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.

Between What Is Said and What Is Understood

High-context and low-context cultures explained through everyday life

Image generated with ChatGPT.

You leave a conversation with the feeling that everything was clear. Nothing dramatic was said, no disagreement surfaced, the exchange felt polite, even warm. Later, you discover that the other person took something entirely different from it. No one lied. No one acted in bad faith. And yet, something essential was missed.

Most of us recognise this — while travelling, visiting family, dealing with neighbours, or moving between regions and countries. We tend to explain it away as “culture,” temperament, or personality. But beneath these moments lies something more fundamental: different ways cultures carry meaning.

To make sense of this, anthropologists often distinguish between low-context and high-context cultures. The terms describe where a culture expects meaning to live.

In low-context cultures, meaning is carried mainly by words. Communication is explicit. What is said or written matters most, because shared assumptions cannot be taken for granted.

In high-context cultures, meaning is carried largely by context. Much is understood without being said. Relationships, shared history and social cues carry more weight than explicit wording.

Most societies fall somewhere in between. Misunderstandings arise when people assume their own way of carrying meaning is universal.

With that in mind, many everyday frictions suddenly become easier to recognise.

In low-context cultures, words are expected to do the heavy lifting. If something matters, it should be stated clearly. Precision is not coldness; it is care. Written language, exact phrasing and explicit explanations are trusted because they reduce ambiguity.

In high-context cultures, meaning often lives outside words. Tone, timing, gesture and silence matter as much as speech. Saying everything out loud can feel unnecessary or even awkward — as if you are questioning what everyone already understands.

Neither approach is superior. They evolved under different social conditions. Low-context communication works well in societies where people interact frequently with strangers and move easily between roles and places. High-context communication thrives where relationships are long-term and shared experiences run deep.

Tension appears when these worlds meet.

To someone from a low-context background, high-context communication may feel vague or evasive. “Why don’t they just say it?” To someone from a high-context background, low-context communication can feel blunt, insensitive or oddly distrustful. “Why does everything need to be spelled out?”

These reactions are rarely about manners or intelligence. They reflect different assumptions about where meaning belongs.

You can sense this difference when moving across regions. In some places, a direct statement is welcomed as honest and respectful. In others, the same sentence may feel abrupt or even offensive. A carefully phrased hint may feel perfectly clear to one person and completely insufficient to another. Neither is wrong — they are listening for meaning in different places.

This difference also shapes how people understand responsibility.

In low-context cultures, responsibility is closely linked to explicit statements. If something was said, agreed or written, it carries weight. Responsibility can be traced back to a moment of expression.

In high-context cultures, responsibility is more relational. It emerges from shared understanding rather than explicit declaration. Calling something out directly can feel disruptive, as if it threatens the relationship itself.

This is why misunderstandings can be so persistent. One person believes everything was clear. The other believes nothing was settled. Both interpretations make sense — within their own cultural logic.

History offers many echoes of this tension. Written law alongside customary law. Urban centres governed by charters next to rural communities guided by tradition. These were not only legal differences, but differences in how meaning itself was organised.

Understanding high-context and low-context communication does not eliminate conflict. What it offers is insight into why good intentions so often fail to land as intended.

Meaning is not always contained in words. Sometimes it lives in what surrounds them — and noticing that can change how we listen, how we travel, and how we live with difference.

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.

A 4th-Century Voice from Extremadura: The Tombstone of Pascentius

The tombstone of Pascentius (Archaeological Museum of Badajoz, Spain).

In the Archaeological Museum of Badajoz, a single limestone slab gives us an unusually intimate glimpse into late Roman life in the 4th century AD. Found in the necropolis of Torrebaja near Pueblonuevo del Guadiana, the tombstone of Pascentius reflects a moment when Christianity was reshaping the spiritual landscape of Roman Hispania.

Beneath a Chrismon carved between two palms, the text unfolds in long, elegant lines. Here is the core of the inscription:

Latin Text

PASCENTIVS AMA
TOR DEI CVLTORQVE FI
DELIS EX HAC LVCE MIGRAV
IT ANNORVM XXVIII
PROTINVS VT VOCEM AV
RIBVS PERCEPIT CARMIN
A CRISTI RENVNTIAVIT M
VNDO POM PISQVE LABEN
TIBVS EIVS FERALENQVE
VITAM TEMVLENTIAEQVE PO
CVLA BACCHI SOBRIVS VT
ANIMVS SPECVLARETV
R AETHERIA · REGNA · CVM I
N ISTO · CERTAMINE · FORTIS
DIMICARET · ACLETA PLACVI
T NAMQVE · DEO · VT · EVM · A
RCIRET · ANTE · TRIBVNAL DA
TVRVS · EI · PALMAM · STOLAM
ADVQVE · CORONAM · VOS
QVI · HAEC · LEGITIS · ADVQVE
SPE DELECTAMINI · VANA · D—
—SITE IVSTITIAM · M—
—OLITE C—

Translation

Pascentius, lover and devoted servant of God, departed from this light at the age of twenty-eight. As soon as he heard in his ears the voice of Christ, he renounced the world and its fading vanities, the pleasures of life, and the intoxicating cups of Bacchus, so that with a sober spirit his soul might contemplate the heavenly realms.

He fought bravely in this struggle, and since it pleased God, he was summoned before His tribunal to receive the palm, the robe, and the crown.

You who read this, and who delight in a vain hope—do not allow injustice to be done to him.

Even in its brevity, the inscription reveals a full story: a young man turning decisively toward the Christian life, rejecting the social spectacles and indulgences of the Roman world, and entering what his community saw as a spiritual contest. The final line—addressed directly to the reader—reminds us that tombstones were not only memorials but moral messages, intended to shape the living as much as to honor the dead.

Sixteen centuries later, Pascentius’ voice still reaches us from his stone in Badajoz.

Surviving Deception: The Picaresque World of Lazarillo de Tormes

Lazarillo de Tormes is a Spanish novel, published anonymously in 1554, that exemplifies the picaresque genre—a style of storytelling that follows the adventures of a roguish yet resourceful protagonist, often of low social standing, who must rely on wit and cunning to survive in a corrupt and unjust society. The story revolves around Lázaro, a poor boy born near the river Tormes, who, after losing his father at a young age, is sent by his mother to serve as an apprentice to a blind beggar. This cruel master forces him to endure hardship, but in doing so, also teaches Lázaro the harsh realities of life. Quickly, the boy learns that deception and trickery are sometimes his only means of survival.

Like many picaresque protagonists, Lázaro moves from one master to another, each encounter offering a glimpse into the different layers of Spanish society. He serves a miserly priest who hoards food while his servant starves, compelling Lázaro to develop clever ways to steal. Later, he becomes the attendant of a proud yet destitute nobleman who values his dignity above basic survival, leaving Lázaro to beg on his behalf. He also crosses paths with a corrupt seller of indulgences, whose manipulative schemes reveal the deep-seated hypocrisy within religious institutions.

Throughout his journey, Lázaro adapts, using whatever means necessary to improve his circumstances—whether through deception, strategic flattery, or sheer resilience. Eventually, he secures a stable position as a town crier and marries a woman with ties to a local priest, seemingly achieving some level of social respectability. However, true to the picaresque tradition, his success is tinged with irony, as it comes at the cost of his moral integrity and forces him to accept the very corruption he once struggled against.

With its sharp satire and unfiltered realism, Lazarillo de Tormes exposes the hypocrisy of the church, the rigid class divisions, and the daily struggles of the lower classes in 16th-century Spain. As one of the earliest and most influential picaresque novels, it presents a world where survival depends not on noble ideals, but on the ability to navigate a society built on illusion and deception.

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.

The Legionary, the Dog, and the Healing Mud of Dax (France)

A Roman legionary and his loyal dog — a statue recalling the founding legend of Dax as a city of healing springs.

On the Place de la Cathédrale in Dax, in the shade of old olive trees, stands a quietly touching statue: a Roman legionary and his dog. At first glance it looks like just another piece of classical decoration. But behind it hides the founding legend of one of France’s oldest spa towns.

Long before Dax became a destination for bathrobes, wellness programmes and medical cure packages, it was already famous in Roman times as Aquae Tarbellicae — the waters of the Tarbelli tribe. Soldiers, officials and travellers came here to soak in warm mineral springs and coat their aching joints with therapeutic mud from the river Adour.

And according to local legend, it all began with a dog.

The story goes that a Roman legionary stationed in the area owned a loyal dog suffering badly from rheumatism. The animal could barely walk. Believing its suffering could not be eased, the soldier abandoned it on the banks of the Adour. When he later returned from campaign, he was astonished to find his dog alive, playful — and completely cured.

The animal had taken refuge in the warm, mineral-rich mud along the riverbanks. The same mud that is still used today in Dax’s famous thermal treatments.

The miracle dog had done what centuries of medicine would later confirm: Dax’s water and mud truly have healing properties.

Today Dax is France’s leading spa town for rheumatology. Tens of thousands of visitors come every year for three-week medical cures prescribed by doctors. Around the thermal baths grew an entire city economy: hotels, clinics, wellness centres, rehabilitation programmes, and an army of physiotherapists and hydrotherapists.

The statue of the legionary and his dog quietly tells the story of how Dax became a place of healing — where warm springs, river mud and time itself helped wounded bodies walk again.

Sometimes, history begins not with emperors or generals — but with a limping dog and a soldier who loved him.

Trump, Carney and Europe’s Identity Crisis

ChatGPT’s version of the Europe’s leaders looking for answers as familiar reference points fade — a collective portrait of uncertainty in a moment when Europe’s identity is no longer self-evident.

At the World Economic Forum this year, the most revealing moment did not come from grand declarations or carefully choreographed panels, but from a single, deliberately chosen word. Mark Carney spoke of a rupture — a break in continuity that cannot be repaired with reassuring language about a “rules-based order” or nostalgic references to post-Cold War stability.

Carney’s choice of words mattered. A rupture is not a temporary disruption, nor a crisis awaiting managerial correction. It is a structural break: a point at which underlying assumptions no longer hold. His intervention acknowledged what many European leaders still hesitate to state openly — that the geopolitical environment which underpinned Europe’s prosperity, security, and political confidence has fractured, and that denial has itself become a strategic vulnerability.

In that sense, Carney was the adult in the room. He did not offer restoration narratives or institutional comfort. He did not pretend that existing frameworks could simply absorb the shock. Instead, he described a world in which power is exercised more directly, norms are increasingly conditional, and responsibility is unevenly distributed. Middle powers, he argued, must respond not with moral reassurance, but with coordination, resilience, and strategic realism.

Set against this sober diagnosis stood the political style of Donald Trump, whose recent interventions illustrate the rupture rather than merely describing it. Trump’s renewed fixation on Greenland was not an eccentric sideshow or a failed negotiating gambit; it reflected a political logic in which sovereignty becomes negotiable, territory becomes transactional, and alliances become instruments rather than commitments.

His statements oscillated between boastful deal-making, casual dismissal of territorial integrity, and vague assurances that force would not be used — all without strategic coherence. For Europe, this was not simply embarrassing theatre. Greenland sits at the intersection of Arctic security, climate transformation, resource competition, and the erosion of assumptions that territorial sovereignty remains beyond negotiation. Trump’s handling of the issue exposed how fragile Europe’s assumptions about American predictability and strategic continuity have become.

The same rupture is visible in Ukraine. Russia’s aggression against Ukraine is not just a test of Ukrainian military endurance; it is a test of Western political stamina and credibility. Europe continues to speak the language of solidarity, yet remains painfully aware that the long-term response to Russia’s aggression may hinge on electoral cycles, domestic instability, and political volatility across the Atlantic.

Uncertainty in this context is corrosive. It transforms deterrence into hesitation and commitment into contingency. What should function as strategic clarity becomes conditional support. From Kyiv — where Europe confronts the direct consequences of Russia’s aggression — to the strategic Arctic, Europe is forced to reckon with how much of its security still depends on external guarantees it does not control.

What Carney articulated, and what Trump inadvertently reinforces, is that Europe can no longer outsource adulthood. For decades, Europe operated within a system in which American power provided the ultimate backstop, institutions smoothed political shocks, and economic integration substituted for strategic agency. That system has ruptured — not suddenly, but structurally — and cannot simply be repaired.

Europe’s identity crisis lies precisely here. It continues to behave as though continuity can be restored through diplomacy alone, while the world increasingly operates through leverage, coercion, and unilateral action. It still confuses values with power, process with agency, and institutional language with geopolitical capacity.

The contrast at Davos was therefore not ideological, but existential. Trump embodies a politics that accelerates rupture through impulse, spectacle, and transactional logic. Carney acknowledges rupture and insists on governing within it. Europe, meanwhile, hesitates — caught between denial and dependency.

Ruptures do not close themselves. They force choices. Europe must decide whether it intends to remain an object of other powers’ politics, or whether it is finally prepared to act as a geopolitical subject in a fractured world.

That decision can no longer be postponed.

Benidorm in Winter: The Great Boulevard Parade

In winter, Benidorm turns into Europe’s sunniest retirement campus. While the rest of the continent pulls on scarves and curses the rain, thousands of cheerful seniors migrate south and take over the Levante boulevard like it’s their personal catwalk.

Every morning the parade begins. Trainers on, sunglasses ready, they march up and down the promenade with Olympic dedication. The route is always the same: walk, wave at familiar faces, pause for coffee, walk again — and then surrender to the irresistible pull of a sunny terrace.

A beer becomes a wine. A wine becomes lunch. Preferably something that tastes like home: fish and chips, schnitzel, Sunday roast, or a heroic full English Breakfast that would make any cardiologist nervous.

The terraces become open-air living rooms. Conversations float between football results, grandchildren, and the weather back home (“Still raining, of course”). The Mediterranean sun does the rest.

In Benidorm, winter isn’t a season. It’s a lifestyle — best enjoyed one boulevard lap and one glass of wine at a time.

The Quiet Wonder of the Église Saint-Marcel in the valley of the Creuse

Église Saint-Marcel in Argenton-sur-Creuse (France).

A short walk from the Roman site of Argentomagus stands one of the most evocative rural churches in central France: the Église Saint-Marcel. Modest in size but rich in history, it brings together twelve centuries of architecture, devotion, and local craftsmanship — all in a peaceful village setting.

A Brief History

The church once belonged to a Benedictine priory linked to the Abbey of Saint-Gildas. Its oldest parts date from the 12th century, especially the Romanesque chevet with its thick stone walls and sturdy tower. Later additions — chapels, vaulting, and interior decoration — were carried out in the 16th century, giving the building its layered, time-worn character.

Highlights Inside

What makes Saint-Marcel stand out is the concentration of medieval and early-Renaissance artistry:

• Romanesque architecture: A simple nave, a transept with three small apses, and a striking square tower that may once have had a defensive role.

• The crypt: A rare survival beneath one of the chapels — atmospheric, intimate, and tied to early Christian worship in the region.

• Carved choir stalls: Early-16th-century woodwork with delicate misericords showing the imagination of local artisans.

• A 16th-century fresco of the Notre-Dame de Pitié above a side doorway, one of the few remaining wall paintings in the area.

• Relics and liturgical treasures, including bust reliquaries associated with Saint Marcel and Saint Anastase, reminders of the church’s long devotional history.

Why It’s Worth a Visit

Saint-Marcel is the kind of place where different eras quietly overlap: Roman presence, medieval monastic life, and village spirituality. The church is never crowded, making it ideal for slow travel — a contemplative stop surrounded by old stone houses and the wooded slopes of the Creuse valley.

Just a few minutes away lies Argentomagus, one of France’s major Gallo-Roman archaeological sites. Visiting both in one day gives you a rare double insight: the world of antiquity and the world that replaced it.

The interior of Église Saint-Marcel in Argenton-sur-Creuse (France).

Rotterdam my City — The Heart Torn Out — Zadkine’s Monument in Rotterdam

Ossip Zadkine’s “The Destroyed City” (1953): the figure cries to the sky, its heart torn away, mourning the loss that once defined Rotterdam.

When the bombs fell on Rotterdam on May 14, 1940, the medieval heart of the city vanished in a single afternoon. The aerial photograph taken shortly after the war shows the shocking emptiness — blocks of rubble replaced by a grid of bare streets, with only fragments of buildings standing like teeth in a broken jaw.

A few years later, Ossip Zadkine gave this loss a body and a voice. His bronze sculpture De Verwoeste Stad (The Destroyed City, 1953) stands near the city’s current center, close to where that lost heart once beat. The figure’s body torn open and twisted, with its arms reaching out to the sky — crying out in anguish, its chest ripped apart, its heart gone. Zadkine, a Russian-born sculptor who lived in Paris, said he was inspired after passing through Rotterdam and feeling the pain of a “city without a heart.”

The monument does not celebrate triumph; it embodies grief. Yet within its contorted form lives a strange vitality — the cry that turns upward, transforming pain into defiance. Around it, a new city has risen: modern, vertical, and full of life. The statue remains as its conscience, reminding Rotterdam not only of what was destroyed, but of the courage to rebuild.

An aerial photo of the city center taken shortly after World War II (1 June 1946, KLM Aerocarto).

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.

A Taste of Lisbon in Bordeaux: L’Atelier des Pastéis

At L’Atelier des Pastéis in Bordeaux.

If you ever find yourself wandering through Bordeaux with a craving for something sweet, warm, and unmistakably Portuguese, step inside L’Atelier des Pastéis. This charming, family-run pastelaria has mastered one thing to near perfection: the iconic Pastel de Nata. And they bake them the way they should be baked — fresh, on site, all day long.

Why this little shop stands out

Freshly baked, all day
The pastéis are made and baked right in the shop, not frozen, not outsourced. The result? Flaky, buttery crusts that crack just right, and a velvety custard filling with that irresistible hint of caramelized sweetness.

A cosy slice of Portugal
The moment you walk in, you’re greeted by a warm, Lissabon-inspired interior. Soft colours, contemporary azulejo-style artwork, subtle Portuguese touches — it feels like a tiny café hidden somewhere in Belém.

Genuine hospitality
Reviewers consistently mention the kindness and warmth of the team. Whether you drop by for a takeaway treat or sit down with a coffee, you’re welcomed like a regular.

Affordable indulgence
A single pastel costs just a few euros, and multi-packs make it even more tempting to bring some home.

Our take — absolutely worth the stop

The pastéis we tasted were everything they should be: crisp on the outside, smooth and creamy inside, and still warm from the oven. It’s the sort of simple, perfect treat that brightens your day instantly.

If you’re visiting Bordeaux and want a quick edible escape to Lisbon, L’Atelier des Pastéis is a must-visit. Delicious, authentic, and full of heart — exactly what a pastelaria should be.

Who is walking whom, and to where? And why the urge?

Who is walking whom, and to where? And why the urge?

Alfonso VIII of Castile: The Child-King Who Forged a New Castile

Alfonso VIII’s statue in Palencia (Spain).

Few medieval rulers left a deeper mark on Iberian history than Alfonso VIII of Castile (1155–1214). His life stretched from a fragile childhood as a contested child-king to a triumphant adulthood as the architect of a new political order on the peninsula. His reign was long, turbulent, and transformative — and the ripple effects reached far beyond Castile.

Born into Two Powerful Dynasties

Alfonso descended from two formidable bloodlines. On his father’s side, he belonged to the House of Ivrea, the dynasty that had shaped the kingdoms of León and Castile since the 11th century. His father, Sancho III of Castile, reigned only briefly, dying suddenly in 1158 and leaving the young Alfonso, barely three years old, as king.

His mother, Blanca of Navarre, connected him to the royal family of Pamplona, giving Alfonso political legitimacy on Castile’s northeastern frontier. But perhaps even more significant were the alliances forged through his marriage. In 1170, Alfonso wed Eleanor Plantagenet, daughter of Henry II of England and Eleanor of Aquitaine — two of the most influential figures in medieval Europe. This union tied Castile to the transcontinental Plantagenet empire and injected the Castilian court with new cultural and diplomatic currents.

A Kingdom He Fought to Keep

Alfonso’s early life was far from secure. Castile’s great noble houses — the Laras and the Castros — fought bitterly for control of the realm and for influence over the child-king. For years, Alfonso was moved between strongholds to keep him safe, and at one point he was even rumoured kidnapped. When he finally took full command in his teens, he inherited not a stable kingdom but a fractured one.

He spent the next decades imposing royal authority, building alliances, and expanding Castile’s reach. His conquest of Cuenca in 1177 marked one of the symbolic victories of his early reign, securing a strategic stronghold and cementing Castile’s position in central Iberia.

A Royal Family with Continental Echoes

Alfonso and Eleanor Plantagenet had a large family — at least ten children, many of whom played decisive roles in European politics:

• Berengaria, his eldest daughter, briefly became Queen of Castile in her own right and then ensured the accession of her son, Ferdinand III, the monarch who would eventually unify Castile and León.

• Blanche married Louis VIII of France; their son became Louis IX (Saint Louis), one of the most celebrated kings in French history.

• Urraca, Leonor, and Constanza married into the royal families of Portugal, Aragon, and into major European noble houses, strengthening Castile’s diplomatic network.

• Henry, Alfonso’s only surviving son, succeeded him as Henry I, though his reign was short.

Through these marriages, Alfonso became the patriarch of a web of dynastic ties that stretched across the continent, influencing France, Portugal, Aragon, England, and the future of united Spain.

The Battle That Changed Iberia

Nothing defined Alfonso’s reign more than the Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa in 1212. In a rare moment of unity, he persuaded the often-rival kingdoms of the peninsula — Castile, Navarre, and Aragon — to join forces, bolstered by crusading knights from across Europe. Their victory shattered the power of the Almohad Caliphate, the most formidable Muslim force in Iberia at the time.

This was no ordinary triumph. It ended a balance of power that had lasted generations and opened the door for the great southern conquests of the 13th century. After Las Navas, the Christian advance became almost unstoppable. Córdoba, Jaén, Sevilla — all would fall within decades. Alfonso VIII set the stage.

Why Alfonso VIII Matters for Spain

To understand the shape of medieval Spain, one must understand Alfonso. His reign marked the moment when Castile shifted from a contested frontier realm into the dominant force of the peninsula.

He was a stabilizer: a king who inherited chaos and methodically rebuilt authority. He was a diplomat: his Plantagenet marriage plugged Castile into the bloodstream of European power politics. He was a patron of learning: his foundation of the Studium Generale of Palencia signalled a dawning intellectual ambition. And above all, he was a strategist whose greatest victory reordered the Iberian world.

By the time he died in 1214, Alfonso had transformed Castile from a vulnerable kingdom ruled by baronial factions into a confident, outward-looking power — one whose heirs would eventually create a unified Spain.

A Legacy That Reaches into Modern Spain

Alfonso VIII’s life is a reminder that history often turns on the abilities of a single, determined ruler. His political instincts, his dynastic savvy, and his decisive military leadership reshaped Iberia’s future. Through his daughter Berengaria and his grandson Ferdinand III, his legacy lived on in the union of Castile and León — the nucleus of what would become the Spanish nation.

Alfonso VIII is more than a medieval king; he is a hinge in the story of Spain itself.

Urban Flight

Every city has its skaters; this one is from Rotterdam.

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

The Venice Art Biennale – Where the World Comes to Imagine

Visitors of the Venice Art Biennale of 2011.

Every other years, Venice transforms into a living map of contemporary art. The Biennale, founded in 1895, stretches across the city — from the historic pavilions of the Giardini to the vast halls of the Arsenale and countless palazzi scattered along its canals. It’s not a single exhibition but a city-wide conversation, where artists, curators, and visitors explore what art can still say about the world.

Each edition has its own theme, but the real magic lies in the contrasts: quiet installations beside theatrical spectacles, digital dreams across from centuries-old frescoes. National pavilions show pride, politics, and poetry side by side. Venice itself, half sinking and half eternal, adds its own commentary — a reminder that beauty and fragility often walk together.

The Biennale isn’t about answers. It’s about curiosity — about stepping into rooms that challenge, delight, or disturb, and leaving with more questions than before. In a city built on reflections, that seems perfectly fitting.