By James Stone

Here I was again, on another of Colin's madcap schemes. I was in the Basque country, Pamplona to be exact. And yes, it was July and it was the running of the bulls. It was 7:30 in the morning and I scared.

I had read all the stories about deaths and injuries. It appeared that generally speaking, as long as you got an amicable bunch of bulls you would be OK. In 1980 a bull named Antioquio had killed two while a particularly ferocious animal by the name of Semillero had slain two locals in the 1940s. The fact that these bulls have gone down in folklore worried me. Would anyone come to my aid should a modern day equivalent take against me or would the crowd simply applaud? The last death was that of a young American in 1995 and I was concerned that the law of averages might decree that it was time for another.

As you can see, my imminent death was on my mind on that July morning. Goodness knows how Colin looked so cheerful as we waited for the bulls to be released. We were stood about a quarter of the way down the half-mile course of cobbled streets that led from the pen where the 12 bulls were kept to the city's bullring. I wanted to escape. What was I doing here? The inability to say no had much to do with it. I felt hemmed in and I most certainly was. Massive crowds were spilling over the balconies above me, cheering, laughing and singing.

The sound of the cheers of the crowd and the shrieks of the runners that came from up the road as the bulls were released froze me with fear.

It was only the sight of hundreds of runners charging up the street towards me, with a wide-eyed look that brought me back to life. Around me, others were beginning to jog up the street as the huge band of people came towards us. The sound of the bulls' hooves makes me almost sick to this day. And then they were upon us, a mass of people sprinted past us as we attempted to match them. Behind them, in a small and ferocious looking herd came the bulls charging straight down the middle of the street.

I had been told that sprinting was useless so I moved out to the side and jogged along as the beasts thundered past just three feet from me, pursuing two runners who quickly dived out of the way. The bulls moved at an incredible speed, far faster than any of the runners could manage. As the dusty herd careered up the street another bull tore past us, probably one with an eye for the highlight reel. We later heard that he had run amok in the bullring, but that thankfully, no one was badly injured. The cheers of the crowd as we jogged in to the amphitheatre a few minutes later were incredible and it was with a mixture of relief and exultation that I found Colin unscathed if slightly less buoyant than before.

"If I have any more ideas like that just tell me where to stick them," he said.

Our next adventure is a bird watching break in Scotland.