press the hot metal onto its skin. I did it anyway.

Most bulls run straight towards the open gate when their heads are released, but one ran in the wrong direction, hurtling towards the people. Everybody quickly jumped behind one of the waist-high brick walls, except me. The bull was shooed towards the field without accident, but I spent most of my time behind the wall after that. The vet leant his clipboard against my wall, and explained the different brands to me. The two on the bull’s hind-quarters are the marking of the owner. It is branded with a 9 on its shoulder because it was born in 2019, and the number on its back identifies it individually. The male numbering starts at 1 every year, because the bulls are sold or killed. The females are often kept for breeding, so farmers carry the numbers over from the year before. I saw males numbered up to 18, and females up to 466. The Murubes have about 500 bulls on the farm at any given time.

The last animal – Female Number 466 – was especially small. So, the men decided to have a little fun with her. Even though this chute was invented 20 years ago, the Murubes only got theirs last year. Until now, they’ve always held the bulls down by hand. They decided to show me the old way with little Female 466. The gate to the field was closed, the cow was released, and she headed straight for Guillermo. He tried to grab her by the horns, but missed. Marta had a go. Marta got kicked in the shins. Guillermo whistled at the cow, and she whipped around and galloped towards him. He grabbed her by the horns and wrestled her to the ground. Guillermo pinned one of his knees against her neck while someone tied her back legs together. Everyone piled in to pin her down – always careful to avoid the hot brands.

“Rubia!” someone shouted, “Blondie!”

I was beckoned to come and help hold down the head.

When she was ready to be released, I was told to keep holding onto her ear until she was safely headed towards the gate. I knew that holding on wouldn’t hurt her, and that letting go might hurt me. So, I did my damnedest to hold on to that ear. Young José ran into the middle of the gateway, laughing. He was keen to do a stunt. I pointed her at him and let go. José leapt over the galloping cow at the last second. When I turned around, I received a curt handshake from a tall man wearing navy. He rewarded me with the triangle of fur and cartilage; a chunk of a bull’s ear. “Punch a hole in it and turn it into a key-ring.” he said, holding up his own set of keys to demonstrate, Blue-Peter style. I tucked my gruesome souvenir in my back pocket, and we all turned back to the house for a beer.

Read 'La Cobatilla - The Evening After Branding' for part 2.

Previous blog: This is Andalucia

** Subscribe below to receive email updates about new blogs **