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On April 19 2025, I ended up in Berbegal, a small village in Aragón. Not for a show, not for work—just family, and a bit of curiosity. What I witnessed wasn’t planned, polished, or packaged for outsiders. It was Los Quintos—a tradition where young people turning 20 mark the step into adulthood with sweat, laughter, and collective effort.
No Ceremony, Just Commitment
It started early. Before anything new could begin, they had to bring down last year’s tree—the one that had stood tall in the main square since the previous edition. With shovels and rope, they dug around its base, loosened the earth, and pulled it down with sheer force and coordination. No machines. Just hands, shouts, and strain.
When the tree finally gave in and dropped,
the town ssquare cracked open with cheers—not for show, but for the moment.
Only after that was done did they head to the edge of the forest, where the new quintos—this year’s group—picked one of the tallest trees they could find. No shortcuts. No harvesters. Just axes, saws, and shared intent.
The process was loud, chaotic, and slow. Tools slipped. Advice flew. Some paused for a beer, wiped their foreheads, and jumped back in.
The Haul
Getting it to the square was its own mission. The trunk was loaded onto a tractor trailer—barely. People jumped on top like it was a moving monument. Others walked beside, steadying, shouting, singing. Music came from someone’s phone. Beers were passed around. It was messy, loud, real.
The Uprising
The final task: raising the tree upright in the square. No mayor with scissors. No speeches. Just rope, coordination, and persistence. It went up the way things do in tight communities—imperfectly, together. No rehearsals. No leaders. Just instinct and shared strength.
Why It Mattered
What hit hardest wasn’t the tradition itself, but how present everyone was. No one was behind a screen. No one posed. It was sunburnt faces, dirt under nails, and a rhythm older than most of us.
Leaving Tired, Leaving Grateful
I left Berbegal dusty and a little burnt, in the best way. That kind of tired doesn’t come from watching—it comes from witnessing something built by hands, not planned by programs.
Berbegal’s a small place on paper. But on April 19, it felt like the center of something that still matters.
No agenda. No slogans. Just people keeping something alive—on their own terms.