The Man with the Anchor: A Story Carved in Jaén

A dramatic detail from the choir stalls of Jaén Cathedral: Pope Clement I is thrown from a bridge with an anchor around his neck, a reference to his martyrdom in the late 1st century after exile to the Crimea on the Black Sea.

Walk into the choir of Jaén Cathedral and your eye is drawn, sooner or later, to a small but striking scene. A man is being forced from a bridge. Around his neck hangs an anchor. Below him, the water churns. The figures pushing him lean forward with effort; there is no hesitation in their movement.

It is a moment frozen in wood—but it tells a story that began almost two thousand years ago. The man is Pope Clement I.

A Leader in the First Century

Clement lived in the late 1st century (around 35–99 AD), at a time when Christianity was still a small and often mistrusted movement within the Roman Empire. He is traditionally regarded as one of the earliest leaders of the Christian community in Rome—often listed as the fourth bishop of Rome, after Saint Peter.

This was not yet a powerful institution. On the contrary, Christians were viewed with suspicion because they refused to participate in Roman religious rituals tied to loyalty to the state. For someone in a visible leadership role, that made life dangerous.

Exile to the Edge of the Empire

According to early Christian tradition, Clement’s influence led to his arrest during the reign of the Roman emperor Trajan (98–117 AD). Instead of being executed in Rome, he was banished to the distant region of the Crimea, on the northern shores of the Black Sea—then a harsh and remote frontier of the empire.

There, he was put to work among prisoners, many of them condemned to forced labour in quarries. Yet exile did not silence him. Clement continued to preach and support those around him, and his presence reportedly strengthened a growing Christian community even in these difficult conditions.

The Anchor and the Sea

For the Roman authorities, this was the opposite of what exile was meant to achieve. Rather than disappearing, Clement had become a source of influence far from Rome.

The response was final. He was condemned to death in a way that would leave no trace. An anchor was tied around his neck, and he was thrown into the sea to drown—most likely sometime toward the end of the 1st century, around 99 AD.

This detail—the anchor—is what fixed his story in memory. It became his unmistakable symbol, allowing people to recognize him in art across Europe, even centuries later.

A Story That Reached Jaén

The carving in Jaén is part of that long journey. By the time these choir stalls were created, likely in the early modern period, the story of Clement had become part of a shared visual language across Catholic Europe. Artists did not need to explain it. A man, an anchor, and water were enough.

Even today, without knowing the name, the scene remains powerful. It shows a moment of force and finality—but also something else: the attempt to silence a voice by removing it completely.

Yet the story endured. From Rome to the Crimea, and from there across Europe to places like Jaén, it survived not just in texts, but in images—quietly carved, waiting to be understood.

Where Families Camp in the Middle Ages: Easter at Graefenthal

Just across the Dutch–German border, near Goch, something remarkable happens every Easter weekend. The quiet grounds of Kloster Graefenthal — a monastery founded in 1248 — transform into a living medieval world.

From April 4 to 6, 2026, the site once again hosts its well-known Easter market, one of the largest medieval-themed events in the region.

But this is not just a market. It is something far more immersive.

A Market That Feels Like a Village

At first glance, you will see the familiar elements: wooden stalls, craftsmen, food, music. But then something shifts. Behind the market, beyond the crowds, entire medieval encampments appear — tents, campfires, cooking pots, banners moving in the wind.

Here, history is not displayed. It is lived.

Groups of reenactors recreate daily life in the Middle Ages: cooking over open fire, practicing archery, forging metal, or preparing for mock battles. Visitors can walk straight into these camps, talk to the participants, and even try activities themselves.

And most striking of all: many participants do not come alone. They come as families.

Families Who Live the Past

What makes Graefenthal special is not only the setting, but the people. Entire families — parents, children, sometimes even grandparents — dress in historically inspired clothing and spend the weekend together in their camp.

For them, this is not a performance. It is a shared passion.

Children grow up learning how to bake bread over fire, how to sew garments, how to handle simple tools. Evenings are spent around flickering flames, with music, storytelling, and a quiet sense of stepping outside modern time.

It is easy to forget, standing there, that you are only a few kilometres from the present.

A Wider Culture Across Borders

Graefenthal is part of a much larger European culture of medieval reenactment — a network of groups who travel from event to event throughout the year.

In Germany, similar events can be found at places like Manderscheid Castle, Waltrop (Gaudium festival), and Bad Rothenfelde.

In the Netherlands, you can encounter this world at the monastery site of Klooster Ter Apel or during events at Kasteel Teylingen, where reenactment groups set up similar encampments.

Belgium has its own tradition, with festivals in cities like Bouillon and Bruges, often linked to historical pageants and processions.

Across all these places, the pattern is the same: people gathering not just to watch history, but to inhabit it — if only for a few days.

Why It Matters

In a world of screens and speed, these events offer something rare: slowness, craft, and shared experience across generations.

The medieval market at Graefenthal is, on the surface, a festive outing — a day of music, food, and spectacle. But beneath that lies something deeper: a quiet movement of people who choose, again and again, to step into the past together.

Not because they have to. But because, for a moment, it feels more real.

Myth, Memory, and Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer

The two Marys in their boat, symbolizing the legendary arrival of early Christians on this shore.

A Story from the Sea

At the edge of the Camargue, where land fades into marsh and sea, stands a church that looks like a fortress. It is here that local tradition places a striking beginning.

The story does not start here, however, but far to the east, in the lands of Palestine. In the years following the death of Christ, his followers were increasingly under pressure—from both Roman authorities and local opposition. According to tradition, a small group of women and early believers were forced to flee. They were placed in a fragile boat, without sail or rudder, and cast out to sea.

Carried by currents rather than by human control, the boat drifted across the Mediterranean until it reached this remote coastline. On board were Marie Jacobé and Marie Salomé, close relatives of Jesus, and, in many versions, Mary Magdalene. With them was also a woman named Sara, whose story would take on a life of its own in the centuries that followed.

Whether history or legend, the power of the story lies in the journey itself: a passage from persecution to arrival, from uncertainty to landfall—here, at the edge of Europe.

The fortified church of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer.

A Sanctuary of Stone and Presence

The church reflects both danger and refuge. Built as a defensive structure against attacks from the sea, it offered physical protection in turbulent times. Inside, however, the atmosphere softens. The Romanesque forms, filtered light, and quiet spatial rhythm create a sense of inward movement.

Above the altar, the two Marys are shown in a boat, a simple image that captures the essence of the story. Below, in the crypt, stands Sara—known as Sara la Noire—covered in layers of cloaks, jewelry, and offerings brought by pilgrims. These gifts are acts of gratitude or hope, not decoration.

The statue of Sara la Noire, covered in offerings from pilgrims—an enduring symbol of listening, protection, and devotion.

Sara’s origins are uncertain, but her meaning today is clear. She is especially revered by Roma and travelling communities, who see in her a figure of recognition and protection. She has been described as one who listens—a presence for those who feel unheard.

Ritual, Memory, and Mystery

Each year, especially in May, the town fills with pilgrims. Statues of the saints are carried from the church to the sea, and often into the water itself, recalling their legendary arrival. These processions are not simply reenactments; they are lived experiences, marked by strong emotion and a sense of shared participation.

Throughout the church, ex-votos—small offerings left behind—tell personal stories of illness, survival, and gratitude. Together, they form a quiet testimony to the human need for meaning, connection, and hope.

Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer resists simple explanation. It is a place where legend, history, and personal experience merge, and where the mystery itself becomes part of its power. People arrive out of curiosity or belief, but many leave with the sense that something has shifted—however slightly—within them.

The Celts: Europe’s First Cultural Network

Image created with AI

When we travel slowly across Europe — as many culture lovers do — we begin to notice something curious. Landscapes change, languages shift, cuisines evolve. Yet certain patterns return: hilltop settlements, spiral motifs, sacred springs, warrior legends. Part of this shared layer goes back to a people who never built an empire and never wrote their own history, but who shaped Europe in lasting ways: the Celts.

A Cultural Europe Before Political Europe

The Celts were not one nation. They were a wide network of tribes who shared languages, beliefs, artistic styles and ways of life. At their height, they spread from Ireland to Anatolia in modern Turkey.

What they created was something like a cultural Europe long before any political unity existed. They travelled, traded, fought, and mixed with local populations. Rather than replacing earlier cultures, they blended with them. This is why so many regions in Europe still feel both different and strangely connected.

From Alpine Origins to a Continent

Their earliest roots lie in the Alpine world of the early Iron Age. These were skilled farmers, miners and traders. Salt, copper and tin brought wealth. Trade connected them to the Mediterranean, and prosperity encouraged expansion.

Over centuries, Celtic groups moved into Gaul, Iberia, the British Isles and Central Europe. They helped shape early versions of cities that would later become Paris, Lyon, Vienna and London. In many places, hybrid cultures emerged. In Spain, for example, Celtiberian societies combined Celtic and Iberian traditions.

Europe, even then, was a layered landscape.

Warriors, Poets and Craftsmen

Ancient writers often focused on Celtic warfare, but archaeology reveals a more complex society. The Celts valued beauty, craftsmanship and storytelling. Their jewellery and weapons were highly sophisticated. Poets and musicians held respected roles. Druids acted as religious leaders, judges and teachers.

Trade and craftsmanship were prestigious paths. Metalworkers and merchants enjoyed status close to that of elites. This world encouraged individuality and self-expression — something that still resonates in Europe’s regional cultures today.

Why They Never Built an Empire

Despite their vast reach, the Celts never formed a unified state. Loyalty remained local. Rivalries between tribes were frequent. When Rome expanded, Celtic resistance was fierce but fragmented.

The Romans brought organisation, discipline and long-term strategy. Gradually, most Celtic regions were absorbed. Yet conquest did not erase local traditions. Instead, Roman structures blended with Celtic cultures, creating new forms of society across Europe.

A Legacy That Never Disappeared

By the early centuries of our era, Celtic political power had faded. But their cultural influence remained. Languages survived in Ireland, Scotland, Wales and Brittany. Myths and artistic traditions shaped medieval Europe. Place names, landscapes and festivals still carry their imprint.

The Celtic story reminds us that Europe was never built only by empires. It grew through movement, exchange and cultural mixing. In that sense, the Celts were among the first to live the reality of a connected yet diverse continent.

If we travel with curiosity, we can still see their traces — not as isolated ruins, but as part of a shared European memory.

Further Reading

• Barry Cunliffe — The Ancient Celts

• Miranda Aldhouse-Green — The Celtic World

• John Collis — The Celts: Origins, Myths and Inventions

• Archaeological guides to major Celtic sites such as Hallstatt, Bibracte and Numantia

The Many Beginnings of Christianity

Image created with AI

When you travel through Europe, Christianity is everywhere. It is in the skyline of almost every town, in the rhythm of the calendar, in music, art, law, and even in the way communities organise care and solidarity. From the Camino routes to the monasteries of Cluny, from small village chapels to the great cathedrals of France, Germany, and Spain, Christianity shaped Europe for more than a thousand years.

To understand Europe, we need to understand how this religion developed. And that story is far more complex than many people assume.

One of the historians who has helped reshape this conversation is Elaine Pagels. Her work shows that early Christianity was not a single, unified movement. It was a landscape of competing ideas, interpretations, and spiritual paths. What we now call “Christianity” emerged only after centuries of debate, conflict, and adaptation.

In the first centuries, different groups tried to answer the same questions. Who was Jesus? What did his message mean? Some focused on faith, authority, and community. Others emphasised inner transformation and spiritual insight. Some believed the kingdom of God would soon arrive in dramatic historical events. Others saw it as a deeper awakening within the human person.

This diversity should not surprise us. Europe itself grew in the same way: through disagreement, exchange, and gradual consolidation. Cultural unity often came later, and rarely without conflict.

The early Christians also lived in a harsh and dangerous world. They were a small and vulnerable movement inside the Roman Empire. War, repression, and sudden political change shaped their experience. The destruction of Jerusalem in the first century forced followers of Jesus to rethink their identity and their future. In this environment, religious stories were not only spiritual. They were also tools for survival.

One of Pagels’ most striking insights concerns the development of ideas about good and evil. In earlier Jewish tradition, the figure of Satan played only a limited role. Over time, however, this figure became a powerful symbol of opposition. Religious language helped communities define boundaries: who belonged, and who did not.

Throughout European history, this pattern repeated itself. Christians divided among themselves. Catholics and Protestants fought devastating wars. Each side believed it defended truth against evil. These conflicts shaped the political and cultural map of Europe as much as kings and armies did.

Yet there was always another current. Alongside institutions and conflict, there were voices that focused on inner transformation. Some early Christian texts speak about discovering a deeper reality within oneself. This tradition echoes later in European mysticism, in monastic life, and in spiritual movements that emphasise experience rather than authority.

Eventually, a structured church emerged. It created stability, built institutions, founded universities and hospitals, and helped organise European societies. Without this framework, Europe would look very different today. At the same time, this process also narrowed the range of accepted beliefs. Many early voices disappeared from view.

When we travel through Europe now, we see the result of this long evolution. Every cathedral, pilgrimage route, and festival reflects centuries of debate, hope, fear, and imagination. Christianity did not simply shape Europe. It evolved together with Europe.

Understanding this makes travelling richer. The places we visit are not only monuments of faith. They are traces of the human search for meaning, community, and belonging.

Perhaps this is one of the deepest lessons Europe offers: culture is never fixed. It is always becoming.

Further reading

• Elaine Pagels – The Gnostic Gospels

• Elaine Pagels – The Origins of Satan

• Elaine Pagels – Revelations: Visions, Prophecy, and Politics in the Book of Revelation

• Diarmaid MacCulloch – Christianity: The First Three Thousand Years

• Tom Holland – Dominion

Oerol and the Line Between Audiance and Act

Oerol — where the line between audience and act grows a fine beard and puts on a top hat.

Oerol Festival

Darwin’s Cathedral: Seeing Religion Through an Evolutionary Lens

Image created with AI.

When we travel across Europe, it is almost impossible not to notice the presence of religion. Cathedrals shape skylines. Small shrines mark old roads. Processions still move through villages where people know each other. Whether in a Portuguese hamlet, a Spanish mountain town, or a Flemish square, religion has long shaped landscapes and identities.

But what if we look at religion not only as belief, but also as a way in which human communities learned to live together?

This is the central idea of Darwin’s Cathedral by evolutionary biologist David Sloan Wilson. The book invites us to see religion through the same lens we use to understand cooperation and social life. Not to dismiss it or defend it, but to ask why it has appeared in so many cultures and why it has lasted so long.

Religion and Cooperation

Humans survive by cooperating. We are not the strongest animals, but we are exceptionally good at forming groups. From early hunting bands to modern societies, working together has been our greatest strength.

Yet cooperation is fragile. Every community must deal with selfish behaviour. How do you build trust? How do you encourage people to contribute when no one is watching?

Wilson suggests that many religious traditions grew in part because they helped communities answer these questions. They created shared moral expectations, common stories, and a sense of belonging. They encouraged generosity and discouraged behaviour that harmed the group. People felt accountable not only to each other, but also to something greater than themselves.

Over generations, communities that were able to strengthen trust and solidarity were often more stable. Those that failed to do so tended to fragment or disappear. In this way, religious traditions were shaped by the practical challenges of everyday life.

The Power of Ritual

The book also highlights the importance of ritual. From chanting to pilgrimages, rituals may appear mysterious, but they create strong emotional bonds. Anyone who has witnessed a local feast or procession in southern Europe recognises their effect. They bring people together, reinforce memory, and strengthen identity.

Even today, societies that see themselves as secular use similar practices—national ceremonies, commemorations, and shared public events. These moments remind people that they belong to a larger story.

Belief and Behaviour

One of the most striking ideas in the book is that behaviour often matters more than doctrine. In practice, what counts is whether people act in ways that support cooperation and stability.

This helps explain why many religious traditions emphasise visible commitment. Charity, prayer, fasting, and other demanding practices signal loyalty. They show that someone is willing to invest time and effort in the community, which makes trust easier.

Religious communities have also often built strong networks of support. Many hospitals, schools, and welfare systems have roots in these traditions.

A Cultural Traveller’s Perspective

For travellers, this perspective opens a new way of seeing. A cathedral is not only an architectural masterpiece; it is the result of centuries of shared effort. A pilgrimage route is also a network that connected communities, trade, and culture.

Standing in Vézelay, Santiago de Compostela, or a small Romanesque church in rural France, you are looking at the long history of how people learned to organise their lives together. These places show how trust, identity, and cooperation were built across generations.

This approach encourages curiosity rather than judgement. Religion becomes part of an evolving cultural landscape that continues to shape Europe today.

Further Reading

• David Sloan Wilson — Darwin’s Cathedral

• Joseph Henrich — The WEIRDest People in the World

• Pascal Boyer — Religion Explained

• Scott Atran — In Gods We Trust

A Romanesque Altar Frontal of the León Cathedral: A Window into Pilgrimage and Legend

In the grandeur of León Cathedral, a striking frontal de altar from the 14th century tells a vivid story of faith, legend, and the enduring power of the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. This polychrome masterpiece, painted on wood and richly adorned with gold leaf, weaves together key episodes from the legend of Saint James (Santiago), alongside the figure of Saint Christopher, protector of travelers.

The altar frontal is structured in five narrative panels, each depicting a crucial episode of the legendary transfer of Saint James' body to Galicia.

Top Left: Queen Lupa and the Disciples of Santiago
According to legend, after Saint James' martyrdom in Jerusalem, his disciples carried his body to Hispania. Seeking a burial place, they approached Queen Lupa in Flavia (modern-day Padrón). Initially resistant, she subjected them to trials before she ultimately converted to Christianity. The scene captures the moment of their plea before the queen, her regal posture contrasting with their humble gestures.

Lower Left: Saint Christopher and Saint James as the Warrior Pilgrim
A striking image shows a bearded figure wading through water with a child on his shoulder—Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, who carried Christ across a river. Beside him, a knightly figure on horseback with a flag is likely Saint James in his Matamoros guise, a vision that was said to have inspired Christian forces in battle. This juxtaposition reinforces the protection of travelers and the role of Santiago as a spiritual and military guide.

Top Right: The Oxen and the Coffin
One of the trials Queen Lupa imposed on Saint James’ disciples was to give them a cart with wild, untamed oxen to transport his remains, hoping they would fail. However, through divine intervention, the animals were miraculously tamed, allowing the disciples to complete their mission. This scene captures the sacred nature of their journey, emphasizing the role of faith and divine guidance in overcoming obstacles.

Lower Right: The Boat Carrying Saint James
A small vessel with two figures—one possibly a disciple, the other haloed—holds what is likely the coffin of Saint James. This recalls the legend of his miraculous sea voyage from Jerusalem to Galicia, carried by divine will. The scene is rendered with simple, powerful forms, reinforcing the mystical nature of the tale.

Central Panel: A Pilgrim or a King?
The most enigmatic figure stands beneath an arched structure crowned with castle towers. Could this be a representation of King Alfonso II of Asturias, the first known pilgrim to Santiago de Compostela, paying homage to the saint’s newly discovered tomb? Or is it an anonymous pilgrim, embodying the devotion of countless travelers? The ambiguity invites contemplation, drawing the viewer into the world of medieval belief.

A Testament to Pilgrimage Culture

This altar frontal is not just an artwork; it is a testimony to the deep cultural and religious currents of medieval Spain. The Camino de Santiago was one of Europe’s most significant pilgrimage routes, and artifacts like this offered both instruction and inspiration to the faithful.

El Cenachero — The Man Who Carried the Sea into Málaga (Spain)

El Cenachero (Malaga, Spain).

At the edge of Málaga’s harbour, where cruise ships now glide in and out and tourists sip cocktails in the sun, stands a bronze figure with bare chest, strong shoulders and two baskets of fish hanging from a wooden yoke. His name is El Cenachero — and he is one of the most recognisable symbols of the city.

Long before Málaga became a destination of beach clubs and boutique hotels, it was a working port. Every morning, fishing boats landed their catch on the sand. From there, men known as cenacheros carried the fish into the city, balancing two wicker baskets (cenachos) on their shoulders and walking from street to street selling the day’s harvest.

They were not merchants in shops. They were moving markets.

With loud voices they announced their arrival:
“Boquerones frescos!”
“Sardinas vivas!”

The cenachero walked barefoot or in worn sandals through the heat, his skin darkened by the sun and the sea. His work was hard, his pay modest, but his role essential. Without him, Málaga did not eat.

The statue near the port is not a monument to a general or a king. It is a tribute to labour. To the men who turned the sea into daily bread. To a city that once lived by nets and boats, not by hotels and terraces.

In the 1960s, when tourism began to transform Málaga forever, El Cenachero became a reminder of the old city — a link to the fishermen, the beaches where boats were pulled ashore, and the voices that once echoed through the narrow streets.

Today, visitors photograph him before boarding cruise ships or strolling along Muelle Uno. Few realise they are standing next to a worker who once fed an entire city.

El Cenachero is Málaga in bronze: salt, sun, sweat — and dignity.

The “Conclamatio” Relief – A Roman Farewell Reimagined

Funerary Ceremony, called the Conclamatio — marble relief made in northern Italy around 1500–1515, a Renaissance imitation of an ancient Roman scene showing the ritual calling of the deceased’s name at a funeral. The work is now held in the Louvre Museum, Paris.

The Scene

This marble relief, created in northern Italy around 1500–1515, is a Renaissance imitation of an ancient Roman work. Now housed in the Louvre, it depicts the conclamatio — the moment in a Roman funeral when family and attendants called aloud the name of the deceased.

At the center lies the body on a klinē, surrounded by mourners and musicians. Two figures raise wind instruments, amplifying the chorus of grief. Beneath the couch rest a pair of sandals and a small dog — tokens of loyalty and life left behind. To the left, a ritual flame burns; above, a draped cloth marks the threshold between the living and the dead.

The Meaning

The conclamatio confirmed death and released the deceased from the world of the living. It was both ritual and recognition — the collective voice of family ensuring that memory began where life had ended. Though carved a millennium and a half after the Roman original, this Renaissance piece captures the essence of the ancient rite: solemnity, movement, and human emotion rendered in stone.

The sculptor’s aim was not to copy but to evoke — to translate the lost sound of ritual into enduring silence. By showing grief as action, not sentiment, the relief bridges two worlds: the classical past and the reflective spirituality of the early sixteenth century.

Reflection

The “Conclamatio” relief reminds us that mourning was once a public act — a communal acknowledgment that someone had lived, and had left. Even as a Renaissance reimagining of antiquity, it preserves the universal impulse to give voice to loss. Across centuries, the echo of that final call still seems to resonate from the marble itself.

Further Reading

• Marie Erasmo, Reading Death in Ancient Rome

• Katherine Carroll, Living Through the Dead

• William H. Heller, Roman Funerary Ritual and Social Memory

The Monks Who Collected the World — Steyl’s Holy Zoo

Stuffed animals at the Missiemuseum in Steyl — a 19th-century vision of faith, science, and the irresistible urge to collect the world.

In the late 19th century, the quiet monastery of Steyl on the river Maas became the unlikely center of a global enterprise. The Missionaries of the Divine Word sent brothers and priests to every corner of the world — to preach, to teach, and, as it turned out, to collect. From the tropics and the savannas, from jungles and islands, they shipped back not only souls saved but animals stuffed.

What began as a pious wish — to show the richness of God’s creation — soon grew into something much larger. Crates arrived from China, Indonesia, New Guinea, and Africa, filled with birds in brilliant plumage, coiled snakes, monkeys, and even big cats. In Steyl’s Missiemuseum, they were arranged behind glass: lions beside antelope, parrots beside penguins, all labeled with elegant handwriting and missionary pride.

Over time, the collection grew into a menagerie of wonder and contradiction — part natural history, part sermon, part obsession. The monks called it education; visitors might have called it awe. Looking at it today, with rows upon rows of creatures staring out through dusty glass eyes, one senses how missionary zeal and Victorian collecting fever merged into a single act of devotion — and domination.

The result is astonishing and a little unsettling: a frozen ark, a world gathered in faith and fervor. In Steyl, the brothers tried to bring God’s creation home — and ended up capturing the wildness of an entire world inside the stillness of glass.

The Tree of Jesse in the Wormser Dom

The Tree of Jesse in the Wormser Dom.

The relief of the Tree of Jesse in the Cathedral of St. Peter (Wormser Dom) presents the genealogy of the Holy Family with remarkable depth and grace.

At the base lies Jesse of Bethlehem, father of King David, from whose side a small tree trunk emerges. From this trunk rises a tangled yet elegant vine, filling the pointed Gothic arch with twisting branches and leaf-like crockets.

Along these branches sit or stand a succession of royal and prophetic ancestors of Christ, each set within the foliage:

• King David, often depicted with a harp

• King Solomon, wearing a crown and holding a scepter or book

• Other kings of Judah such as Hezekiah, Josiah, or Zedekiah, marked by regal insignia

• The prophets Isaiah and Jeremiah, holding scrolls with messianic prophecies

• Figures sometimes identified as the Virgin’s parents, Joachim and Anne, or other key ancestors named in the Gospel genealogies

High above them all, at the tree’s flowering crown, sits the Virgin Mary enthroned with the Christ Child, the final and perfect bloom of Jesse’s lineage.

Flanking the arch are additional full-length figures:

• Evangelists or apostles, recognizable by their books or scrolls

• A bishop or abbot in mitre and vestments, possibly representing a donor or the ecclesiastical authority who commissioned the work

This exuberant Gothic carving is far more than decoration. It transforms Isaiah 11:1—“A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse”—into a vivid three-dimensional family tree. Its carefully portrayed kings, prophets, and evangelists link the Old Testament to the New, proclaiming Christ as both heir of David and fulfillment of ancient prophecy.

The Silent Prophets Above the Gate of Chains (Santa María de Ciudad Rodrigo, Spain)

The silent guardians of the Puerta de las Cadenas of the Cathedral of Ciudad Rodrigo (13th century).

Above the Puerta de las Cadenas of the Cathedral of Ciudad Rodrigo stretches a striking frieze of Old Testament figures, carved in stone like a solemn assembly presiding over the cathedral’s northern entrance. According to Sendín, the sculptor gathered Abraham, Isaiah, the Queen of Sheba, Solomon, Ezekiel, Moses, Melchizedek, Balaam, David, Elijah, Saint John the Baptist, and Jeremiah—twelve figures who together trace the long arc of biblical history.

At the beginning stands Abraham, the patriarch of faith, followed by Isaiah holding the scroll of prophecy. The Queen of Sheba, crowned and elegant, brings a rare feminine presence, representing the nations recognizing divine wisdom; beside her, Solomon embodies that wisdom in royal calm. Ezekiel appears with the intensity of a visionary, while Moses—marked by his staff or the tablets of the Law—represents the covenant and its commandments.

Melchizedek, the mysterious priest-king who offered bread and wine, stands close to Balaam, the foreign prophet compelled to bless Israel. Their inclusion highlights the ways God’s voice, in medieval understanding, could emerge from unexpected places. David, with his crown and poetic bearing, re-establishes royal lineage before the frieze turns to Elijah, the fiery prophet taken to heaven in a whirlwind.

Only one figure belongs to the New Testament: Saint John the Baptist, the final herald before Christ, the bridge between old and new. The cycle closes with Jeremiah, carved in a gesture of lament, embodying the sorrow and longing that permeate Israel’s story.

Why place this assembly above a cathedral door? In the Middle Ages, façades were meant to teach. These prophets form a visual overture to the Gospel proclaimed inside, affirming that Christianity rises not in isolation but from a long, unfolding tradition. Together they create a threshold of memory and meaning: a carved chorus of voices preparing the visitor to step from the world into the sacred story beyond the gate.

The Cathedral of Ciudad Rodrigo (13th century) with the Puerta de las Cadenas.

Saints for the Shoemakers

A 16th-century tile panel from Plasencia

In a quiet corner of an exhibition you may suddenly meet two saints who feel surprisingly close to everyday life: Crispinus and Crispianus, the patron saints of shoemakers. The object that introduces them is an antique religious tile panel from Plasencia, possibly dating to the 16th century. It is devotional art, yes, but also a proud nod to craft, labour, and the dignity of skilled hands.

The panel shows the two brothers as holy figures, yet their fame is rooted in a very earthly story. According to tradition, Crispinus and Crispianus were Christian missionaries who supported themselves by making shoes. Their workshop became a kind of silent sermon: work honestly, live modestly, help others, and hold on to faith even when it costs you. That combination made them a natural spiritual home for guilds of cobblers and leatherworkers across Europe.

If the Plasencia panel is indeed 16th century, it sits in a fascinating moment: the age of strong urban identities, powerful guilds, and public devotion. Tiles were more than decoration. They were durable, visible, and meant to be lived with—perfect for chapels, convents, guild buildings, and private homes. A tile panel like this could function as an image for prayer, but also as a statement: this trade has a place in the moral order of the city.

What makes such an object compelling today is its double voice. On one level it speaks the language of saints and salvation. On another, it whispers about workshops and streets: the smell of leather, the rhythm of tools, the daily economy of a town like Plasencia. The saints stand there not as distant miracle-workers, but as companions of working people—patrons of a profession that literally shaped the shoes on which society moved.

Seen now, centuries later, the panel becomes a bridge between devotion and craft. It reminds us that religious imagery was often deeply practical: it blessed the things people did all day, every day. And in that sense, Crispinus and Crispianus still do their work—quietly guarding the makers.

The Saint-Léonard Relic Mural in Honfleur

Krug’s 1899 marouflé mural in Église Saint-Léonard, Honfleur, commemorates the transfer of a relic of Saint Léonard—patron of prisoners and freedom—in radiant Renaissance-style gold.

Step inside the Église Saint-Léonard in Honfleur and a luminous wall painting commands attention. Created in 1899 by artist Krug on a toile marouflée (canvas bonded to wall), it records the transfer of a relic of Saint Léonard, patron of prisoners and liberation.

Saint of Chains and Freedom

Saint Léonard, a 6th-century noble turned hermit near Limoges, was famed for freeing captives who invoked his name. Pilgrims long sought pieces of his relics. For this bustling port—often battered by war—the relic’s arrival was a promise of protection and safe return.

Ceremony in Gold

The mural shows a solemn procession led by Bishop Hugonin of Bayeux: robed clergy, incense, and faithful figures glide across a gold ground reminiscent of Fra Angelico. It is at once a historical record and a devotional icon, celebrating the day Honfleur welcomed its saint.

Catholic Revival

Painted during the post-1870 Catholic resurgence, the work reflected a desire to strengthen faith through art and memory. More than a century on, the mural still speaks of hope and deliverance, its silent pageant glowing in the church’s soft light.

The flamboyant Gothic façade of Église Saint-Léonard in Honfleur, crowned by its 18th-century octagonal bell tower.

Saint Expédit: A Wall of Gratitude

Saint Expédit, Église Saint-Pierre in Bordeaux (France).

We met him in a quiet chapel of the Église Saint-Pierre in Bordeaux (France)— a young Roman soldier standing almost casually, one knee bent, a cloak gathered in his hand. This is Saint Expédit, patron of people who cannot wait for tomorrow.

But what gives this shrine its power is not only the statue. It’s the wall behind him, tiled with small marble plaques, each carved with a simple word: MERCI.

A century of whispered relief, arranged like a mosaic.

Some plaques are formal, some abbreviated to initials, some marked with dates long before we were born. Others simply say “MERCI” — nothing more, yet somehow enough. Together they form a quiet ledger of fear, hope, and fulfilment.

According to the old legend, Expédit was a Roman soldier who, on the brink of converting to Christianity, faced a whisper of doubt urging him to delay. He refused. Faith, he decided, was for today, not some comfortable tomorrow. Ever since, people have come to him when hesitation is no longer possible.

In Bordeaux, this devotion feels very much alive. The flowers at his feet, the votive card leaning against the plinth, the steady growth of plaques over decades — all of it tells the same story: someone was in trouble, asked for help, found it, and returned with a piece of marble to say thank you.

A simple statue.
A wall full of human stories.
And a saint who still stands for the courage to act — not later, but now.

Fire, Pride, and Coming of Age: San Antón in Valderrobres (Spain)

This year, we had the privilege of being guests at the San Antonio Abad festivities in Valderrobres—and guests is exactly how we were treated. From the first moment, the people of Valderrobres welcomed us with open arms, genuine warmth, and a quiet but unmistakable pride in their village and its traditions.

At the heart of the celebration are the kintos: the group of young people who turn eighteen that year and who take on the responsibility of organizing the festivities. The tradition of the kintos is widespread in Spain and marks a symbolic step into adulthood. What once had roots in military conscription has become something far more beautiful—a communal rite of passage in which a generation learns to carry, protect, and pass on local culture.

The festival begins on January 16 at 23:00hr, when the Christmas tree is set alight in the town square. Flames crackle, sparks drift into the cold night, and before you know it, the square turns into a living room under the stars. Music, laughter, food, and conversation keep the celebration going all night long.

As morning arrives, the fire is not allowed to die in vain. Using the still-glowing embers of the Christmas tree, sausages and pancetta are grilled for a communal breakfast. Everyone eats. Everyone belongs. It is simple, generous, and deeply human.

At 11:00hr in the morning, the rhythm slows. In a special mass at the church, the new kintos appear in traditional dress and receive a blessing. At the end of the service, blessed bread is shared with the congregation. Outside, on the square below, the priest continues with the blessing of the animals, honoring San Antonio Abad as the patron saint of animals and rural life.

What makes San Antón in Valderrobres so special is not just the rituals themselves, but the way the entire village carries them—by the village, for the village, passed on from generation to generation. Nothing feels staged. Everything feels lived.

For us, being allowed to witness and share in this celebration felt truly special. It was a rare glimpse into a tradition that still burns as warmly as the fire at its heart.

Saint Elophe: A Martyr on the Edge of Roman Gaul

The statue of Saint Elophe in the Church of Saint-Remy (Église Saint-Rémy) in Domrémy-la-Pucelle.

If you’re looking at Saint Elophe’s statue in Domrémy-la-Pucelle’s Church of Saint-Remy, you’ll notice his unmistakable emblem: the saint bearing his own head—a “cephalophore.” The image condenses a local memory from the Toul–Vosges frontier, where Elophe (Eliphius) is remembered as a deacon and preacher who spread the new faith among Gallo-Romans in the mid-4th century.

Tradition places his death in 362, during the brief reign of Emperor Julian—nicknamed “the Apostate”—who tried to reverse the Christianising tide and restore favor to the old gods. Though Julian did not institute a formal empire-wide persecution, his policies stripped Christian privileges and emboldened local hostility. In that climate, Elophe was seized and beheaded near the Vair River. The legend says he then rose, took up his severed head, and walked uphill to the place he wished to rest—an image that fixed his cult in the Lorraine landscape.

It’s a striking turn after Emperor Constantine, decades earlier, had legalized Christianity with the Edict of Milan (313), ending the great imperial persecutions and allowing the Church to root itself in towns like Toul. Elophe’s story captures that hinge between eras: from tolerated and rising faith to a sudden, dangerous backlash—followed by a memory that would spread far beyond Lorraine, even to Cologne, where his relics were later honored.

And that statue before you at Domrémy keeps telling it—quietly, clearly, in stone.

Mont-Saint-Michel

From restless tides a granite crown arose,
 Where Saint Michael’s trumpet through the ocean blows.
 To Aubert, bishop-abbot bold, the angel spoke by flame:
 “Raise me a house where heaven bears my name.”

Through storm and siege his monks obeyed,
 Stone upon stone a sky-bound fortress laid.
 Pilgrims crossed when tides lay low,
 Kings and warriors knelt below.

Vikings raided, Normans came,
 William of Volpiano shaped its frame.
 In Bayeux’s threads the conquest shone,
 Yet Michael’s rock stood all alone.

Empires raged, revolutions roared,
 Monks were scattered, faith implored.
 Victor Hugo’s voice renewed the fight,
 To guard the mount for truth and light.

Through war and shadow, Nazi years,
 The bells still rang through hopes and fears.
 Now sea and sky in wonder meet—
 A timeless crown where earth and heaven greet.

Radegonde: A Frankish Queen Who Chose the Cloister Over the Throne

Saint Radegonde. Life of Saint Radegonde, 11th century. Poitiers Municipal Library.

When Radegonde was born around 520 CE, Western Europe was still reeling from the collapse of the Roman Empire. Gaul was ruled by the Merovingians—Frankish warrior-kings who wielded power through conquest, family alliances, and an often-brutal politics of survival. Amid these shifting frontiers, a young Thuringian princess would chart an extraordinary course that defied the expectations of her age.

Radegonde’s childhood was torn apart when Frankish armies under Clotaire I invaded her native Thuringia. Taken as a war prize to the royal villa of Athies near Soissons, she received a classical Latin education that sharpened her intellect and nourished an early Christian piety. Eventually Clotaire made her his queen. Yet the splendor of the Merovingian court—lavish feasts, precious jewels, and the intrigue of power—never captured her heart. She was known to slip away from banquets to pray on the cold stone floors of her chapel, a silent protest against the violent world around her.

That world turned bloodier still when Clotaire ordered the murder of her younger brother, fearing he might challenge Frankish rule. For Radegonde this was the breaking point. She fled the royal household and sought protection from Bishop Médard of Noyon, who, despite the king’s fury, consecrated her as a nun. Legend tells of a miraculous escape: as Clotaire’s men pursued her near Saix, newly sown oat fields suddenly sprang to full height, hiding her and two companions from view. The episode became known as the “miracle of the oats.”

Radegonde’s choice was more than a personal act of faith. It symbolized a profound shift in early medieval society. Across Merovingian Gaul, Christian monasteries were becoming alternative centers of authority—repositories of learning, wealth, and moral power that could rival kings. From her new foundation at Poitiers, the abbey of Sainte-Croix, Radegonde embodied this spiritual counterweight. She secured from the Byzantine emperor a fragment of the True Cross, turning her monastery into a major pilgrimage site and inspiring the hymn Vexilla regis, still sung in Holy Week liturgies.

Her influence reached far beyond cloister walls. By caring for the sick, feeding the poor, and mediating between warring Frankish princes, Radegonde became a broker of peace in a violent age. Gregory of Tours, the great historian-bishop of the Merovingians, portrays her funeral in 587 as a moment of immense popular devotion, the culmination of a life that had turned royal power inside out.

Radegonde’s story reminds us that the early Middle Ages were not merely an age of swords and dynasties. They were also an age when women, through the Church and the new monastic networks, could carve out spaces of autonomy and moral authority. In a world where kings ruled by might, a captive queen transformed her captivity into freedom—and in doing so became a saint whose influence outlasted the empire that once claimed her.

The casket of Saint Radegonde in the Church of Sainte-Radegonde in Poitiers.

Further reading

• Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks

• Ian Wood, The Merovingian Kingdoms, 450–751

• Jo Ann McNamara, Sainted Women of the Dark Ages

• Pauline Stafford, Queens, Concubines and Dowagers: The King’s Wife in the Early Middle Ages