The Catalonians have voted to ban bullfighting. Within two years, the spectacle of man against beast will no longer be seen in the Plaza de Torres in Barcelona and other arenas in that semi-autonomous state. It drew passionate debate.

Having just witnessed an afternoon in the bullring of Madrid last week, in a sandy arena packed with 14 000 avid spectators, I watched in awe as a magnificent 680-kilogramme black bull charged from the chute into the sunlight and sighted the crimson cape.

On the third pass, the matador was caught by a sharp horn, gored in the thigh and hurled into the air, then butted along the ground with blood soaking his heavily embroidered suit of lights. To my dismay, he limped to the barricade (the horn having gone straight through his leg), called for his cape and, with courage that defied reason, went back to face the bull.

The outcomes varied unexpectedly. One proud animal caught the attention of some Spanish Caesar up in the important box, was given the wave of a green handkerchief and, in a spectacle that was pure theatre, a herd of white-and-black spotted bulls was released into the ring, bells around their necks clanging, telling their mate he was reprieved, before they all scampered out to a standing ovation. (Bull: 1, Man: 0)

Despite the skill and bravery and the thrilling magnificence of the pedigreed bulls bred to fight, the bull is usually killed and dragged out of sight to be butchered. I wish they did not do that. (It was a bit like shooting Joel Stransky after a great game.)

I am told the Portuguese do not kill their bulls. I am all for that.

Why should we care, situated on the other end of the world? Because we live in a global neighbourhood. The world cared about us and rallied behind the cause of a South African democracy.

Some causes are blatantly just. Some pivot on a 50/50 opinion. Is it alright to brutalise your animals (or your people)? Is it alright if it is your tradition?

Is it alright to slaughter wild elephants, tigers, rhinos, because big game is a traditional sport in that country? Or stoning a girl to death. Or executing miscreants at a soccer match. Tradition.

But as for the bullfights? I felt: “What a proud way to go.”

I reminded myself how, watching cattle herded and prodded into pens at the abattoir, with the stench of death in the air and the beasts’ nostrils flared and eyes wild with fear, they endured a traumatic ordeal long before the final coup de grâce; and having witnessed their plight, it took me a good three months before I could again order a steak or a hamburger.