Eve of the festival. I roamed the village in hope of finding the bull-running route. As the day came to a close, the shophouses began to slam shut their doors. But it wasn't the typical day-end for the shopkeepers. Thumps of furious hammering started to ring from one end of a popular alley. Curiosity brought me to an elderly man anxiously sealing up his shop front with wooden planks, like one would to the door of a deserted building. More and more thumps then rang through the streets. At the other end of the alley, poor Mr Calzedonia could only afford cardboard and plastic sheets. He is going to be sorry tomorrow.