Sometimes the Detour is the Destination

Flaming Bull Festival in Morella (Bou Embolat)

A Train Delay That Changed Everything

If it hadn’t been for a sudden train delay in Vinaròs, Spain, we never would have found Morella. It wasn’t on our itinerary. In fact, we hadn’t even heard of it. But after waiting several hours in an overcrowded train station, surrounded by bleary-eyed twenty-somethings returning from the party island of Ibiza, we began to realize we had two choices: spend the night on the tiled floor of a transport hub that smelled vaguely of beer and sunburn… or find another way forward.

While my son retreated into a book, my husband was scanning the horizon like he might will a train into existence, I sat cross-legged on the floor and teetering between optimism and mild despair. So I pulled out my old-school Spain travel guide. I wasn’t expecting miracles, just an alternative to what was rapidly becoming a low point in our five-week European adventure.

That’s when I found it. A small entry tucked between better-known destinations: Morella. A walled hilltop town, medieval in appearance, steeped in military history, and according to the guidebook, host to a unique local festival held only once every six years. I checked the date, and as luck would have it, this was the year.

I nudged my husband. “What if we just… rented a car and went to Morella?” I pointed to the page like I was revealing a winning lottery number. “There’s even a car rental desk here at the station. Two, actually.”

Even if the trains resumed (they wouldn’t), no train went to Morella. If we wanted to get there, it had to be by road. We took that as a sign.

Road Trip to Morella: Spain’s Hidden Medieval Gem

Keys in hand, backpacks in the boot, and an actual paper map in my lap, we set off, having never driven in Spain before and hoping the car’s clutch wasn’t going to be our undoing. Our first challenge came at the toll booth, where feeling falsely emboldened, we chose the automated lane. Unfortunately, it didn’t speak English. We didn’t speak Spanish. It asked us something we didn’t understand, and the only thing we could offer in response was panic. We backed up awkwardly, waved the locals around us, and shuffled over to a booth with a human inside. Between gestures, our guidebook map, and a shared tolerance for awkward grins, we communicated our destination. The toll agent nodded, took our coins, and lifted the gate. We were off!

As we left the coast and entered Spain’s dry, rugged interior, the landscape shifted from parched to parched-and-hilly. For over an hour, we wound our way through quiet, sun-bleached terrain. Occasionally, we’d pass a farmhouse or a sheep. It was, by every measure, the road less travelled.

Then, just as our son asked for the fourth time how much longer it would be, we rounded a bend and there it was.

Morella, Spain

First Impressions of Morella, Spain

Morella.

Perched high on a hill like a crown, flanked by soft valleys and jagged outcrops, it looked less like a town and more like a medieval film set that had been left untouched by modernity. The castle ruins caught the late-afternoon sun like a beacon. Everything, the sandstone walls, the warm-toned rooftops, the sheer drop of the cliffside, glowed with the kind of light you can’t photograph well but will remember forever. We were giddy. It was more than promising; it was perfect.

We found a parking spot just outside the old-town gate and hauled our bags into the village. The town was quiet. Surprisingly quiet. Perhaps it was the hour or the day of the week. We had no reservation but managed to find a room at a small hotel where no one spoke English, and our collective Spanish hovered somewhere between “tapas” and “gracias.” Still, we managed. We got directions, mostly through mime and repetition, and went out in search of food.

As we made our way down the main street, something struck us. The sidewalks, which ran under the buildings' overhanging roofs, were all barricaded from the road by thick wooden planks. It gave the place an odd, Wild West feel as if at any moment, a saloon brawl or shootout might erupt. We made a note of it, but only in passing. At the time, it seemed like quirky small-town infrastructure. That would change later.

The town itself was charming. Local bakeries, small tapas bars, shops selling woollen goods and wine all with a distinctively Spanish feel, but none of the polish or pretense of a place used to catering to tourists. In fact, we got the distinct impression that we were the only tourists in town. It didn’t feel secret. It felt untouched.

Finding Paella in Morella, Spain

Finding Paella and Local Flavours in Morella

Our first meal in Morella was found down a narrow alleyway just off the main street. The kind of place with no English menus and no apologies for it. The chalkboard listed items we could only half-translate, “pollo,” “arroz,” “verdures”, so we pointed, ordered one dish for the three of us, and hoped for the best.

What arrived was not just better than expected, it was a feast. A massive, silver-rimmed paella dish, still steaming, filled with perfectly seasoned chicken, smoky rice, and just enough vegetables to convince ourselves it counted as a balanced meal. It was the kind of meal you don’t so much eat as surrender to. We devoured it. No polite small talk. No bites held back. When we finally looked up, dazed and glowing with post-paella contentment, the streets outside where hushed. Lights glowed faintly in doorways, and for a town that was apparently about to unleash flaming bulls, it seemed almost absurdly peaceful.  With full bellies and a long unexpected travel day now behind us, we decided to head off to bed and rest up for what Morella had to offer us tomorrow.

Exporing Morella Castle and Ancient History

The next morning, with our nerves rested and the town still fresh to our eyes, we set off to explore the castle that had been looming over us since our arrival. My husband, ever the history enthusiast, looked like a kid en route to a medieval candy store. Our son, still not quite over the paella coma, trudged along behind us. At one point he climbed a low wall, announced he was a knight defending his kingdom, and promptly got bored. It was hard to tell if he was more interested in the history or in getting back to lunch.

The castle at Morella is exactly what you'd hope for in a Spanish hilltop fortress: old, dramatic, and clinging to the edge of a cliff like it’s refusing to retire. Built on a chunk of rock that’s been considered prime real estate since the Neolithic era, it’s been occupied by just about everyone: Greeks, Romans, Visigoths, Moors, Christians. Think of it as a centuries-long game of military Airbnb.

Strategically, it makes sense. You can see everything from up there, the valleys, the surrounding hills, probably even your neighbour’s dinner if you squint. And while various armies fought to control it over the centuries, nowadays it's mostly claimed by tourists in sensible footwear and puffed-out dads pointing at battlements.

We climbed the uneven stairs, explored weathered stone rooms, and read signs we only half-understood. The view from the top was worth every step: the entire town stretched out below us like a movie set, the surrounding countryside rolling on forever. I could see why everyone wanted to conquer it. I also now understood why no one wants to walk back down without a snack break.

Afterwards, we wandered back into the village, poked around shops, and noted the bullring, still very much in use, though thankfully not that day. We embraced the idea of a siesta before returning to the same little alleyway restaurant for what quickly became our signature order: chicken paella. Same server. Same bliss.

The Flaming Bull Festival in Morella (Bou Embolat)

And that’s when the real spectacle began. As we sat back, content once more with our meal, I remembered those odd wooden barricades from the day before. They no longer seemed like quirky infrastructure, but more like a warning, the kind you only recognize too late. Then the sound hit us: drums, horns, music rolling down the narrow streets, shaking the quiet air awake. The town had stirred, and so did our curiosity.

As we made our way to the main street, the bands grew louder, echoing down the narrow stone street. Families climbed the barricades, settling in with the casualness of people who’d done this their whole lives. At first, it all seemed harmless. The men in white and red rolled out their wheelbarrow bull, a rough wooden contraption with curved horns. Children squealed as they were chased, giggling and darting between the barricades. Then came the older kids, the bull’s horns now fitted with sparklers that spat light and smoke. It was charming in a slightly pyromaniacal way.

“That must be it,” I said. “Their version of the running of the bulls. Cute.”

We relaxed. We even chuckled. And then the horn blast came. Loud. Guttural. The crowd surged as if hit by a shockwave. Suddenly, everyone knew something we didn’t.

The first real bull charged into view. Massive, fast, its horns rigged with some kind of sheathed contraption that flared with balls of fire. The flames spat and roared with every shake of its head, lighting up the night. And behind it came another!  The heat rolled off them as they thundered past, so close you could smell the singed hair. Meanwhile, the locals leaned in casually, as though this were no more alarming. Than waiting for a bus. The street was barely wide enough for a car, and here they were, tons of flaming muscle, charging within arm’s reach.

I grabbed the wooden barricade with one hand and my son with the other as the bulls tore past, hooves striking sparks on the cobblestones. The crowd screamed, cheered, and leaned dangerously close. This wasn’t cute. And it definitely wasn’t controlled.

We might have survived unscathed had one bull not doubled back. Instead of heading for the ring at the end of the street, it slipped through a gap in the barricades and reappeared on the sidewalk, “our” sidewalk.

Instinct took over. In one motion, I shoved my son sideways, trying to push him out of the bull’s path, just as someone behind yanked me backwards through an opening. The bull thundered past, flames licking the night, and for a few terrifying seconds, I had no idea where my husband or son were.

When I spotted them, my son wide-eyed across the street, my husband hustling from another barricade, the relief lasted all of two seconds. Because the bull was coming back again!

Spanish Hospitality

Chaos, Barricades, and Balcony Hospitality

We scrambled up the nearest crowded barricade, clawing for any handhold. In my panic, I grabbed what I thought was a support post, only to discover it was a local man’s … anatomy! He yelped, I screamed, and somehow he shifted aside on the overcrowded barricade to make room for us. To this day, I’m thankful my Spanish wasn’t good enough to translate what he told his friends about what just happened.

We climbed off the barricade, but just when we thought we were out of danger, another bull came careening down the street. We spotted a ladder leading up to a balcony. We climbed, assuming it was public, only to find ourselves on someone’s private balcony. But instead of shooing us out, the family welcomed us, pressing food and drink into our hands as if we were distant cousins who’d just dropped by mid-stampede. From our perch, we watched more bulls charge down the street, the barricades rattling, the flames glowing against the stone walls.

By the time we climbed back down, still buzzing with adrenaline, the streets were quiet again. We ducked into a bar to decompress. That’s when my son turned to me and asked, “Mum, why did you push me in front of the bull with flaming horns?”

“What? I pushed you out of the way!”

“Well, that may have been your intention,” he said with a grin, “but I came eye-to-eye with a flame-throwing bull, so… that’s a moment I won’t soon forget.”

It’s his favourite version of the story. Mine is that I saved him. The truth, as always, is somewhere in the chaos.

Back in our hotel room, none of us said much. My husband lay silently staring at the ceiling, my son kept replaying the moment in slow motion, and I sat there Googling “bull festivals Spain: how often do people die?” “Well,” my son finally said, “that was… something.” And that was the understatement of the trip.

What is the Sexenni Festival in Morella?

Only later, over coffee in a quiet corner of the village the next day, did we finally ask the obvious question: What exactly had we just witnessed?

As it turns out, Morella’s flaming bull spectacle isn’t some one-off village stunt or eccentric summer tradition, it’s part of something much bigger. Every six years, the town holds the Sexenni de Morella, a nine-day festival to honour the Virgin of Vallivana, believed to have spared the town from plague back in the 1600s. In gratitude, Morella vowed to mark the occasion every sixth year with pageantry, processions, dancing guilds, and yes, bulls with literal fire on their heads. The event we’d stumbled into, called the bou embolat, is part of that centuries-old promise. Whether it’s cultural pride, divine obligation, or just a particularly intense form of local entertainment, it’s taken very seriously.

And here we were, clueless Canadians, dodging flaming livestock like it was just another Tuesday night.

Morella vs. The Rest of Spain: Why This Detour Stands Out

In the days that followed, we continued on with our trip finally making it to Valencia, then on to Seville with its orange-blossom air and shaded plazas, followed by Gibraltar, where we were unceremoniously chased by monkeys on the Rock like it was some sort of wildlife-themed slapstick sketch. From there, we wandered through the medieval maze of Toledo, El Greco’s old stomping grounds, and a hilltop town that almost gave Morella a run for its money, before eventually making our way to Paris, and then into Germany to visit family. Over five weeks, we covered a lot of ground. Ate a lot of bread. Argued about directions. Got better at packing and worse at resisting pastry.

But even with all that, nothing quite matched the absurd, accidental brilliance of Morella.

It hadn’t been planned. It hadn’t even been in the realm of “maybe.” If the trains hadn’t stalled that day, if we hadn’t been stuck in that hot little train station full of hungover backpackers, if I hadn’t flipped open a guidebook out of desperation, we never would’ve known that Morella existed. Let alone that we’d be there, just hours later, climbing medieval barricades and dodging bulls with flaming horns like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And to think, if that train had arrived on time, our story would have been about nothing more memorable than sweaty backpacks and missed connections.

Medival towns of Spain

Final Thoughts: When Travel Detours Become the Story

Morella wasn’t just a detour. It was the story of the trip. The one that comes up whenever someone asks, “What’s the wildest thing that’s ever happened to you while travelling?” It’s the one we still tell with dramatic hand gestures and overlapping interruptions around dinner tables, long after the photos have been buried in old phones and half-filled albums. It’s the one my son never tires of retelling, especially the part where his mother heroically shoved him into the path of a charging bull on fire.

Travel rarely goes exactly to plan. And thank God for that. Because the truth is, most of the best moments don’t happen when everything goes right. They happen when the train doesn’t come, and you’re forced to do something unexpected. Something mildly reckless. Something that might involve rental cars and toll booths and, if you're particularly lucky, flaming bulls.

Morella gave us that story. And we didn’t even see it coming.

Your turn...

I’ve told you mine, flaming bulls and all. Now it’s your turn: what supposed disasters ended up as the best stories in your own travels?” Leave in the comments below.