THE BULLFIGHT:IT TAKES about 20 minutes to kill the bull. There are three stages to the spectacle, which is quite elaborate. During the first one, the matador enters the arena with his entourage – three banderilleros, a sword carrier and two picadors on horseback.

The arena is circular, like an old Roman gladiator venue, with highly banked seating.

This evening, it is half full, sprinkled with tourists and with as many women, who are fluttering fans to battle the heat, as men, many of whom, with their expensive straw hats, pass the evening rolling chunky cigars around their mouths.

Once the bullfighters have presented themselves to the local dignitaries, the bull enters.

The matador and his banderilleros perform a few passes before one of the picadors entices the bull to charge at his horse, who is protected by a bulky, medieval-style cage, known as a peto, a ruse which enables the picador to lean over the bull and lance him about a third of the way along his back. The charge also gives the matador clues as to the bull’s favoured side.

For the second stage, the matador and picadors depart, allowing the banderilleros to draw the bull into another series of charges, three of which they use to spear him with pairs of coloured spikes, a bit longer than a police officer’s baton, which hang flopping off him like cocktail sticks. A brass band, incongruously, breaks into jaunty music at various stages.

By now, the bull has a red sash of blood streaming down the sides of its body, about two feet wide. If he’s really weak and tired, sometimes his front legs will cave in after a charge, causing him to stumble and fall onto his knees.

You can see him casting around the arena, confused by the flurry of provocations, the underside of his belly heaving from exhaustion.

It’s grotesque. It’s revolting, but it’s difficult not to be captivated by the last, Spartan piece of combat.

For six or seven minutes the matador, alone in the centre of the ring with his red cape, a study in sang-froid, performs his strange dance with the half-tonne bull, inviting him to pass by his body in a series of choreographed manoeuvres, sometimes turning his back to the bull to receive the crowd’s acclaim.

Finally, the foreplay over, the matador goes to the side of the arena to receive his sword, which he points, his arm taut and stretched out, at the bull, a few feet away, luring him into a final charge, which will enable him to stab the bull fatally between the shoulder blades.

Alas, it is not a tidy end. Tonight, of the six bullfights, none, save the last two, conclude quickly.

Some matadors stab the bull too far down his back, forcing them to break off and to try to repeat the murderous blow again a couple of times.

Some end with a banderillero hacking the bull on the ground bucking in spasms, 10 or 12 times with a knife.

Such grubby performances draw hoots of derision from the crowd, who are surprisingly critical.

The last act is always identical, though.

The dead bull is strapped on to two horses.

They pull him out of the arena in a sweep, like they’re dragging a plough, leaving behind a trail of blood and rounds of applause.