The Spanish do it better.

Yuletide has double the intensity when it is cut in two.

Let the 25th be a day of family and fealty to the new Messiah. But cometh the twelfth night, let the Kings of Orient appear, bearing gifts, and let them take over the show.

Events leading to the 6th of January, the Epiphany, are a Spanish drum-roll of presents, parties and parades. You might even have the opportunity to dress up in blackface, throw tons of wrapped sugar sweets to adoring crowds, as you swan past on a golden float, channeling your inner Balthasar.

***

But I get ahead of myself.

I am in Seville – once the richest city on earth.

Thanks to a 1497 decree by the canny Queen Isabella, all gold and silver plundered in the New World was required to land in Seville, which is located a safe 80 kms inland up the Guadalquivir River.

Isabella 1; Pirates 0.

All the talent of Spain followed the money, and came south. This included both Cervantes and Velasquez. In truth, the city had, for centuries, been anointed as special – shaped by the attentions of Moors and Romans. Seville was never without a suitor.

Today, the city’s fortunes have taken a citrusy, touristy turn. Orange trees line the streets, and, in this first week of January, they are bending in ripeness. Fallen fruit is scattered on every pathway, and is quite the hazard.

Vitamin C may yet be the death of me.

Tourists wander the city, our heads skyward in the presence of such architecture. I saw one local man wearing a t-shirt saying ‘Tor-turista’ across his chest, and vainly hoped it was in irony. But I fear not. The 21st century exacts a price for all things enigmatic. I am part of this tax in Spain, and pay the equivalent every weekend at my home in Howth.

***

This year, Seville’s grand march for the Three Kings, or Cabalgata de Reyes, has been brought forward by a day, to January 4th, due to a bad forecast for the 5th. This is the first such re-scheduling, and it was a big decision. Thousands take part in parade, and hundreds of thousands line the streets. In the end, it was the thought of sodden children tramping for six hours which forced the organisers’ hands. I made my way to the Universidad de Sevilla for 4pm, where it all would begin. I met the city there.

***

The original Magi, or Three Wise Men, or Three Kings, were astronomy-loving priests of Persia. Despite the good story, they were unlikely to be kings, unlikely to be three in number, unlikely to hail from kingdoms across Africa and Asia, and unlikely to follow a star so accurate it could point to an outhouse.

The Bible is more a literary text than an historical one. Its stories are shaped for symbolism.

The Gospel story of the ‘Wise Men from the East’ is fundamental to the Nativity. Coming from the East meant they were not Jewish, and their gentile-homage amplified the importance of the boy Saviour.

So too the gifts they brought. Each had to be high-end, appropriate for the new King of the Jews. Gold and frankincense worked intuitively, being the jewels and perfume of the time. Myrrh was less obvious. It was an oil used to embalm the dead. But the Gospel loved its symbolic, foreshadowing power.

Tradition (aka myth and conjecture) has it that an African king, Balthasar, carries the myrrh to Jesus. The black king has long been a favourite of Spanish children, as he brings the most interesting gifts. This became evident as I saw the parade play out.

***

I had somehow, magically, drifted to the front as things began.

There came a cavalcade of wise men, on horses, with braided golden cloaks blowing in the wind. I counted 21 mounted Magi – dispersed in threes across the floats and pageantry, which snaked through the city.

They were the lions all had come to see.

Melchor, Gaspar y Balthasar commanded the streets. They were attended by hundreds of marching children, disguised as the cutest crowd of Bedouins. Balthasar, black and imperious, sat on the grandest of thrones, and heard the greatest applause.

He is an attentive King, available for last-minute requests from children regarding what gift they might receive. In Madrid, women have taken to throwing their panties at Balthasar.

But in Seville, he is thrown music. The massive brass band strikes up ‘Go West’ as he passes by, and the crowd loves it. Nice choice, for this man from the East.

Security is tight. That is to say, police men and women are clad in tight kit. They take photos of each other, and chat to the crowd. Spain blunts the blade of authority; perhaps because its culture is so founded in family.

All the time, from every float, sweets – boiled sugar, and soft jellies – are thrown to the onlookers. It is quite a thing to witness. Tons and tons of them. Children are on the shoulders of their fathers, and grannies push around me, gathering bounty from the ground, for the benefit of their grandkids.

***

As I returned home, traversing the parade-route several times after it had passed by, my shoes felt the result of all those boiled sweets and jellies, now mashed into the ground. For a moment, I tried to walk on my heels, as if to deny the uncanny, gummy effect.

But I quickly gave in to sticky feet. Turning the corner to my hotel, I became aware of the smell of sherbet, hanging on the night air. I allowed it fill my lungs. Soon, the scent of magic would be no more. And the rains were gathering in the West.