The night there were fires everywhere
A glimpse into one of my favorite festivals in Spain
Fire is such a powerful element.
It’s a source of heat that fuels creation, yet it can also be a source of destruction.
As someone who lived in California, I’ve seen firsthand the devastation wildfires can have. Surprisingly, over the past few years of living in Jaén, Spain, fire has taken on a different meaning in my life.
During Noche de San Antón, fire is used to celebrate.
Every January, the citizens of Jaén and surrounding pueblos gather together to honor San Antón, the patron saint of animals. Since 1984, the city has put on a 10 km race where people race up and down the many hills that make up Jaén.
During and after this race, people also gather around massive bonfires — and I’m not talking about the kind you sing camp songs around and roast marshmallows over.
These lumbres, or bonfires, are as tall as buildings. In fact, for many years, the objective of each barrio was to build the tallest bonfire — a competition taken so seriously that people would steal branches and twigs from rival lumbres.
This year, 2026, I was there for the iniciación — the lighting of the lumbre.
It’s a fascinating process to witness. There in the middle of the street lay this massive pile of twigs and branches, still and dormant like a sleeping beast.
Then the beast gets poked with a flame. At first, the fire is no match for it — the beast consumes it, digests it, like a midnight snack.
But the people are persistent, poking the beast at different points, searching for the spot that will finally take. It’s a slow start. The flames glow but won’t sustain — like a light flickering off.
Eventually, the beast can no longer consume the fire, and it lets the flames take over. The fire becomes a beast of its own.
Ironically, Jaén has a legend of a lizard or dragon that once lived in the city — perhaps its spirit is awakened when the lumbre finally holds its fury.
The fire doesn’t so much spread as shoot upward, roaring toward the night sky.
When that happens, my eyes light up with amazement — but I have to quickly turn away because the heat latches onto my skin. The crowd surrounding the lumbre all step back in unison. Many keep their backs turned to the fire because the heat feels good on a cold winter night, yet gazing directly at it is too intense.
Once the fire reaches a good, steady burn, the lumbre becomes a social setting.
Sometimes people dance around the fire, keeping the tradition of mencholes alive. But most are talking, laughing, and eating rosetas — popcorn.
It’s an opportunity to see people you haven’t stayed in contact with. Some years I’ve run into people I know. Other years, my boyfriend and I just hold hands and watch the red embers dance in the air.
My name is Kiersten, and I’m a freelance travel writer from California who has called Spain her home for the past 6 years.
I’ve written for various travel brands to help them create content that stands out and engages readers.
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