Apremont-sur-Allier (France)

Apremont-sur-Allier (France)

On a graceful bend of the Allier River in central France lies Apremont-sur-Allier, a village that feels lifted from a storybook. Golden-stone houses draped in roses and cobbled lanes that lead to the river create a setting so perfect that it belongs to Les Plus Beaux Villages de France. Once a medieval quarry village supplying stone for great cathedrals, it was lovingly revived in the early 20th century by industrialist Eugène Schneider, who restored and rebuilt it in a harmonious neo-medieval style.

The heart of Apremont is its Parc Floral, five hectares of ponds, pavilions and rare trees that change colour and scent with the seasons. Though the château itself remains private, its towers and ramparts frame the gardens like a painting. The village cafés and the gentle rhythm of the river invite slow afternoons and quiet walks.

About 20 kilometres from Nevers, Apremont-sur-Allier is easy to reach by car yet blissfully far from crowds. Come in spring or summer, when flowers explode and the gardens are open, and you’ll discover one of France’s most enchanting hidden retreats—a place to wander, breathe and simply stay.

The Guardian Angels of Notre Dame de l'Assomption in Apremont-sur-Allier (France).

Along the Camino: Quiet Encounters in Late Autumn

Two of the pilgrims we met, one in Saint-Sever, and the other in Vezelay.

Travelling along the Camino de Santiago in November has its own rhythm. Winter is approaching, the days grow shorter, and the great summer crowds have long disappeared. The trail feels quiet now—almost contemplative—and the few pilgrims we do encounter stand out all the more.

We meet them here and there, often alone on the path or resting near a cathedral or a small chapel. Some walk only a section, others are still making their way toward Santiago. A handful travel with a dog, or with a horse carrying their pack. Most walk simply and lightly, moving at a pace shaped by the season.

Because there are so few of them, every conversation feels personal. These late-autumn pilgrims often have time—and stories. Some of them speak about why they walk, what the silence does to them, what they hope to understand or let go of. The simplicity of the Camino in November seems to deepen the lessons they learn: being present, appreciating small things, accepting the rhythm of each day.

For us, these encounters have been genuinely pleasant and full of insight. A short talk can open up entire perspectives on life, choices, and what matters.

To the pilgrims we’ve met along the way: Buen Camino. May the quiet season serve you well, and may the road ahead continue to teach, lighten, and inspire.

Ukrainians in search of safety: Hanna and family

Hanna and her family in The Netherlands.

My name is Hanna and I’m from Dnipro, a large industrial city in eastern Ukraine. Until early 2022, I lived a full and successful life. I ran my own marketing and advertising agency, worked with major international brands, and was involved in social projects and campaigns. At the same time, I taught marketing, communication, and public relations at the university – something I truly enjoyed. Together with my husband and our three children, we lived a comfortable life. We were entrepreneurial, creative, and engaged in our city.

The unrest began already in 2014, during the Maidan Revolution. It affected me deeply. Young people flooded the streets, dreaming of a European future for Ukraine. That dream was violently crushed. I still remember crying every evening while watching the news. The deaths of young protesters felt personal. That was the moment I understood: we are a people who must fight for freedom, for justice.

When Russia invaded Ukraine on February 24, 2022, everything changed. Our whole family — sixteen people in total — took shelter in a basement. We didn’t live far from the Zaporizhzhia nuclear power plant, and when it came under fire, the fear really hit us. There were rumors of a possible nuclear disaster. Doctors gave instructions on television about how to apply iodine to children’s skin to protect them from radiation. My children saw the panic in my eyes. On the ninth day of the war, I made the decision: we had to flee.

We left Dnipro in five cars. Normally, the drive west would take ten hours — it took us five days. The roads were packed with people like us — desperate, afraid, heading into the unknown. We taped signs reading “CHILDREN” to our car windows, hoping Russian pilots would see we were innocent civilians.

Eventually, we made it to Roermond in the Netherlands, where an old friend offered us shelter. My husband stayed behind at first, to take care of his parents and our business. He only joined us in Roermond nine months later.

Once I arrived, I couldn’t sit still. That’s not who I am. I volunteered at my children’s primary school, working as an interpreter and piano accompanist. Later, I became a coach for Ukrainian employees at La Place, taught at Stedelijk College, and began working as a project leader at the Ukrainian House in Maastricht.

Since October 2023, I’ve been working as a counselor for Ukrainian families in Limburg. I help people integrate, with paperwork, schools, doctors, and government agencies. The work is intense, but rewarding. I know where they come from. I know what it means to leave everything behind.

I feel happy here. In Ukraine, we lived well, but life was stressful and competitive. Here, we’ve found peace. My children are integrated at school, my husband works as a chef, and we are slowly building something new. Still, the future is uncertain. I don’t know if we’ll be allowed to stay. That’s hard, but we do our best, we work, we contribute. We are happy here.

What I’ve experienced is not unique. Hundreds of thousands of Ukrainians carry stories like this. But I hope mine shows just how deeply war affects a human life — and how much strength it takes to start over, in a foreign land, with a foreign alphabet, but with the same hope: a safe life for our children.

When Vikings Came to Galicia (Spain)

Pages from Historia do movemento obreiro galego (in Galician) by Reimundo Patiño depicting the Viking attack on Burela and the miraculous prayers of Abbot Rosendo. (Seen in the museum next to San Martín de Mondoñedo, along the Camino Natural de San Rosendo.)

In the quiet hills of northern Galicia, far from today’s roaring highways, legends still echo of fire and salt water. Around the 10th century, Viking fleets probed the Galician coast, their dragon-headed ships a terror to fishing villages and monasteries alike. One of the most dramatic tales unfolds at Burela, where the monks watched in fear as the invaders closed in.

Here the figure of San Rosendo, abbot and later bishop, takes center stage. The story tells how, while others despaired, Rosendo fell to his knees in prayer. Each prayer, says the legend, sent another Viking ship to the bottom of the sea. For the people of Galicia, this was not just a miracle but a sign that faith and courage could turn the tide against overwhelming force.

We encountered this legend in a striking form: as pages from a comic book by Galician artist Reimundo Patiño. Patiño’s black-and-white panels roar with energy. His Vikings crash ashore like a nightmare, the monks cry out in terror, and Rosendo raises his arms as ships sink with a thunderous “BROUM.” It is history reimagined through popular art: a medieval miracle retold with the raw power of 20th-century graphic expression.

In Burela and its surroundings, the past is never just quiet stone—it is still alive, sometimes in the boldest of images.

Further Reading

• Ann Christys, Vikings in the South: Voyages to Iberia and the Mediterranean (Bloomsbury, 2015) – overview of Viking raids beyond northern Europe, including Galicia.

• Xosé Ramón Barreiro Fernández, Las incursiones normandas en Galicia (Santiago de Compostela, 1974) – classic study on Viking attacks along the Galician coast.

• Inés Monteira Arias, Os viquingos en Galicia (Edicións Xerais, 2007) – an accessible Galician-language introduction to the subject.

• Simon Coupland, “The Vikings in Francia and Iberia” in The Viking World (Routledge, 2008) – places the Galician experience in a broader European context.

Jupp Schmitz: Cologne’s Man at the Piano

Picture a packed Kneipe on a cold February night. Paper streamers cling to the lamps, Kölsch glasses clink, and a small man with a quick grin slides onto the piano bench. Two chords—bright as confetti—and the room knows what’s coming. That’s Jupp Schmitz: songwriter, showman, and the heartbeat of Cologne’s carnival stage for half a century.

Schmitz grew up at the keyboard—first as a silent-cinema pianist, then as a dance-band entertainer who understood exactly how to turn a room into a chorus. After the war he gave the country a wink and a melody it couldn’t stop humming: “Wer soll das bezahlen?”—a cheeky anthem for wallets running on fumes. And every year he pressed the calendar’s reset button with “Am Aschermittwoch ist alles vorbei”—the bittersweet hymn that closes Carnival and hands the city gently to Lent.

“Wer soll das bezahlen? Wer hat so viel Geld? Wer hat so viel Pinke-Pinke?”

His secret wasn’t just catchy tunes; it was the way he wrote with the audience. Call-and-response refrains, words that sit perfectly on the tongue, humor warm enough to melt February—Schmitz didn’t perform at people; he performed through them. On the big stages like the Gürzenich or in cramped pubs along the Rhine, he was always the same: hat tipped, eyes sparkling, fingers tumbling over the keys while the crowd sang itself hoarse.

Listen today and you still hear Cologne in his songs: generous, a little mischievous, never far from a joke or a hug. Long after the last costume is packed away, Schmitz’s melodies keep the city’s smile switched on—proof that sometimes the most enduring monuments are made of chorus lines and laughter.

The Cathedral of Oviedo (Spain)

The Cathedral of Oviedo (Spain).

Rising above the narrow streets of Oviedo, the Catedral de San Salvador looks less like a fortress and more like a jewel box of stone. Its flamboyant Gothic spire, soaring high above the Asturian capital, is the kind of landmark medieval pilgrims once spotted from miles away, their hearts quickening at the sight.

The cathedral’s story begins much earlier than its Gothic face suggests. Beneath the arches and chapels lies the legacy of King Alfonso II, who in the 9th century made Oviedo the royal seat of Asturias and built the first church here. His sanctuary became the repository of priceless relics—the Holy Shroud, the Cross of the Angels, the Cross of Victory—that gave the cathedral a reputation rivaling even Santiago de Compostela. For medieval pilgrims, the saying was clear: “He who goes to Santiago without visiting San Salvador, visits the servant but misses the Lord.”

Walking inside today, you still feel the weight of that devotion. The Cámara Santa, a UNESCO World Heritage site, glows with golden reliquaries. The cloisters open onto quiet stone corridors where bishops and kings once plotted history. And high above, the stained glass paints the floor with shards of color as if time itself had slowed.

The Cathedral of Oviedo is not just a monument; it is a reminder that faith, art, and politics once intertwined so tightly that they left behind a treasure for centuries to marvel at.

Further Reading

• Peter Linehan, History and the Historians of Medieval Spain (Oxford University Press, 1993)

• James D’Emilio, The Royal Patronage of Oviedo Cathedral in the Early Middle Ages (Speculum, 1995)

The interior of the Cathedral of Oviedo (Spain).

Pelagius of Asturias and the Battle of Covadonga

Pelayo, Covadonga (Spain).

In the rugged mountains of northern Spain, history and legend blur. Around the year 718—or perhaps 722—a local nobleman named Pelagius (or Pelayo) led a small band of followers into defiance against the new Muslim rulers of Iberia. The clash that followed, known as the Battle of Covadonga, has been told as a miracle of divine favor, the moment when Christian Spain was reborn.

But peel back the layers of myth, and a different picture appears. Asturias and Cantabria had long been peripheral, half-forgotten corners of empires. Roman and Visigothic kings had only a loose grip here; local elites ruled their valleys much as they pleased. When the Muslims swept north after 711, many of these elites struck pragmatic deals. Tribute was paid, land was kept. Yet Pelagius refused.

Was he a Visigothic aristocrat in exile, or a homegrown Asturian landowner defending his family’s rights? Sources disagree. Arab chroniclers dismiss him as the leader of a few dozen mountain rebels, hardly worth a campaign. Asturian monks, writing a century later, cast him as a new Judas Maccabeus, chosen by God to save His people. They claimed he defeated 187,000 soldiers with divine help—a biblical epic more than a battlefield report.

The truth is likely somewhere in between: a small mountain skirmish where knowledge of the terrain outweighed numbers. Yet from this modest spark a principality was born. Protected by poverty, geography, and indifference from Córdoba, Asturias endured. Pelagius never styled himself king—his title was princeps, “first among equals”—but his dynasty laid foundations that others would later call the start of the Reconquista.

Covadonga became less about what happened on the ground and more about what it meant. For Alfonso III in the 9th century, it was proof of divine favor and dynastic legitimacy. For later Spanish nationalists, it was the first trumpet call of liberation. For us, it is a reminder of how small acts of defiance, amplified by story, can shape the memory of nations.

Further Reading

• Roger Collins, The Arab Conquest of Spain, 710–797 (Blackwell, 1989)

• Kenneth Baxter Wolf, Conquerors and Chroniclers of Early Medieval Spain (Liverpool University Press, 1999)

• Richard Fletcher, Moorish Spain (University of California Press, 1992)

• Joseph F. O’Callaghan, A History of Medieval Spain (Cornell University Press, 1975)

• David A. Wacks, Medieval Iberian Epic: A Reading of the Poem of Fernán González (Bucknell University Press, 2007)

Beautiful Playgrounds and Empty Sandpits and: Germany’s Demographic Puzzle

A playground in Dinkelsbühl (Germany).

Walk through a German town on a weekday morning and you might notice something striking: the playgrounds are pristine, imaginative, and meticulously engineered—yet often eerily quiet. Germany, like many Western European countries, faces a persistently low birthrate (around 1.3–1.5 children per woman in recent years).

Over decades, fewer births mean shrinking school classes, a tightening labor market, and mounting pressure on pension and health-care systems. With a smaller working-age population supporting a growing number of retirees, the classic social contract of “today’s workers fund tomorrow’s pensions” becomes fragile. Immigration softens the trend but does not erase it.

Ironically, the few children who are born may enjoy the best playgrounds in history. German municipalities, proud of their Spielplätze, invest in elaborate wooden climbing castles, rope pyramids, and water-sand labs that would make many theme parks envious. Safety standards are exacting, and design competitions fierce.

The result? Superb public play spaces—often half empty. It’s a gentle, almost humorous side effect of demographic change: as the child population shrinks, the investment per child soars.

Behind the quiet slides lies a serious challenge: how to sustain economic vitality, care for an aging population, and keep intergenerational solidarity alive. Germany’s situation is emblematic of much of Western Europe, where prosperity and lifestyle choices have combined to bend the population curve downward.

For now, the next time you see a state-of-the-art climbing tower standing still under a perfect blue sky, remember: it’s more than playground design. It’s a silent symbol of a continent rethinking its future.

Why Some Art Grabs Us — and Some Wait for Us to Notice

A work of Mattia Pajè, a resident of the Jan van Eyck Academie in Maastricht (October 2025). Mattia Pajè explores how truth is constructed and manipulated in an age of post-truth narratives, pseudoscience, and conspiracy theories. His work turns research and site-specific installations into layered spaces where images, ideas, and time overlap—questioning not only what we see, but how we come to believe it.

Ever stood in front of a painting and felt … nothing? And then, another time, been completely drawn in — as if the work was quietly speaking your language?

That spark we feel isn’t random. It’s the mind recognising a pattern it half-knows — something close enough to grasp, yet just beyond reach. When the familiar and the unfamiliar meet, we lean forward. That’s the space where learning, and art, begin.

Realistic art often hits that balance for many people easily. We recognise the world it shows us, so it feels natural to step inside. That’s why it can be instantly appealing: it speaks in a language we already know. Contemporary or conceptual art, on the other hand, often takes its time. Without shared references or context, it can feel distant — like a conversation we’ve walked into halfway through.

Artists and curators simply know more of those conversations. They’ve built broader frames of reference, so they see patterns and meanings that others might miss. But understanding can grow. A short explanation, a hint of context, or even a second look can turn confusion into connection.

Some works reach us immediately; others wait quietly until we’re ready to meet them halfway. That’s what makes art enduring — it doesn’t always shout for attention, but it’s always there, waiting to be seen.

Further Reading

• Reber, Schwarz & Winkielman — Processing Fluency and Aesthetic Pleasure

• Silvia — What Is Interesting?

• Leder & Nadal — A Model of Aesthetic Appreciation

• Loewenstein — The Psychology of Curiosity

• Marin & Leder — Berlyne Revisited

Ukranians in search of safety: Sofiia

Sofiia and her mother in The Netherlands.

I’m Sofiia, 18 years old, and I’m from Kharkiv, a city in eastern Ukraine, close to the Russian border. Until February 2022, my life was what you’d expect for a 15-year-old girl. I went to school, played sports, had friends, made plans. My world felt safe and simple — or so it seemed.

That all changed on February 24. My mother woke me up that morning and said: “Sofiia, the war has started. You’re not going to school today. We have to pack.” At first, I didn’t understand. As a kid, I even thought: no school, maybe I can stay in bed a bit longer. But then we spent days sleeping in the bathroom, between two thick walls. I heard bombs. I saw tanks passing by. We lived on a major road from Russia. Anything could happen at any moment.

My parents and I fled westward. What should have been a one-hour drive took eighteen hours. We slept in gyms, schools, and in places where strangers opened their doors to those in need. Eventually, we arrived in Chernivtsi, near the Carpathian Mountains. That’s where we made a decision that split my life in two: my mother and I would go to the Netherlands, while my father stayed behind. He couldn’t abandon his company or his employees. It broke our hearts, but there was no other option.

Through a friend of my mother’s, we ended up in Roermond. My mother didn’t speak any English, so I took on all the responsibility — documents, meetings, housing. I was fifteen, but suddenly I was no longer a child. In Ukraine, I had never been especially ambitious. But something shifted. I started school at Nt2 Mundium College in Roermond, a school for newcomers. The teachers saw me, supported me, and believed in me. They gave me confidence. I began learning Dutch, took extra courses, and became interested in marketing and international business. Things started to go well.

I now work part-time in an outlet store and volunteer at the Holland Ukrainian House in Maastricht, and a volunteer social media assistant at Meet Maastricht. I’m also doing an online university degree from Ukraine while preparing for a new chapter: I’ve been accepted to Maastricht University to study International Business. The admission process wasn’t easy — I didn’t meet all the requirements, had to submit extra documents, file an appeal, and prove my motivation. But I made it!

And still… everything I’m building here, I carry with mixed feelings. My father still lives in Kharkiv. His company is still running, our old apartment is still there — as if an angel is watching over it, because several bombs have fallen nearby. He lives under constant stress. When he visits us in Roermond, he even says he misses the adrenaline of danger. “You get used to it,” he says. But I also see what it’s done to him — how his thinking has changed, how heavy it all is for him.

My mother struggles. She’s trying to learn the language, but with no clarity about whether she can stay in the Netherlands, it’s hard for her to make decisions about her life. She doesn’t know whether her future lies here or back in Ukraine. Everything is uncertain. I try to support her — as I’ve done from the beginning. But I see how hard it is for her to live in this world of insecurity, without her home, her friends, her husband, her sense of certainty.

My older sister now lives in Spain with her husband and three children. They happened to be there on holiday when the war started, so they didn’t have to flee in a panic. They’re building a new life in Valencia. My cousins are scattered across Europe. Our family has been torn apart.

I don’t know what the future holds. I’d like to stay in the Netherlands — I feel at home here. I’m learning, growing, and I want to give something back. But for now, I only make small plans. After the war, you learn that everything can change in an instant. You become flexible — maybe too flexible. I always need a plan B.

War doesn’t just change your country. It changes your mind, your heart, your family. And still, I try to look forward. Because I’ve learned to. Because I have no other choice. Because I believe that building — even in small steps — is the only way not to break.

The Cathédrale Saint-Pierre of Poitiers

The Cathédrale Saint-Pierre of Poitiers.

In the historic heart of Poitiers, where Roman roads once crossed and medieval kings held court, rises one of France’s most striking Gothic churches: the Cathédrale Saint-Pierre. Begun around 1162 under the patronage of Eleanor of Aquitaine and Henry II of England, it reflects a turning point in architecture. Instead of the soaring spires of northern cathedrals, Poitiers offers a wide, hall-like interior—three nearly equal naves supported by massive clustered columns.

Step inside and you feel the difference immediately. The space is broad and luminous, more like an immense hall than a vertical climb toward heaven. Light spills through an exceptional set of 12th- and 13th-century stained-glass windows, among the oldest and best preserved in France. One masterpiece shows the Crucifixion flanked by detailed scenes from the lives of saints, its blues and ruby reds still glowing after eight centuries.

Music once filled this stone volume as richly as color does. The great organ, with pipes dating to the 18th century and a case adorned with delicate carvings, is among the finest in western France. Beneath it, carved choir stalls from the late Gothic period—intricate scenes of foliage, animals, and everyday life—give a surprisingly earthy counterpoint to the cathedral’s solemnity.

The building also tells of power and politics. Its foundation coincided with the Angevin empire of Henry II and Eleanor, whose marriage linked England and much of western France. Later centuries added chapels, sculptures, and restorations, but the core remains a proud witness to that rich medieval moment.

The interior of the Cathédrale Saint-Pierre

Young Bordeaux: Open, Curious, and Surprisingly Fluent in English

On an ordinary weekday in November, I found myself talking with a few students in Bordeaux. The weather was unusually warm for the season, giving the city a light, almost weightless atmosphere.

What struck me most was how effortlessly they shifted to English the moment I asked if they spoke English. They were open, curious, and happy to talk—and even happier to be photographed. Many carried actual books rather than screens, a small but refreshing reminder that reading in public is still very much alive.

They stood for portraits with an ease and confidence that surprised me. No posing culture, no hesitation—just simple human exchange. I walked away with images that feel honest, warm, and grounded in the everyday rhythm of the city. Sometimes the most ordinary moments offer the clearest glimpse of a place and its people.

Rotterdam Swim

From 2010, when Rotterdam Swim was still Rondje Noordereiland.

Each summer in Rotterdam, when the tide slows and the Maas turns mirror-smooth, a few hundred brave souls slip into its grey-green waters to swim around the island that beats at the city’s heart — the Noordereiland. What began in 2008 as a daring challenge among a dozen enthusiasts, the Rondje Noordereiland has grown into the Rotterdam Swim, a beloved open-water tradition that binds swimmers, city, and river in one living current. For many participants, it’s not about speed but about the thrill — the taste of brackish water, the slap of waves, the sight of the skyline from water level.

Safety boats, kayakers, and “kantjeslopers” — volunteers running along the embankments — keep watch, but the real challenge is mental: trusting the rhythm of your stroke as the city hums above you. Over the years, the swim has become a symbol of Rotterdam’s grit and love for the river that defines it.

Every edition tells the same story in a different tide — of endurance, community, and the pure joy of diving straight into the city’s bloodstream.

From 2010, when Rotterdam Swim was still Rondje Noordereiland.

The Douai Eucharistic Miracle

18th century painting of the Eucharistic miracle of Douai (1254), showing the consecrated Host rising from the priest’s hands to the monstrance and revealing a threefold vision of Christ—as Child, as the suffering Savior, and as the risen Lord—witnessed by clergy, townspeople, and angels.

On Easter Sunday 1254, in the collegiate church of Saint-Amé in Douai, something astonishing was said to have happened. As a priest distributed communion, the consecrated host slipped from his hands, rose into the air on its own, and settled on the monstrance. Those present then reported a threefold vision of Christ: first as a child (middle), then as the suffering Savior (left), and finally as the risen Lord (right).

The painting inspired by this event speaks in a language still striking today. At the center, a glowing child stands on the altar, arms open in welcome. To the left Christ is shown as the Man of Sorrows, marked by the cross and the crown of thorns; to the right He is alive again, robed in deep red and full of movement. Clergy and townspeople kneel around the altar, their faces lifted in awe, while small angels sweep across the rich red drapery above.

Whether one reads it as history, legend, or a meditation in color and light, the scene still points to the heart of the Eucharist: the mystery of a God who is present in birth, in suffering, and in new life. More than seven centuries later, the Douai painting keeps that moment of wonder alive for anyone willing to pause and look.

The Death of Meleager – A Roman Theme Recast in Medieval Stone

The Death of Meleager — marble relief carved in 11th-century Rome, reusing and reinterpreting ancient Roman motifs of the dying hero surrounded by mourners. Originally part of the Borghese Collection, later set into the façade of the Villa Borghese (1615), and now held in the Louvre Museum, Paris.

The Scene

Carved in marble in 11th-century Rome, this relief — known as The Death of Meleager — belongs to the Borghese Collection and now resides in the Louvre Museum, Paris. Though created long after antiquity, it reinterprets a classical myth that had already inspired countless Roman sarcophagi: the dying hero Meleager, surrounded by mourning women.

Meleager reclines on a couch, his body still strong but lifeless. Two women bend over him in grief — one supporting his shoulders, the other touching his face — while a third sits aside, her head veiled and her hand raised to her brow in a timeless gesture of sorrow. At the foot of the couch, a small dog waits faithfully beside a fallen helmet and shield, reminders of the hero’s warrior life. The figures are enclosed within deep niches, suggesting both an architectural setting and a tomb-like space.

The Meaning

In classical myth, Meleager’s death followed the Calydonian boar hunt and his fatal conflict with his own kin. Yet in this medieval version, the story has been transformed: no longer a mythic tragedy, but an image of human mortality. The sculptor, working in a Roman workshop of the 1000s, drew directly from ancient prototypes — perhaps even reusing a fragment of a Roman sarcophagus from the 2nd century CE — but gave it new devotional gravity.

Where ancient art emphasized heroic death, this version speaks in the visual language of compassion and lament. The gestures are quieter, the faces more introspective. The ancient Meleager becomes here a universal symbol of the dying man, surrounded by those who remain.

Reflection

Inserted into the façade of the Villa Borghese (Rome) in 1615 and later transferred to the Louvre, the relief bridges more than a millennium of art and faith. It shows how medieval artists continued to look back to Rome, not to revive its mythology, but to inherit its humanity. In this marble scene — the fallen hero, the grieving women, the silent dog — the boundaries between myth, memory, and prayer have dissolved.

Further Reading

• J. Elsner, Art and the Roman Viewer: The Transformation of Art from the Pagan World to Christianity

• C. Metzler, Sculpture in Rome, 1000–1150

• M. Greenhalgh, The Survival of Roman Antiquities in the Middle Ages

What Makes the French…French?

Walk a French morning and the country explains itself. A queue at the bakery, neighbors greeting each other, a radio debate about schools and secularism, a tricolor over the prefecture, a poster for Saturday’s march—none of it exceptional, all of it telling. France isn’t one grand essence but a choreography of daily rituals.

Start with language. French is a public craft as much as a mother tongue: teachers weigh words, TV hosts fence with phrasing, and a simple tu or vous places people at a measured distance. Labels that protect names of cheeses and wines show how vocabulary guards landscapes too. Clarity and beauty aren’t luxuries; they’re civic habits.

Then the republic—felt more than proclaimed. National curricula, competitive exams, big public services: the state is not shy about being visible. Laïcité sets the tone of shared space: religion respected, institutions neutral. Most days the rule feels like background calm; sometimes it sparks an argument about the line between expression and equality.

You taste the country in its timing. Lunch is part of the day’s architecture; markets return like a heartbeat; “terroir” ties flavor to place and patience. Even so, France is modern to the bone: TGVs stitch distances, hypermarkets and click-and-collect keep families on schedule. Big principles—liberty, equality, fraternity—share a house with big conveniences, and they argue over dinner.

Public disagreement isn’t a crisis here; it’s a civic sport. People strike, march, write op-eds. Café talk can sound like a seminar, and essays remain a popular way to think in public. Form matters too: a letter begins “Madame, Monsieur,” a meeting ends “Bien à vous.” Style isn’t pretense; it’s a language of respect.

Beneath it all hum a few live tensions: universal citizenship vs. visible group identities; Paris’s pull vs. the pride of the periphery; secular neutrality vs. personal expression; terroir vs. global brands; a protective state vs. entrepreneurial zest. None is settled—and that’s the point. To “read” France, watch where routine meets principle: the school gate at 8:30, the roundabout lined with chain stores, the market at noon. In those ordinary theaters, the country becomes legible—practical, argumentative, elegant, and stubbornly itself.

Ukrainians in search of safety: Svitlana and family

Svitlana with her husband and son in The Netherlands.

My name is Svitlana. I’m 40 years old, married, and the mother of a four-year-old son. Until February 2022, I lived a quiet and happy life in Chornobaivka, a village in the Kherson region in southern Ukraine. I owned my own nail studio, had worked as a manicure and pedicure specialist for seventeen years, and held a master’s degree in management. After my maternity leave, I dreamed of working in government. My husband and I were building our future: a beautiful, light-filled home for our family, full of plans and hope.

But everything changed on February 24, 2022.

That morning, the Russian invasion of Ukraine began. In the first few days, we didn’t understand how serious it was. My son was almost one year old – his birthday is on March 1. We decided to move in with my parents, as their house seemed safer than our fifth-floor apartment. But the violence reached us there too. We heard bombs, saw helicopters flying low overhead. Our house was hit by a rocket. The windows shattered. We had to flee to the basement, where we lived for three months.

That’s when the Russian occupation of our region began. It became a blockade. There was almost no food, no diapers, no baby formula. My parents and I ate only once a day, so my son would have enough. We slaughtered chickens, geese, and ducks. One neighbor found a small piece of turkey in her freezer – I cried with gratitude that I could give it to my child.

After three months, I knew we had to flee. I knew people who had tried and died, their cars hitting landmines. I was terrified. But staying might be even more dangerous. My husband was already in Europe and kept asking if I could come with our son. We tried to leave the occupied zone eleven times. Ten times we were stopped – there were no safe corridors, no green routes, no guarantees. On the eleventh try, we made it. When I saw the Ukrainian flag waving again after three months, I cried. The pain and fear of that time are still with me.

We stayed in the free part of Ukraine for another month. I arranged passports, saw doctors, took care of everything. Then we traveled via Moldova to Amsterdam, where my husband was waiting for us. Since July 2022, we’ve lived in Roermond. The municipality helped us – with food, diapers, a small bed. The kindness of the people here touched me deeply.

In the beginning, it was hard. I didn’t speak the language, didn’t know anyone. Everything was new, and I fell into a depression. But people helped us – with their hands, with pictures, with gestures. I started learning English, and now I’m waiting to start a Dutch language course. My husband has a permanent job at an outlet in Roermond, and our son goes to school. He’s doing well.

In the meantime, I do volunteer work at the Ukrainian school “Kryla” in Maastricht and sing in “Ptaha,” a choir of Ukrainian women. We sing, share our stories, and show that Ukrainian women are strong.

My parents still live in Ukraine. So does my brother. I miss them. I send gifts, try to help. Ukraine is and always will be my home. But here in the Netherlands, I feel safe. We want to stay here, build a life, rent a house in or near Roermond. My greatest dream is peace. No more war. No more sirens, bombs, or fear. I believe in a future with blue skies – for my son, for Ukraine, and for the whole world.

Robert the Magnificent and His Vow to the Sea

Robert the Magnificent of Normandy portrayed on the Genealogical Chronicle of the English Kings.

In the early 11th century, Normandy was still a young duchy—rich, restless, and ruled by a man whose life reads like a Norse saga. Robert I of Normandy (c. 1000 – 1035), remembered as Robert the Magnificent, was the son of Duke Richard II and the father of William the Conqueror.

Though only in his late twenties when he took the ducal mantle in 1027, Robert quickly earned a reputation for daring and spectacle. He kept the feudal barons in line, encouraged trade along the Channel coast, and cultivated ties with the great abbeys that dotted Normandy. Yet his most enduring story began not in a council chamber but on the open sea.

A Storm, a Vow, and Three Chapels

Legend tells that Robert was caught in a violent storm while crossing the Channel. As waves threatened to swallow his ship, he prayed to the Virgin Mary, promising that if he survived he would build three chapels of gratitude along Normandy’s coast. He reached land safely, and the vow became action:

1. La Délivrande, near Caen – Today a celebrated Marian shrine (Basilique Notre-Dame de la Délivrande), it grew from a humble chapel into one of Normandy’s oldest continuous pilgrimage sites.

2. Notre-Dame de Grâce, Honfleur – Perched high above the Seine estuary, this chapel became a sailors’ sanctuary. Generations of fishermen and explorers—from cod fishermen bound for Newfoundland to long-distance captains of the Age of Discovery—left ex-votos (model ships, plaques, and prayers) in thanks for safe voyages.

3. Notre-Dame de Salut, Fécamp – Built on a windswept cliff, this chapel doubled as a beacon for shipping. Even when religious wars ravaged it and its roof collapsed, the faithful of Fécamp rebuilt and returned. To this day departing vessels salute the site with three blasts of their horn, asking for “good wind and a safe return.”

Together these three sanctuaries stitched a spiritual safety net along Normandy’s maritime frontier—a chain of devotion and seamanship that long outlasted the duke who inspired them.

A Duke Larger than Life

Robert’s life ended as dramatically as it began. In 1035, during a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, he died suddenly—likely of illness—at Nicaea on the return journey. His young illegitimate son, William, would grow up to become William the Conqueror, reshaping European history.

Yet Robert’s own legacy is more than dynastic. His votive chapels stand as monuments to a ruler who linked faith and the sea, transforming a desperate prayer in a storm into three centuries-old beacons that still guide sailors and pilgrims alike.

Notre-Dame de Salut, Fécamp.

Further Reading

• David Bates, Normandy Before 1066

• Elisabeth van Houts, The Normans in Europe

The Expulsion of Paradise at the Abbey of Mont Saint-Michel (France)

Adam and Eve expelled from Paradise, mid-16th century, Abbey church of Mont-Saint-Michel, France.

Inside the abbey of Mont Saint-Michel, a mid-16th-century Caen-stone relief compresses the drama of Genesis 3 from the Bible into a single, charged scene. At the right side rises a tree full of apples. Coiled around its trunk clings a devilish figure, part human, part serpent, its horned head leaning toward Eve as one clawed hand offers the forbidden fruit. Adam stands close, torn between resistance and desire.

To the right, the consequence unfolds with striking force. A powerful angel strides forward, wings spread and sword raised, driving the pair out of the Garden of Eden. Adam and Eve shrink under the heavenly command: shoulders bent, arms crossed over their bare bodies, faces averted from the paradise they can no longer enter.

Carved during the French Renaissance, when sculptors combined late-Gothic sharpness with new attention to anatomy and movement, the relief captures in one sweep the temptation, judgment, and expulsion that mark the beginning of human history. More than five centuries on, the stone still brims with the urgency of that first exile.

Chavoncourt – Echoes of a Forgotten War

If you drive through Chavoncourt on a November afternoon, you would never suspect that this quiet village once stood at the violent crossroads of Europe. Today, it is a place of modest houses and fields stretching down to the slow waters of the Saône. But in the seventeenth century, during the Thirty Years’ War, Chavoncourt was a fortress-village, and its people endured fire, famine, and exile.

Back then, Franche-Comté was not yet French but Habsburg territory. That meant it lay directly in the path of armies—Spanish, Imperial, French, and Swedish—marching and counter-marching across the continent. The Saône valley was a lifeline and a danger: a supply route coveted by all sides. Chavoncourt, with its small castle and mills, became a target.

The chronicles of Vesoul and Gray record the devastation. Villages were stripped of grain, livestock driven away, churches burned. In 1636, when French troops stormed into the region, locals fled into forests and caves. Oral tradition in Chavoncourt tells of families hiding for weeks near the riverbanks, children silenced with bread crusts, while smoke rose from the rooftops of their homes.

The war left deep scars. Whole lineages disappeared, decimated by hunger and plague. By the 1650s, when peace returned, the castle was a ruin and the village only half-inhabited. Fields once fertile were overgrown, and the Saône carried not only barges but stories of ghost villages along its banks.

Yet the community rebuilt. The stones of the fortress were reused in barns and houses; orchards were replanted. What remains today is a village that bears little trace of its ordeal, except in the name—Chavoncourt—and in the silence of its November streets. To the casual passerby it seems timeless, but for those who listen closely, the past still whispers through its fields and the slow current of the river.

Further Reading

• Peter H. Wilson, Europe’s Tragedy: A History of the Thirty Years War (Penguin, 2009)

• Jean-Marie Cauchies, La Franche-Comté sous les Habsbourg (Presses Universitaires de Franche-Comté, 1994)

• Geoffrey Parker, Global Crisis: War, Climate Change & Catastrophe in the Seventeenth Century (Yale University Press, 2013)