Vaca das Cordas Pt.2 – The Main Event Revealed

“The The unthinkable had just happened. But why? Was I not calm and quiet, camera in hand, easing myself around the bull, and away from chaos? I thought I was safely out of harm’s way, but it wasn’t enough. He turned and looked straight at me.

01 – He Arrives

A day before, I awoke feeling the heat at 7:30am, it was already 36°C! I packed light and headed straight to cafe Confeitaria Havaneza, where I had met Anibal just days before, in anticipation to meet the team. Portugal offers up some of the best fresh orange juice I’ve ever had, so I sat patiently waiting with a tall glass and a head full of ideas. On such a bright, blue, beautiful day with the town already bustling with tourists, it’s hard not to relax, but I just couldn’t.
30 minutes slowly ticked by. I got anxious and messaged Antonio and his wife, fearing that I am already missing out on the first reveal. I needn’t worry though, as a few minutes later a rickety truck pulls up, and Anibal gets out to greet me warmly, with open arms.

I arrive at the stables on foot, surprised to see 2 dozen people standing outside waiting to catch a glimpse of the bull, as the small truck reversed into a loading bay. I didn’t know what to expect in all honesty, I thought there might be a crowd, but then again I was told that only people with access will get to see the bull proper. As far as I could see, the stables was two thirds empty of horses. Young horse riders drifted over to witness the star attraction arrive. Then out comes Natalia, a renowned municipality vet to assess the bull’s health, considering he will have been going through the motions, having travelled all the way up from southern Portugal. Trying to find the best location, I ended up standing on a stool, just about peering over a tall wooden wall built solely to navigate the bull into the stables. Natalia confirmed, that it was safe to release the bull.

The bull’s power was immense. The truck shook and strained as he shot out and pulled against the rope that had been held in place to guide him. Furiously trying to get the ropes off his snout, but he eventually relented, and made his way into the stables pulled on by handlers on the other end. With completely new, alien surroundings, he thrashed around for what felt like a few minutes, onlookers eagerly peered wherever they could through the gaps of the enclosure. Finally, he subsided. So I repositioned myself to get more attentive photos. With a fear of the unknown, he had retreated into the corner.

He edges into the corner, not knowing what awaits.

02 – The Day Begins

I started the next morning by going back to the stables, so that I may follow the truck to it’s release site closer to the centre of town. But first, there was a little prepping to do. An older looking slim gentleman, donned with a casual cap, had come over especially for this very moment. Two ropes had been tied to the bull’s head to ease him closer to the wooden wall, in order to work on his sharp horns. Blunting or even shaving off the tips of the horns, is considered a ‘humane’ act, carried out to protect the bull as well as other’s from serious injury, and possible bloodshed. Animal activists have argued that this controversial practice is, of course, painful and distressing to the poor bull. Luckily in this case, a steel capped leather sheath was placed and tied over the top of it’s horns and secured into place.

The beautiful narrow streets of Ponte de Lima were gently filling up with a colourful, care-free energy. Families securing their best position on the old roman bridge and riverbanks. A Dj on a roof, and bars were spilling out onto streets where locals were already building up their ‘courage’ for what was soon to come. Purple and yellow flags bearing the Vaca das Cordas event hung down from the top of every building, and on those little balconies stood families with old folk peering down at the crowds below. A long running joke in Portugal: While English speaking countries are loaded with CCTV cameras, the Portuguese are safe and sound, at the prospect of an older person staring out of their window. They know more than you think.

I got word that the small truck was on it’s way. As I followed it closer into town, people crowded around the truck in an instant, roaring, excitedly thumping on it’s side, peering through gaps for a chance glimpse of the anxious bull. In just a short, planned distance, we entered the staging site of Casa da Nossa Senhora da Aurora, a grand 14th century building with ornate gardens. But, we were here in the entrance with bull handlers and onlookers’ who were lucky enough to be inside. Photographs were taken, emotional speeches were made.

The tense moment finally came, when the truck door was lowered to the cobbled floor with a clank. A pause, a moment’s hesitation. The handlers tried to coax him out with taps to the side of the truck which suddenly thundered and creaked violently, the bull ran out into the sunlight. He spun wildly in all directions. Moved with staggering speed as he tried to find his bearings. The handlers instinctively backed away as one blow from the confused animal could cause serious harm. It was a brief chaotic scene, but eventually, several of the handlers darted around to pull the rope into line, guiding him toward the exit, to the roaring crowd that awaited beyond.

The roaring crowd beyond the gates await.

03 – The Run

Every split second was an opportunity not to be missed, though I barely had the space to squeeze ahead of the crowd without getting trampled on by an over excited, frantic crowd. I had an ulterior motive. I ran back from where the truck had come from, spun around a few corners and darted in and out of a huge crowd gathered near the town’s fountain. Some looked on with curiosity, others smirked, as I sprinted like a bat out of hell trying my best not to knock over any poor old sod to the ground, meaning I would miss my one planned opportunity.

Finally, I reached the church, and paused just long enough to take in the scene around me. People were perched in trees, pressed behind railings, and wedged into every corner and crevice they could find. Women and children leaned over balconies surrounding the square, barely able to contain their excitement.

I crouched down to get the best angle and waited. Surprisingly scarcely five seconds had passed before the first runners, those running ahead of the bull, came charging past the gates of the church. Then came the bull handlers in their striking purple t-shirts immediately followed by a blur of speed and power. The bull jerked his head in all directions as he stalled in front of the church. It took a good few minutes of planned coordination before the handlers could direct him. Ropes had passed through steel bars of the church window, with the bull, involuntarily pulled towards it. Once in place, the maddening crowd edged closer to cheer on two men that had climbed the bars above the secured animal, and poured red wine over his back. In a pagan point of view, this act may have been around fertility rituals, during Christian times however, more likely as a blessing with the blood of Christ, Corpus Christi.

The bull slips as wine was poured onto his back.

The bull jumped erratically, trying to throw off whatever hidden force had just landed itself on his back. But he began to slip on the wine soaked cobbled stones, being an environment not naturally suited to a bull. But he still managed to compose himself into a stance that suggested a fury was about to be released towards the nearest person ahead of him. His head then jerked backwards before any momentum could be gained, as handlers from the rear were controlling the bull via ropes attached around his head and horns. At that precise moment, I knew that the bull was about to be hauled around the church three times. An ancient ritual to remind faithful followers that there is one God in three persons. This was my chance to escape in the opposite direction.

It’s hard to peel myself away from the action that was unfolding at every second in front of me, but I relented, and sprinted towards the beautiful old 17th century library, just opposite the church. Luckily having already introduced myself to the receptionist and librarian days in advance, they wasted no time in letting me run up the stairs and into a hidden office at the front. A family was already positioned over the open window, so I quickly said “sorry” in Portuguese, realising then that I must’ve sounded like a wheezing madman. They saw my camera, my purple shirt, and brushed themselves aside with a smile.
“Muito obrigado” I replied as I threw myself into the gap.

I noticed how the handlers, as professional as ever in their coordination, seamlessly ran around the bull to guide him on his planned route around the church. However, the scene of the crowd was already manic. Many of the them fuelled with beer from hours previous, they tested their mettle by running past and slapping the bull on it’s back, whenever a seconds safety margin revealed itself. Then the bull would pause to regain his energy, the crowd would grunt a deep, chesty, war cry, similar to that of a heightened gorilla, to coax the tiring bull forward. He charged again, people scrambled up trees, while others collided with one another as they instinctively backed away. I then spotted a single tattooed person run out of the crowd slamming his shoulder into the side of the bull, toppling the animal, torso first into the pavement. Dazed, the bull spent no time in raising himself back up.

04 – The Arena

By this point a whole separate crowd had already formed a rectangular arena on the sandy banks of the river front, next to the arched roman bridge. So I thanked my neighbouring spectators and swiftly made my way down to the human growing arena, darting to edge my way in.

Over 100,000 people attended Vaca das Cordas, 2025.

The sun was starting to settle down beyond the trees, it’s light kissing the row of old buildings of the town in a soothing, warming glow. A moment of calm before the storm had enveloped me, giving me the time to adjust the settings on my camera to the surrounding environment. I saw that not a single gap could be found amongst the crowd of people, positioned far enough from the river side away from the bull, yet close enough to capture the event on their phones. A gathering had even found their way perching on top of a 14th century old tower.

The gentle calm was short lived. Rows of hysterical people came running under the bridge towards me. A huge cheer from the audience, then the bull, darted into view just behind the others. After much taunting, the bull was eventually surrounded, who span quickly in a couple of semi circles, to assess his bearings. Since the bull was already near the river, he retreated from the masses into the marsh, until he was knee deep in water. The view I then witnessed was magical. The waters around him flickered like specks of gold from the reflecting sun, pollen gently lifted and floated above the marsh giving the overall scene a fantasy-like effect. Then people edged into my peripheral vision, akin to a scene from a zombie apocalyptic film, grunting their war cry.

The bull moved quickly with immense power, while the handlers are ready to control him at any critical moment.

He moved cautiously forward, but once the bull had gained firm ground, he leapt out of the water with startling speed, causing everyone nearby to instinctively recoil. One man dropped his beer in sheer panic. In a split second after, the animal lowered his head with his horns pointed forward, and charged, catching me off guard yet I was lucky to have caught the scene in time. Someone had suddenly been hoisted and tossed into the air by his shorts, as if he were no heavier than a pebble, landing upside down onto the gravel. The momentum of 500kg of sheer power kept moving forward on the overturned man, who looked as if he just got trampled on. I gritted my teeth at the sight. People close by ran to his aid to help him back up onto his feet, though who knows what kind of injuries he had just sustained. I on the other hand, had no desire to evoke any kind of danger, seeing as I was there to capture, not participate. Even though I stood relatively close, I ensured that I was on the other side of the rowdy crowd, hoping the bull wouldn’t be provoked by my presence. I moved carefully, and quietly, capturing each burst shot in silent mode.

05 – Peaking Courage

For the audience around us, the spectacle was a complete joy, with cheers, shouts and cries all around. So much so that the mob around the bull become more energised and daring in their animalistic behaviour. With facial expressions contorted with anger and excitement, as if they were inciting a fight in a school playground. They ran past to slap the bull’s rump and attempt jumps over it. I was humbled to have seen the bull handlers intervening to many of these provoking actions, warning them to keep their cool. I was told a few days before, that if anyone were to go out of line to deliberately traumatise the bull, he was to be let loose on the offending person.

A huge crowd of eager spectators, at the ready, to never miss a moment.

Eventually the bull had been moved to come closer to the town’s sandy banks, and to the seated audience. Breathing space around him tightened, as a ring of people edged in closer and closer. I had a brief moment to focus on the bull himself. My closeup photos revealed that he was constantly salivating, evidence of a long exhausting day, he appeared drained and disoriented. I stared into his eyes, struck by the absence of any anger.

The tattooed man from earlier on in the day reemerged, shirtless, sidestepping around the bull to carefully choose his moment. A classic scene you would expect from the wild west. When the bull turned his attention away towards other nuances, the man sprinted towards the bull’s rear in an attempt to jump over it. Failing but instead, pushing the bull aside. He then retreated quickly back into the safety of the crowd.

The aggravated bull lowered his head and exploded forward with an unstoppable force. A man in his path was suddenly hurled 6 feet into the air, twisting as he flew. But the bull didn’t stop, he kept charging into the midst of the crowd tossing another person, and then another. I could barely comprehend what had just unfolded before my very eyes, as people shouted and scattered in every direction. Without hesitation, I eagerly jogged forward slipping past a few people just enough to get a glimpse of the bull standing there.

In less than a blink of an eye, he charged forward and struck me. Without a single moment to prepare for any impact, I simply had the words “oh” go through my head. I found myself scraped across the gravel expecting shock to overcome me. But typically like most photographers’ I first inspected my camera, amazingly intact. I noticed that the audience didn’t cheer straight away, but gasped, probably knowing that I was ‘just the innocent photographer’, I’d like to think anyway. A few bull handlers and someone from the crowd ran over to check on my safety. Blood started to seep from my elbows and knees, as if I had just survived a serious tumble from a bicycle accident. Thinking about it, at that moment a bike helmet would’ve been real handy. I tried to be macho about the incident, but the handler saw through it and smirked.
“Be careful. You’ve just had an experience.”

06 – It Comes to an End

Unsurprisingly, energy had sapped away from the bull. The crowd kept taunting but couldn’t get any more out of him other than warning charges of no more than 10 feet. Realising this, the handlers edged the ill-fated bull up the cobbled ramp back into town and through the streets. But not without taking a few photos to commemorate the end of the main event of Vaca das Cordas. Everyone clapped and cheered, and the shouting, had well and truly subsided. Day turned to night, into a long evening of music, food, and plenty of casual drinking. The town finally relaxes, with a longing to celebrate.

Vaca das Cordas is a tradition deeply woven into the fabric of Ponte de Lima, dating back to pagan times long before Christianity. Annually drawing people from across northern Portugal into a single festive gathering. Today, however, growing awareness of animal welfare has divided opinions on the treatment of the bull. In 1928 a law had been passed in Portugal to ensure that no bull is ever killed for entertainment during such events. The animal was instead, taken to an abattoir, it’s meat sold from local butcheries, well received by many of the town’s people.

Traditions tend to stay, though overtime, developments have been made. And as we progress into the future, more change is sure to follow.

Coloured wooden chips, beautifully arranged, spread throughout the old town in Ponte de Lima. Displayed after Vaca das Cordas.