Bertrand du Guesclin’s Spanish Adventure

The Battle of Montiel (1369) was the final clash in Castile’s civil war, where Enrique of Trastámara defeated and killed his half-brother, Pedro the Cruel, ending a brutal dynastic conflict. (Miniature from Jean Froissart's "Chronicles".)

The road was dry, the wind harsh. Dust curled around the hooves of tired horses. Among the mercenaries and exiled lords rode a dark figure in battered armor, his face shaded by a heavy helmet, his eyes sharp and unreadable. He wasn’t tall or handsome, and he wasn’t born to rule. But Bertrand du Guesclin (~1320-1380), son of a minor Breton knight, was about to change the fate of a kingdom that wasn’t his.

This wasn’t France. This was Castile. And this wasn’t his war. But it would become his story.

A Kingdom Torn in Two

Castile in the 1360s was a land of ambition and betrayal. Two brothers claimed the throne.

The first, Pedro I, ruled from Toledo with an iron fist. His enemies called him Pedro the Cruel, and they had reason to. Rebellions were crushed. Rivals vanished. Allies were disposable. But Pedro had powerful friends abroad—especially the Black Prince, the heir to the English crown and commander of elite troops.

The second, Enrique of Trastámara, was his half-brother, born outside of marriage. He had no lawful claim to the throne, but plenty of noble supporters—and the backing of the French king. Enrique fled north to seek help. And France answered, not with armies, but with one man who could lead them all.

They sent du Guesclin.

The Breton and the Pretender

Bertrand du Guesclin was not a man of polish. People said he looked like a bear and fought like one too. He didn’t win battles with speeches or splendor—he won them with cunning and grit. He had clawed his way up through the ranks of France’s endless war with England, earning a fearsome reputation and a name: The Black Dog of Brocéliande.

In 1366, du Guesclin led a motley army across the Pyrenees. Mercenaries, outlaws, knights of fortune—they followed him not for glory, but because he got results.

The campaign began well. Soria, Burgos, and Toledo all opened their gates to Enrique. Pedro fled. For a moment, the road to power seemed open.

But the English weren’t far behind.

Disaster at Nájera

In 1367, the armies met near the town of Nájera. The Castilian sun beat down on the banners of France and England, as du Guesclin faced off against the Black Prince himself.

It was a slaughter.

Du Guesclin was captured. Enrique ran. Pedro, cruel as ever, returned to his throne.

But Pedro didn’t win the war. He lost the people. While Enrique rebuilt, Pedro grew more isolated, more hated. And du Guesclin? He was ransomed—and returned.

He always returned.

The End at Montiel

The final act played out two years later, in 1369, at the fortress of Montiel, where Pedro’s army, weary and thin, was surrounded. Du Guesclin led the siege.

One night, Pedro slipped from the castle, trying to escape. But he was caught and brought to Enrique’s tent.

What happened next has passed into legend.

Some say Enrique hesitated. Brother or not, this was murder. Others say he moved without blinking. Du Guesclin, watching the drama unfold, supposedly said:
"I do not kill kings… but I open the door."

And he did.

Pedro was dead. Enrique was king. And Castile, now ruled by a French ally, would never again stand with England.

Echoes on the Wind

Bertrand du Guesclin returned to France, where he rose even higher—commander of the French armies, hero of the reconquest. But Spain stayed with him, a strange land where he’d helped make a king.

If you walk today through Toledo’s stone streets, or climb to the ruined fortress at Montiel, or stand in the plaza of Burgos, listen. You might hear the low rumble of horses, the rasp of old armor, the voice of a knight who wasn’t meant to rule—but ruled the moment all the same.

Further Reading

• Bertrand du Guesclin by Georges Minois

• The Hundred Years War, Vol. II: Trial by Fire by Jonathan Sumption

• The Black Prince by Michael Jones

• La vie et les faits mémorables du très vaillant chevalier Bertrand du Guesclin by Cuvelier (14th century epic poem)

• Local historical exhibits in Toledo, Montiel, and Burgos cathedrals

Russia, The Eternal Return of Suppression : The Fuse to the Powder Keg - Russia Before 1917

Tsar Nicholas II

In the early 20th century, the Russian Empire was vast, diverse, and unstable — a giant straddling Europe and Asia, rich in resources yet poor in governance. Tsar Nicholas II sat atop an autocratic system that resisted meaningful reform, even as the world around it modernized. The gap between the ruling elite and the majority of the population was staggering.

A Land of Peasants and Aristocrats
Over 80% of Russians were peasants, living in rural villages bound by centuries-old traditions. Many still carried the memory of serfdom, abolished only in 1861, and freedom had brought little improvement. Small plots, heavy taxes, and outdated farming methods left millions in chronic poverty. Meanwhile, a tiny aristocracy — less than 2% of the population — owned vast estates and enjoyed lives of comfort and privilege.

Industrialization Without Inclusion
By the late 1800s, Russia was industrializing, but unevenly. St. Petersburg and Moscow had textile mills, metal works, and railways. Harsh factory conditions, long hours, and low pay bred resentment among workers. The new urban proletariat had no political voice; trade unions were illegal, strikes often met with armed force. Russia’s economic modernization created the very class that would later become the backbone of revolutionary movements.

The Empire of Many Nations
Russia was not a homogeneous state. It ruled over Poles, Ukrainians, Balts, Finns, Armenians, Georgians, and Central Asian peoples — many of whom resented Russian dominance. Nationalist movements grew in strength, often clashing with the imperial government, which sought to “Russify” minorities by imposing the Russian language and Orthodox religion.

1905: The First Shockwave
The Russo-Japanese War (1904–1905) was meant to project imperial power but ended in humiliation. The defeat sparked unrest at home, culminating in the events of January 9, 1905 — “Bloody Sunday” — when troops fired on peaceful demonstrators in St. Petersburg. Nationwide strikes, mutinies, and uprisings followed. The tsar reluctantly granted a parliament, the Duma, but its powers were limited, and opposition parties were repressed. The monarchy had dodged collapse, but its legitimacy was badly weakened.

World War I: The Breaking Point
When war broke out in 1914, patriotism ran high, but Russia’s military was poorly equipped and badly led. Casualties mounted into the millions. The home front suffered from food shortages, inflation, and collapsing transport networks. By 1916, the tsar’s decision to take personal command of the army tied him directly to its failures. Meanwhile, political intrigue in the capital, symbolized by the influence of the mystic Rasputin, discredited the monarchy further. The empire was a powder keg — and the spark was coming.

Further Reading:

• Orlando Figes – A People’s Tragedy (1996)

• Hugh Seton-Watson – The Russian Empire 1801–1917 (1967)

• S. A. Smith – Russia in Revolution (2017)

’t Paeterke: Venlo’s Bronze Memory of the Dominicans (Venlo, The Netherlands)

‘t Paeterke, by Ger Janssen.

On Venlo’s Dominicanenplein stands ’t Paeterke—the Little Father—a bronze sculpture by local artist Ger Janssen. It honours the Dominican friars who lived here from 1892 until the early 21st century, first in the Trans-Cedron monastery and later beside the Kloosterkapel Mariaweide.

The chapel’s roots reach back to the early 15th century. Over the centuries it served as a beguine chapel, a pipe factory, a warehouse, even a carpentry shop, before war damage in WWII led to a major 1950s restoration. Today, it lives on as Domani, a vibrant cultural venue.

Janssen, known for capturing human expression in bronze, portrays the friar with quiet dignity—linking the square’s present to its monastic past. The Dominicanenplein itself emerged only in the late 20th century, when the city made the adjacent medieval Nieuwstraat car-free, creating a calm space where history still lingers.

Keepers of Time and Stories

The Keepers of Time and Stories.

Wandering through the bustling Flachsmarkt at Burg Linn, I stopped to watch a stand with some antique clocks, their soft ticking almost lost in the hum of the crowd. That’s where I came accross two friends from the north of the Netherlands — strangers at first, but quickly united with me in conversation by a shared curiosity.

They spoke about clocks the way my eldest brother could — with affection, reverence, and a twinkle in the eye. Their hands traced the shapes of ornate cases, their voices lingered over the details of intricate mechanisms, and every so often, they would pause to listen to the chime of a restored timepiece as if it were a voice from the past.

For them, each clock holds a story: of the craftsperson who built it, the families who lived by its hours, and the quiet persistence of time itself. I left our meeting feeling as though I had been shown not just clocks, but the heartbeat of history.

The Embrace of Saint Anne and Saint Joachim at the Golden Gate

Painted iron relief of the Meeting of Saint Anne and Saint Joachim at the Golden Gate, mounted above a chapel gate in the Basilica de Santa María de los Reales Alcázares, Úbeda, Spain.

At first glance, it looks like a joyful reunion. A woman and a man, both haloed and aged, meet at a gate and clasp each other in a heartfelt embrace. Around them, astonished onlookers — women, shepherds, even angels — witness this tender moment. But what we see in this painted iron relief, mounted above a chapel entrance in the Basilica de Santa María de los Reales Alcázares in Úbeda, Spain, is much more than a greeting. It’s a moment of sacred significance: the meeting of Saint Anne and Saint Joachim at the Golden Gate.

This scene draws its roots not from the canonical gospels, but from an early Christian apocryphal text — the Proto-Evangelium of James (also known as the Proto-Gospel of James), written in the second century CE. In this text, Anne and Joachim are the elderly, childless couple who become the parents of Mary, the future mother of Jesus. After being separated and praying in solitude, each is visited by an angel with miraculous news: Anne will bear a child. They rush to meet each other in Jerusalem, and embrace at the Golden Gate.

The scene captured in the ironwork shows this event in vivid, almost theatrical detail. Anne, cloaked and veiled, reaches toward Joachim, who is depicted with a long beard and a broad gesture of affection. The shepherd with the ram over his shoulders, and the angelic figures floating above, remind us that this is not just a family moment — it is the beginning of a divine plan. Mary is not yet born, but already her story is in motion.

In this small piece of devotional art — forged and painted, then placed above a gate where worshippers pass — we see a powerful symbol of new beginnings. Hope when all hope seemed lost. Life arriving quietly, unexpectedly, through faith.

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent: The Tourists 04

The Austrians.

They arrived in late spring, when the air still carried the scent of damp stone and last year’s leaves. An Austrian couple—no one knew their names. He wore bright red suspenders and a hat far too round for the region, like something from a travelling circus. Children whispered le clown autrichien behind cupped hands.

They stayed at the village’s only chambre d’hôtes, run by Madame Jourdain, who spoke no German. They spoke no French. Still, somehow, keys were exchanged, a bed was made, and they were shown to the room with the floral curtains and the sagging double mattress locals call le lit français—too narrow for sleep, too wide for comfort.

They stayed just one night. Ate nothing. Said little. By morning, they were gone.

No note. No payment. Only this photo remained—wedged behind a mirror frame, discovered weeks later when the light fell just right.

In Saint-Mystère, that was enough.
It always is.

The Pérusse des Cars family and Les Cars (France)

Le Château des Cars, Les Cars (France).

The Pérusse des Cars family, known since the 11th century, is one of the oldest noble families in France. Their rise to prominence came through service to the Viscounts of Limoges and the French kings, as well as strategic marriages and skillful estate management. Members of the family held prestigious positions and played important roles throughout French history, including during the Revolution and the Restoration.

After the Revolution, notable figures like Louis-Marie de Pérusse des Cars and his brother Jean-François continued to serve royal causes, with the latter becoming a duke. The family’s influence continued through Louis-Nicolas and his descendants, who were involved in military, diplomatic, and economic activities, modernizing their estates, especially the La Roche de Bran domain in Montamisé. Their loyalty to the Bourbon monarchy remained a cornerstone of their legacy.

The family also had deep social ties in Montamisé, contributing to the local economy and establishing schools and religious services for the community.

The church in Les Cars (Eglise de la Nativite-de-la-tres-Sainte-Vierge, France), founded in the 12th century, following the donation of the village of Les Cars to the Saint-Martial monastery in Limoges by the Dean of the Saint-Yrieix monastery. It was initially dedicated to Saint Mary Magdalene, later changing its dedication to the Nativity of the Holy Virgin.

The Black Death in Europe

The Spread of the Plague in Europe, 1346–1353" by Simeon Netchev. © World History Encyclopedia. Licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0. Available at: https://worldhistory.org/image/12038/the-spread-of-the-plague-in-europe-1346---1353.

Plagues were not new to Europe. Outbreaks had come and gone for centuries, often leaving sorrow in their wake. But in the late 1340s, something changed. A new wave of plague struck Europe with a force no one had seen before—or since.

It began in 1347, when trading ships arrived in the Sicilian port of Messina. Onboard were dead or dying sailors—and rats carrying fleas infected with Yersinia pestis. Within months, the disease spread across the Mediterranean and deep into the heart of Europe. This time, it didn’t just take lives—it shattered an entire world.

A Pandemic Unleashed

Between 1347 and 1353, the plague tore across the continent in wave after wave. Within six short years, it claimed the lives of an estimated 25 to 50 million people—between 30% and 60% of Europe’s population.

Though plague outbreaks would return regularly in later centuries, this first explosion was by far the most deadly. No region was untouched, but some places suffered extraordinarily high mortality rates:

Cities hit especially hard:

• Florence: ~60% mortality (~60,000 deaths out of ~100,000 inhabitants)

• Paris: ~50% mortality (~100,000 deaths out of ~200,000 inhabitants)

• London: ~45% mortality (~40,000 deaths out of ~90,000 inhabitants)

• Venice: ~60% mortality (~60,000 deaths out of ~100,000 inhabitants)

• Avignon: ~55% mortality (~11,000 deaths out of ~20,000 inhabitants, recorded in just a few weeks)

• Barcelona: ~40% mortality (~16,000 deaths out of ~40,000 inhabitants)

By 1351, the plague reached Poland and parts of Russia. In many towns, entire neighborhoods were abandoned. Fields went untilled, shops closed, and churches fell silent. The dead were buried in mass graves, sometimes without rites or names.

Death and Transformation

The Black Death brought chaos—but also change. With fewer workers, wages rose. The old feudal order began to erode. Many questioned the authority of the Church, especially as priests and bishops died alongside commoners.

Fear led to violence. In parts of Europe, Jewish communities were scapegoated, accused of poisoning wells, and brutally massacred. Elsewhere, people turned to religion, mysticism, or radical movements like the flagellants.

Yet from the ruins, something new slowly emerged: a deeper awareness of human fragility—and a spark of cultural transformation that would later blossom into the Renaissance.

A Timeless Warning

Art from the time, like the famous Danse Macabre, shows death leading kings, cardinals, and beggars hand in hand. The message was clear: no one escapes the dance.

The Dance of Death: The Cardinal and the King
This woodcut depicts two powerful figures—a cardinal and a king—being led away by personifications of Death. It is part of the Danse Macabre tradition, a late medieval allegory that reminds viewers of the inevitability of death, regardless of rank or status. The image originates from the 1490 edition of La Danse Macabre printed by Guyot Marchant in Paris, one of the earliest and most influential printed versions of this theme.

Centuries later, this moment still haunts us—not just for its suffering, but for how it changed the world.

Russia, The Eternal Return of Suppression: Placing the War in Ukraine in Historical Context

When Russia launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine on February 24, 2022, it was more than a war between two countries. It was the most direct challenge to Europe’s post–Cold War order, the most violent conflict on the continent since the Second World War, and a shockwave with global repercussions.

For many, the war seemed to erupt suddenly — a bolt from the blue. But the roots of this confrontation run deep, woven through a century of revolutions, wars, ideological struggles, and shifting borders. To understand the decisions being made today in Moscow, Kyiv, Brussels, and Washington, we must first understand how we got here.

This series of blogs is meant to provide that context. It will trace the modern history of Russia, Ukraine, and the wider post-Soviet space from the last years of the tsars to the present day. It is not just a story of leaders and battles, but of societies in transformation — and of how history shapes political choices, national identities, and international relations.

Why Ukraine Matters to the World
Ukraine’s struggle is not only about its own survival. It is also about:

• Whether borders in Europe can be changed by force.

• Whether smaller nations have the right to choose their alliances without pressure from larger neighbors.

• How the outcome of this war will influence the future of European security, global trade, and the balance of power between democracies and autocracies.

What This Series Covers
The historical arc will be told in a number of blog items, beginning with the social and political forces that led to the Russian Revolution of 1917, and moving through the rise of the Soviet Union, the Cold War, the collapse of the USSR, the chaotic 1990s, and Russia’s resurgence under Vladimir Putin — culminating in the events of 2014, the invasion of 2022 and the mess we are in today.

Our Lady of the Pillar – A Sky of Stone in Zaragoza (Spain)

The Cathedral-Basilica of Our Lady of the Pillar in Zaragoza, seen from across the Ebro River.

Towering over the Ebro River with its tiled domes and graceful spires, the Cathedral-Basilica of Our Lady of the Pillar is the spiritual and architectural heart of Zaragoza. It’s not just a place of worship—it’s a living legend built in stone.

At its core is a miracle: according to tradition, the Virgin Mary appeared to the Apostle James here around 40 CE, while she was still alive, and left behind a jasper pillar as a sign of comfort. That stone remains the center of devotion today, enshrined beneath a small statue of Mary dressed in royal robes—changed daily like garments for a queen.

The basilica that rose around this sacred relic is a masterpiece of Baroque design. Inside, domes stretch skyward, painted with celestial frescoes by artists like Francisco de Goya. Despite the grandeur, there is intimacy: pilgrims kiss the pillar through a polished opening in the chapel wall, and locals still come here to light candles, to pray, or simply to pause.

El Pilar also bears scars—three bombs fell on the building during the Spanish Civil War. None exploded. The holes remain visible, a quiet testimony to survival and faith.

Each October, the square outside bursts into life during the Fiestas del Pilar, when thousands of people bring flowers, music, and devotion. But even on an ordinary day, the basilica hums with history and hope.

This is not a church frozen in time. El Pilar breathes. And when you stand beneath its domes or brush your fingers against the worn stone of the pillar, you feel something ancient and immediate—something that still matters.

Bocadillo de jamón

A shop window with bocadillos in Pamplona (Spain).

The bocadillo de jamón is a classic Spanish sandwich, celebrated for its simplicity and rich flavor. Made with slices of jamón ibérico, Spain's prized cured ham, and served inside a fresh, crusty baguette-like bread, this sandwich is a perfect example of how high-quality ingredients can create something truly delicious. Often paired with a drizzle of olive oil, the bocadillo de jamón is a favorite across Spain, enjoyed as a snack, a light meal, or even a quick bite during social gatherings. Its combination of flavors highlights the essence of Spanish cuisine: simple, yet exceptional.

David and Goliath — Vengeance in Stone (Vézelay, France)

David and Goliath, Romanesque capital (12th c.), Basilica of Sainte-Madeleine, Vézelay, France. David, standing on foliage, uses Goliath’s own sword to behead the giant. Goliath falls backward, still armored.

High among the capitals of the Basilica of Sainte-Madeleine in Vézelay, a violent and vivid drama unfolds in limestone: the biblical clash between David and Goliath, captured at its blood-soaked peak. (I Samuel 17:48–51)

The capital tells its story in two acts. On the side (a modern reconstruction), we glimpse the moment before the climax: young David raises his sling, ready to face the Philistine warrior. But it’s the front face of the capital that delivers the blow.

Here, the drama bursts into action. The small, clean-shaven David — nimble and determined — stands balanced on what may be stylized foliage. With one foot he pushes the giant back, while with both hands he lifts an enormous sword and brings it down on Goliath’s neck. The giant is mid-fall, his arms flailing, his bulky frame dressed in heavy chainmail and a conical helmet. A stone — the one from David’s sling — remains lodged in his forehead. From Goliath’s belt hangs an empty scabbard. It is his own sword, now wielded by his young killer.

The sculptor doesn’t give us a passive victory. He gives us movement, tension, and theological weight. David is not merely triumphant; he is chosen, active, righteous. Goliath is not just big — he is blind to the deeper power at work.

Vézelay’s basilica is best known for its monumental tympanum and pilgrimage history, but capitals like this one reward slower, closer looking. They reveal a world where every gesture is meaningful, every figure purposeful — and where even the coldest stone can cry out the clash of faith and force.

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent: The Tourists 03

The Germans.

They came in a tidy black car, quiet and efficient, just like them. A German couple, passing through on their way to somewhere else. He wore a suit and she had a colourful dress. They spoke softly, but with purpose.

They chose the bench near the linden tree, unpacked a neat picnic—rye bread, cheese, hard-boiled eggs, potato salad, and something in a glass jar. Everything arranged just so, on a clean cloth. A proper German picnic, someone said.

They ate in silence, glancing now and then at the shuttered windows.

Then they packed up, nodded politely to no one in particular, and drove off.

That was the summer Saint-Mystère stopped appearing in brochures.

The Stroppendragers of Ghent (Belgium)

Left: The ‘Stroppendragers’ procession in Ghent (2025), and a statue of the infamous Charles V (1500 – 1558).

In the Middle Ages, Ghent (Belgium) was not just a city—it was a powerhouse. Its cloth industry, driven by skilled guilds and international trade, made it one of the wealthiest urban centers in Europe. Its citizens were proud, independent, and deeply protective of the rights they had wrestled from kings and counts over generations.

But by the 16th century, that proud city found itself at odds with the most powerful ruler in Europe—its own native son, Charles V. What followed was not just a symbolic punishment involving ropes and bare feet—it was the culmination of a long economic struggle, and a rebellion rooted in one thing: taxes.

From Cloth to Crisis

Ghent’s rise began in the 13th century, when it harnessed the cloth trade like no other. Raw wool, often from England and Scotland, was transformed into high-quality textiles and shipped across the continent. Trade flowed in and out along the Scheldt River, and for a time, the artificial Lieve Canal gave Ghent an additional edge with a direct route to the sea via Damme.

The city flourished. Its population boomed. Grand halls and belfries rose along the riverside quays. The guilds of weavers, fullers, and merchants didn’t just make money—they held political power.

But no golden age lasts forever. By the late 15th century, Ghent’s dominance began to fade. The siltation of key waterways, competition from rising ports like Antwerp, and shifts in international trade routes all chipped away at its position. The cloth industry slowed. Revenues declined. Yet the city remained large—and expensive to govern.

The Emperor and the Bill

When Charles V inherited the Spanish crown and the title of Holy Roman Emperor, he also inherited the Low Countries—including Ghent. But Charles’s ambitions were continental. He fought wars in Italy, Germany, North Africa, and against the Ottomans. To fund these campaigns, he looked to his subjects for money—lots of it.

In 1539, Charles demanded a large “bijkomende bede”—an extraordinary tax. Cities across the region grumbled, but most complied. Ghent did not.

The people of Ghent insisted they couldn’t pay. More than that, they argued they shouldn’t have to. They had charters of privilege dating back centuries, giving them a say in taxation. They believed they were partners in governance—not subjects to be milked. And in this case, their coffers were genuinely stretched.

What began as refusal turned to rebellion. The city council dithered, then sided with the people. Charles saw it as defiance—worse, treason.

Humiliation and Control

In 1540, Charles entered Ghent with an army. There was no battle. The city surrendered. But the punishment was meant to last.

He stripped Ghent of its ancient rights. The guilds lost power. A permanent citadel was built to remind the city who was boss. And in a gesture calculated to break their pride, a group of prominent citizens were forced to walk barefoot through the streets, dressed in white shirts with nooses around their necks, to publicly beg the emperor’s forgiveness.

The message was clear: rebellion would not be tolerated.

From Shame to Symbol

The story of the Stroppendragers—the noose bearers—has lived on ever since. What was meant as a moment of submission became a symbol of resistance. Today, the image of the white-clad procession, rope around the neck, is remembered not as a disgrace, but as a reminder of Ghent’s defiant spirit.

Each year during the Gentse Feesten, Ghent honors this history with a procession of the Stroppendragers. Participants march barefoot in white gowns and with ropes around their necks—not in shame, but in proud memory of those who stood up to imperial power. What was once forced humiliation has become a celebration of local identity, resilience, and the enduring refusal to bow quietly.

Pamplona (Spain)

Pamplona, Spain.

In Pamplona’s streets, the leaves all swirl,
The air smells like rain, chestnuts, and churro whirl.
Umbrellas pop open in a polka-dot dance,
While locals dodge puddles with seasoned romance.

Boots click on cobbles, scarves wrap nice and snug,
With a shout of “¡Hola!” and a neighborly shrug.
In Pamplona, autumn strolls feel quite grand,
Where weather and charm go hand in hand!

Saints, Scales, and Salvation: The Master of Soriguerola

The Psychostasis and the Apostles Peter and Paul, late 13th century. Panels attributed to the Master of Soriguerola. Tempera on wood, originally part of an altar ensemble from the Vall de Ribes, Catalonia. On the left, Archangel Michael weighs a soul while a demon attempts to tip the scales toward damnation. On the right, Saints Peter and Paul stand in dialogue, representing apostolic authority and intercession. Housed in the MEV – Museu Episcopal de Vic, Spain.

In the quiet valley of Ribes, nestled in the Catalan Pyrenees, two painted wooden panels once flanked an altar—powerful fragments of medieval imagination and faith. Today, they hang in the MEV – Museu Episcopal de Vic, a museum dedicated to medieval art in the heart of Catalonia.

These panels are attributed to a mysterious but distinctive painter known only as the Master of Soriguerola, active in the late 13th century. Working at the crossroads of Romanesque tradition and Gothic expression, his style is unmistakable: vibrant red, yellow, and green backgrounds, boldly outlined figures, and a gift for compressing complex religious ideas into clear, almost theatrical scenes.

The first panel shows Archangel Michael weighing souls—a theme known as the psychostasis. A naked soul balances on the scales of judgment. One side sinks gently toward salvation, but a hook-wielding demon clings to the other, trying to tip the balance toward damnation. It's one of the most compelling and popular images in medieval Catalan art: spiritual justice captured in a single, tense moment.

The companion panel shifts from judgment to intercession. Saint Peter, holding the keys to Paradise, and Saint Paul, the apostle to the nations, stand in quiet conversation. Between them, a small, pleading soul looks upward. There is no chaos here—just a delicate moment of mercy, rendered with both humility and authority.

Together, these panels explore the fate of the soul after death—first weighed by divine justice, then offered the hope of salvation through apostolic intercession. And they do so with a visual clarity and emotional impact that mark the Master of Soriguerola as one of the most compelling voices in Catalan art of the time.

Though we don’t know his real name, we still recognize his hand. And through it, we glimpse a medieval world grappling with eternal questions, expressed in color, line, and faith.

Anne Applebaum on Why Putin Refuses Peace

Anne Applebaum.

Anne Applebaum has argued that one of the biggest mistakes in understanding the war in Ukraine is to see it as a struggle over territory. Russia already stretches across eleven time zones, with vast regions it can barely populate. It does not “need” Donetsk, Crimea, or any other piece of land. For Putin, the war is not about geography but about power—the power to dominate Ukraine and pull it back into Russia’s orbit.

This is why talk of “land for peace” has always missed the point. Even when Western leaders hinted at deals that would have given Moscow large concessions, Putin was uninterested. He still believes he can win outright. That belief rests on a simple calculation: Americans are unreliable, Europeans are weak, and Ukrainians will eventually be bombed, starved, or demoralized into submission. If victory is still within reach, why settle?

Applebaum likens the war to France’s colonial fight in Algeria. Imperial powers often cling to the illusion that colonies can be held against their will. But just as Algeria was not French, Ukraine is not Russian. Both wars reveal the same truth: occupation cannot manufacture belonging. The question is not whether Moscow will one day accept this, but when.

Until that reckoning comes, Applebaum warns, hopes for quick ceasefires or neat compromises are illusions. Russia will only stop when defeat becomes undeniable, and the West’s task is to hasten that realization.

Further Reading

• Anne Applebaum, Twilight of Democracy: The Seductive Lure of Authoritarianism (2020)

• Anne Applebaum, Red Famine: Stalin’s War on Ukraine (2017)

• Timothy Snyder, The Road to Unfreedom: Russia, Europe, America (2018)

• Serhii Plokhy, The Gates of Europe: A History of Ukraine (2015)

• Mark Galeotti, Putin’s Wars: From Chechnya to Ukraine (2022)

• Michael Kimmage, Collision: The War in Ukraine and the Origins of the New Global Instability (2023)

Soustons (France)

Église Saint-Pierre de Soustons.

Soustons is a picturesque commune located in the Landes department of southwestern France. Nestled amidst verdant forests and pristine lakes, its history dates back to ancient times. Originally inhabited by the Aquitani, a tribe of early settlers, the area witnessed Roman influence, as evidenced by archaeological remnants. During the Middle Ages, Soustons developed as a strategic locality, marked by the construction of fortifications and the growth of agriculture. Its name is thought to derive from the Gascon word "soustons," meaning "below the hill," reflecting its geographical setting. Over the centuries, Soustons evolved from a modest village to a vibrant community, deeply connected to the cultural and natural heritage of the Landes region.

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent: The Tourists 02

The Dutch couple.

They arrived one morning in a large sedan. A Dutch couple—middle-aged, polite, the kind who read every sign and carry their own thermos. It was sometime in the early ’90s, during those strange, brief years when Saint-Mystère began appearing on maps it had never asked to be on.

They walked through the village. Took a photo near the fountain. Had coffee on the terrace, though no one remembers what they were looking for.

By late afternoon, they were gone.

They didn’t stay the night, … they never came back.

But the photo remained—tucked behind a loose board in the café wall. No one knows how it got there. Or why.
In Saint-Mystère, we don’t ask.

Saint Nicholas Church in Valencia (Spain)

Interior of the Church of Saint Nicholas of Bari and Saint Peter Martyr, Valencia, Spain.
Originally built in the 13th century in Gothic style, the church was transformed in the late 17th century with richly painted Baroque frescoes. The ceiling scenes, completed by Antonio Palomino and Dionís Vidal (1690–1693), illustrate the lives of the church’s two patron saints.

In the maze of narrow streets in Valencia’s historic center, not far from the bustle of the central market and the Cathedral, there’s a doorway that many pass by without a second glance. But behind it lies one of the most breathtaking interiors in Spain: the Church of Saint Nicholas of Bari and Saint Peter Martyr — often called the “Sistine Chapel of Valencia.”

The church’s origins date back to the 13th century, shortly after King James I of Aragon reconquered the city from Muslim rule in 1238. Built on the site of an earlier mosque, it became one of the first twelve Christian parishes in the city. Its original structure was Gothic, with a single nave, ribbed vaults, and side chapels — elements still visible today if you look past the visual feast of Baroque ornamentation.

The transformation that gave Saint Nicholas its current splendor came in the late 17th century, when the church was richly redecorated in the Baroque style. This was part of a larger movement in Catholic Europe to inspire awe and devotion through grand, emotional art. In Valencia, the project was led by the Dominican order, who commissioned the best local artists to turn the church into a dazzling space of storytelling and worship.

And they delivered. The ceilings and upper walls are completely covered with frescoes painted between 1690 and 1693 by Antonio Palomino, court painter to Charles II of Spain, and executed by his student Dionís Vidal. The frescoes narrate the lives of Saint Nicholas of Bari (known for his generosity and miracles) and Saint Peter Martyr (a Dominican friar martyred for his faith). The artwork wraps the viewer in a swirling panorama of angels, clouds, martyrdom scenes, and divine visions — all unfolding above your head in glowing color and dynamic movement.

Light streams in through the stained-glass windows, catching the gilded carvings of the high altar and chapels. The organ pipes shimmer under painted arches, and every detail — from stucco cherubs to marble inlays — contributes to a sense of otherworldly beauty. But this isn’t just art for art’s sake. It was meant to move people, to lift them toward the heavens, to remind them of the power and glory of faith.

Today, Saint Nicholas Church is not only a functioning parish but also a cultural gem. It has undergone meticulous restoration in recent years, revealing the full brilliance of the frescoes and reviving its place in the life of the city. Whether you're drawn by faith, history, or beauty, this church offers one of the most stunning and surprising experiences in Valencia.