Joanna’s Grief

A portrait of Joanna of Castile by Juan de Flandes, ca. 1500.

As seen through the letters of Peter Martyr d’Anghiera. - Peter Martyr d’Anghiera (1457–1526) was an Italian humanist, scholar, and letter-writer who lived at the heart of the Spanish court during the reign of the Catholic Monarchs. Born in Lombardy and trained in Renaissance humanism, he came to Spain in the late 15th century, where he became tutor to princes, royal chronicler, and trusted observer of events that would change the world. His extensive correspondence (Epistolae) offers a rare, vivid view of court life, politics, exploration, and personal drama—written not as official history, but as thoughtful, often candid letters to friends across Europe.

When Philip the Handsome died suddenly in September 1506, Joanna of Castile was just twenty-seven years old. She was a young queen, newly widowed, already isolated, and the mother of several small children. Her eldest son, Charles—only six years old at the time—would one day become Emperor Charles V, but now he was a frightened child watching his mother collapse into grief. What followed shocked courts across Europe. In his Epistolae, the humanist Peter Martyr d’Anghiera describes not a legend of madness, but a human tragedy unfolding in public view.

A Grief That Would Not End

Peter Martyr was close enough to the Spanish court to witness events as they happened, and careful enough to record what he saw without turning it into rumor. In his letters, Joanna’s grief is not theatrical—it is consuming. She does not behave as a queen should. She does not follow the rituals expected of widows of rank. Instead, she clings to her dead husband with a devotion that unsettles everyone around her.

Philip’s body is embalmed, but Joanna refuses to let him be buried. Martyr writes that she keeps the coffin close, watches over it, and resists all pressure to part from it. This is not a symbolic delay. Days stretch into weeks, weeks into months. The court waits. Europe watches.

Traveling with the Dead

What most disturbed contemporaries—and what Martyr records with quiet astonishment—was Joanna’s decision to travel with Philip’s coffin. She orders the casket opened repeatedly, needing to see his face, to reassure herself that he is truly there. At night, she insists that no women be allowed near him, as if jealousy still bound her to the man she had lost.

The cortege moves slowly through Castile. Towns receive a queen accompanied by death. Priests whisper. Courtiers exchange glances. Martyr does not sensationalize the scene, but the strangeness is unmistakable. This is mourning without limits, grief that refuses containment.

A Court Without Patience

Peter Martyr’s letters make clear that sympathy quickly gave way to fear. Joanna’s behavior was not only emotionally troubling—it was politically dangerous. She was the rightful queen of Castile, yet increasingly incapable of fulfilling her role. Decisions were delayed. Authority slipped away from her hands.

Her father, Ferdinand of Aragon, watched closely. So did advisers, nobles, and foreign powers. In Martyr’s words, concern for Joanna’s soul slowly merged with concern for the stability of the realm. Compassion became calculation.

Madness or Despair?

What makes Martyr’s testimony so valuable is what he does not say. He does not call Joanna mad. He does not mock her, nor dismiss her as hysterical. Instead, his letters reveal a man deeply uncomfortable with what he is witnessing. He describes sorrow pushed beyond endurance, love turned inward, reason overwhelmed—but never erased.

Modern readers often forget how little space early-modern society allowed for uncontrolled grief, especially in women, and especially in queens. Joanna’s refusal to move on violated not only custom, but political necessity. Martyr seems to understand this tension, even as he struggles to name it.

Silence After the Coffin

Eventually, Philip is buried—against Joanna’s will. Not long after, she is declared unfit to rule. Her son Charles is separated from her and raised to govern an empire. Joanna herself will spend the next nearly fifty years confined in Tordesillas, alive but absent from power, a queen in name only.

Peter Martyr’s letters stop short of that long imprisonment, but they capture the moment when everything turns. In his Epistolae, Joanna of Castile is not yet “la Loca.” She is a young widow, devastated by loss, standing at the point where private grief becomes a public sentence.

A Human Voice in a Brutal Time

Through Peter Martyr’s eyes, Joanna’s story regains its humanity. His letters remind us that behind the labels of history—madness, incapacity, confinement—there was a woman who loved deeply and lost catastrophically. Her grief frightened a world that valued order over compassion, stability over empathy.

In that sense, Joanna’s tragedy is not only personal. It is a story about how power responds to vulnerability—and how history often mistakes sorrow for madness when it becomes inconvenient.

An Ode to the Encina: Heart of the Extremadura Landscape

The encina (Quercus ilex subsp. ballota).

Across the sun-blasted plains of Extremadura stands a tree that seems older than memory itself: the Quercus ilex subsp. ballota, the encina. These holm oaks, with their twisted trunks and low, sheltering crowns, are more than trees — they are the quiet storytellers of the dehesa.

Each encina appears carved by time. Their bark is creased like the face of someone who has lived deeply, weathering centuries of drought, wind, and long summers. Under their branches Romans marched, medieval herdsmen rested, and generations of travellers found shade in the shimmering heat. Every curve in their silhouette suggests another chapter of the land’s unwritten history.

Yet the encina’s gift is not only its presence but its bounty. Its acorns — the bellotas — fall each autumn like small polished gems, feeding deer, birds, and most famously the Iberian pigs. These pigs roam freely beneath the canopy, fattening on nothing but bellotas and wild herbs. From this ancient relationship emerges one of Spain’s greatest treasures: jamón ibérico de bellota, the silky, aromatic ham revered around the world.

In a region of sharp light and deep silence, the encina remains evergreen — a symbol of endurance and quiet generosity. Stand beneath one at dusk and you feel it: the tree is not just part of the landscape; it is its memory and its heartbeat. As long as the encinas endure, so too will the spirit of Extremadura.

Paloma de plástico

Paloma de plástico, nacida del mar,
llevas la paz donde falta amar.
No vienes del cielo, sino del suelo,
donde los hombres pierden su anhelo.

Tu vuelo recuerda, humilde y sincero,
que aun del despojo renace lo entero.
Paloma del mundo, no de un altar,
enséñanos juntos de nuevo a amar.

The Toro de Osborne

Drive long enough through Spain, and sooner or later it will appear — proud, silent, and impossible to miss. A giant black bull, standing tall on a hill, horns sharp against the blazing sky. The Toro de Osborne.

It was never meant to be a symbol of a nation. In the 1950s, it was simply an advertisement — a clever idea from the Osborne sherry company to promote their brand along the newly growing highways. The bulls were made of sheet metal, more than ten meters high, each one painted black to withstand the sun. They carried the word “Osborne” in white letters across their flanks.

But time, and affection, changed everything. When new laws later banned roadside advertising, people protested the removal. By then, the bull had stopped being a billboard and had become something else entirely — a silhouette of identity. The government relented, and the Osborne bulls stayed, stripped of their commercial lettering but not of their pride.

Today, there are about ninety of them scattered across the country. You see them guarding the horizon of La Mancha, watching over the olive fields of Andalusia, or gazing out toward the sea near Cádiz. They are both monumental and strangely poetic — frozen mid-step, eternal guardians of the Spanish road.

For travelers, the sight always stirs something. Perhaps it’s the simplicity: black shape, blue sky, sunlit hills. Or perhaps it’s the feeling that this creature, born of commerce, now carries the soul of a land that refuses to forget its symbols.

The Toro de Osborne no longer sells sherry. It sells Spain itself — its pride, its history, and the stubborn beauty of a country that still knows how to stand tall against the light.

A Crown for Begoña, A Future for Bilbao

Coronación de La Madre de Dios de Begoña, by José Etxenagusia (1902).

On 8 September 1900, Bilbao staged a celebration that fused devotion with civic pride: the canonical crowning of the Madre de Dios de Begoña—the “Amatxu”—timed to the city’s 600th anniversary. Bells, banners, and an entire town in procession set the tempo.

In 1902, José Etxenagusia (Echena) turned that day into a sweeping canvas for the Basilica of Begoña. He sets the scene outside the west portal: the crowned image lifted high, clergy massed around her, guards framing a dense, recognizably urban crowd. Look closer and the painting becomes a civic portrait as much as a devotional one, a who’s who of Bilbao under one crown.

Crucially, the coronation marked a leap into modern light. Under the guidance of diocesan architect José María Basterra, electric lighting illuminated the festivities—processions stepping out of candlelight into a steady, urban glow. Etxenagusia paints that quiet voltage on faces and fabrics: a city confident enough to bless the future without dimming the past.

Stand before the canvas today and grandeur draws you in, but belonging lingers. Here Bilbao remembers itself—a community stitching faith to progress, incense to electricity—and leaves the proof on a single, generous sheet of light and color.

Castillo de Santa Olalla del Cala

Castillo de Santa Olalla del Cala.

The castle of Santa Olalla del Cala rises from a rocky ridge in the Sierra de Aracena, in the province of Huelva, Andalusia. It was commissioned by King Sancho IV of Castile in 1293 as part of the Banda Gallega, a defensive line guarding the frontier against Portugal.

It was built over an earlier Muslim fortress, which itself may have occupied a Roman site. The walls follow the natural contours of the ridge, reinforced by ten towers — four round and six rectangular — and built from rough stone and brick.

Throughout the late Middle Ages, the castle saw several conflicts: the wars between Castile and Portugal in the 14th century, and the internal struggles that shook the Kingdom of Seville in the 1460s. Later, when its military value declined, the fortress took on humbler roles; for a time it even served as the village cemetery, with tombs carved into its inner walls.

The Ferry at Coria del Río (Spain)

The ferrymen of the ferry over the Guadalquivir.

Downstream from Seville, at Coria del Río, the Guadalquivir widens and slows. Here, a small ferry still crosses the water — two men, a handful of cars, and the quiet rhythm of a river that has seen empires come and go.

The ferrymen move with practiced grace: one guides the rudder, the other collects the money. No hurry, no noise — just the hum of the engine and the slap of water against steel. In a world of speed and schedules, their crossing feels like a pause in time — a reminder that not every journey needs a bridge.

San Manuel Bueno, mártir (1931) – Miguel de Unamuno

Miguel de Unamuno’s San Manuel Bueno, mártir (1931) is a deeply philosophical and existential novel that explores the tension between faith and doubt, truth and illusion. Set in a small Spanish village, the story follows Don Manuel, a beloved priest known for his kindness, self-sacrifice, and ability to comfort his community. However, through the perspective of the narrator, Angela Carballino, we discover a shocking secret: despite his outward devotion, Don Manuel does not believe in God or the afterlife.

Despite his personal disbelief, he continues to teach Christian doctrine, convinced that faith provides his people with the strength to endure their harsh lives. He ultimately dies as a revered figure, remembered as a saint by the villagers, while only a select few know of his internal struggle.

Unamuno, the author and a key figure in the ‘Generación de 1898’, uses the paradox in the story to reflect on the nature of belief, the role of religious institutions, and the existential struggle between reason and faith. The novel’s timeless themes make it not only a significant work of Spanish literature but also a universal meditation on the human condition, challenging readers to consider the value of faith even in the face of doubt.

Portrait of Miguel de Unamuno (1925). Gallica Digital Library.

After Shopping — Christmas in Roermond

Shoppers in the Grote Kerkstraat in Roermond (The Netherlands).

The shopping is done. Arms heavy with glossy bags, faces flushed from cold and discounts, people drift out of the outlet — tired but pleased.

Through the pedestrian tunnel that links the outlet to the old town, the mood shifts. The glitter of commerce fades into the glow of Roermond itself. Along Grote Kerkstraat, the cobblestones shine with rain, and the air smells of fries, beer, and the faint spice of winter.

Laughter echoes between cafés. Coats unbutton, glasses clink. The shoppers have become celebrants — and for one bright evening, Roermond feels like a small city entirely at ease with itself.

Painting the Cross: Constantine’s Legacy on the Walls of Albi

Fresco with Emperor Constantine and his mother Saint Helena in the Chapel of the Holy Cross, Cathedral of Sainte-Cécile, Albi, France (c. 1510–1512).

Emperor Constantine is depicted on this fresco The Cathedral of Albi on the eve of a decisive battle, gazing upward in astonishment as a brilliant red cross blazes in the sky. According to legend, an angel awakened Constantine and revealed this glowing cross accompanied by the words, “In hoc signo vinces,” meaning “In this sign, you will conquer.” In the fresco, angels hover around the radiant symbol, and Constantine’s soldiers pause in awe. This divine vision transforms the atmosphere: a moment before battle, the emperor and his army witness what they believe is a promise of victory from the Christian God. The red cross banner that appears becomes the centerpiece of hope – a vibrant emblem of faith in the midst of fear.

Under the Red Cross Banner

Inspired by the heavenly sign, Constantine commands his troops to carry a red cross banner as they charge into battle. Shields and standards are marked with the cross, turning the once-pagan army into an army under Christ’s protection. The fresco shows the young emperor leading the charge, his soldiers rallying behind the cross flag. True to the prophecy, Constantine wins a decisive victory over his rival under the banner of the cross. The red cross itself signifies the Crucifixion of Christ – red for the blood and sacrifice – and its presence signals that the Christian God favors Constantine.

The story continues after the battle: Constantine’s mother, Saint Helena, is shown receiving holy nails from the Crucifixion. She would later journey to find the True Cross of Christ, completing the tale of triumph.

Inspiring Faith in the 1500s

When these frescoes were painted in the early 1500s, their story had powerful meaning. The Cathedral of Albi had been built like a fortress of faith, symbolizing the Church’s resolve against heresy and enemies. The vivid scene of Constantine’s divinely aided victory would have inspired worshippers of that era, reminding them that unity under the cross could triumph over adversity.

The chapel housing this fresco once held a relic of the True Cross itself. Seeing Constantine’s vision and victory on the walls, and knowing a fragment of the actual Cross was nearby, people in the 1500s would feel a direct connection to this legend. The angels, emperors, and saints in the painting all served to reinforce the message that faith could guide leaders and nations to victory and salvation.

The 'Cruz de los Ángeles' - Oviedo's Golden Emblem

Oviedo’s Cruz de los Ángeles.

Step into the dim stone of the Cámara Santa and the light finds its target. Behind glass, a small golden cross glows like a held breath. This is the Cruz de los Ángeles—Oviedo’s emblem, the city’s oldest signature in metal and light.

The story begins in 808, when King Alfonso II “the Chaste” endowed the cathedral with a reliquary cross of gold, pearls, and colored stones. Legend adds a flourish: two mysterious craftsmen appeared, worked through the night, and vanished at dawn—angels, people said. Whether or not wings touched the workbench, the craftsmanship still feels unearthly: filigree like lace, geometry calm and exact, a willingness to shimmer without shouting.

Look at the cross and you see more than devotion. You see statecraft in an early-medieval key: a king gifting a radiant center to a capital he was shaping. In the decades that followed—by c. 813, when the shrine at Santiago gained royal recognition and the Camino Primitivo set out from Oviedo—the cross functioned as a compass of faith and cityhood. In time it moved from treasury to coat of arms, from shrine to street banners: the way Oviedo wrote its name.

The cross has known danger and repair. In the early hours of 12 October 1934, during the Asturian uprising, an explosion devastated the Cámara Santa and scarred its treasures. Then, on the night of 9–10 August 1977, thieves dismantled the cross to sell it in pieces. Most fragments were recovered, and a careful reconstruction returned the Cruz de los Ángeles to view between 1979 and 1986—scarred, like the city, yet standing.

How to look? Begin with the details: filigree borders like tiny braided rivers; stones cupped in their bezels; the hinge that reveals its truth as a reliquary. Step back, and the geometry resolves—four equal arms catching the room’s light like a compass. Then walk into the plaza, where the city’s heraldry echoes what you just saw. Gold and granite, myth and municipal seal, keep talking above your head.

In a world that loves spectacle, the Cruz de los Ángeles teaches a gentler amazement. It is small, portable, serious; it glitters not to dazzle but to endure. If you want to understand Oviedo, start here: a cross forged in 808, wounded in 1934 and 1977, restored by 1986—and still called by name.

It Could Happen to You

Gaston Van Damme with his camper. (Generated with AI)

On a quiet camper stop in Alaejos, a small town in the heart of Castile, we met a man who looked as if the road had finally paused him rather than the other way around.

Let’s call him Gaston Van Damme. That is not his real name, but it fits.

Gaston is 67 years old and travels alone in a 21-year-old camper—a vehicle that is no longer just transport but home, memory, and last anchor all in one. He has been on the road for years, drifting from place to place, never entirely stopping anywhere. Until now.

Gaston was not in a good mood. In fact, he was bitter, tired, and angry in that quiet way people become when complaining no longer helps.

Six weeks earlier, after an engine overhaul, something had gone wrong. According to Gaston, the mechanic had set the engine timing incorrectly—likely tightening the timing belt too much or misaligning it during reassembly. The engine ran for a while, but under stress one of the valves eventually failed, snapping inside the cylinder.

The result was catastrophic. The engine was dead.

The mechanic denied responsibility. No warranty, no admission of fault, no help. And so Gaston stayed where he was, stranded on a dusty camper site in Alaejos, watching days turn into weeks.

He no longer knew how he would get back to Belgium. Worse: he no longer knew why he should.

His camper is his home. Selling it would mean losing everything at once—mobility, independence, and the carefully balanced life he had built around the road. Repairing it would cost more than he could easily afford. Towing it north felt impossible. Every option seemed to close another door.

As he spoke, it became clear that this was no longer just a mechanical failure. It was an existential one.

Modern travel blogs often celebrate freedom, sunsets, and endless roads. But occasionally, reality intervenes: an overtightened bolt, a misjudged repair, a small technical decision with outsized consequences.

Gaston’s story is a reminder that life on the road is not romantic by default. It is fragile. It depends on machines, trust, and just enough luck.

And sometimes, despite all experience, all care, and all good intentions, you end up stuck in a small Spanish town, six weeks in, with a broken engine and too much time to think.

It could happen to you.

Mona Mania— Why the World Never Stops Lining Up for Her Smile

No comment.

There she sits — small, dark, behind bulletproof glass — and yet the crowd in the Louvre moves as if drawn by gravity itself. Cameras rise like a forest of hands. Whispers turn to gasps. For a few seconds, each visitor faces her — La Joconde, Leonardo’s Mona Lisa — and the miracle happens: proof. “I’ve seen it.”

But why this painting? Why not the radiant Venus de Milo just down the hall, or Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People, blazing with drama and revolution? The Mona Lisa is quiet, almost modest — a woman sitting in stillness. Her mystery is not what she shows, but what she withholds. The half-smile that seems to change as you move. The eyes that appear to follow. Leonardo layered glazes of paint so thin they act like human skin; light breathes through her face, giving her an uncanny presence.

Her fame, however, was not born in the studio — it exploded in 1911, when she was stolen from the Louvre. For two years, she was the missing woman of Europe: her empty wall a national wound. When she returned, the world had made her a celebrity. From then on, her fame fed itself — through postcards, posters, parodies, and selfies.

Today, the Mona Lisa’s value isn’t just artistic; it’s symbolic. She is the universal passport to the art world — the one image everyone recognizes. Seeing her in person is like standing next to history itself, the moment when genius, myth, and human curiosity all meet in silence.

People crowd her room not just to look, but to witness. To say, I was there, she is real, and so am I.

Tate Modern: London’s Powerhouse of Contemporary Art

Tate Modern, Entrance hall and Gift shop, London (United Kingdom).

Rising from a converted riverside power station on the Thames, Tate Modern is one of the world’s leading museums of modern and contemporary art. Since opening in 2000, its vast Turbine Hall has hosted monumental installations, while its permanent collection spans Picasso to Hockney, Warhol to Yayoi Kusama. Free entry to the main galleries keeps it buzzing with locals and visitors alike. Industrial brick, sweeping river views, and cutting-edge exhibitions make Tate Modern an unmissable stop for anyone curious about the art of our time.

Life at the Court of the Catholic Monarchs

Ferdinand and Isabel with their travelling court (an impression, generated with AI).

Seen through the letters of Peter Martyr d’Anghiera

When Peter Martyr d’Anghiera came to Spain in the late 1480s, he entered a court that was anything but calm or settled. This was not a quiet medieval palace frozen in ritual. It was a place of constant movement, argument, prayer, ambition, and fear. His letters—known as the Epistolae—allow us to step inside this world and see daily life at the court of Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile as it was actually lived.

Peter Martyr did not write official history. He wrote letters to friends across Europe. He complained, observed, admired, worried, and sometimes doubted. That is why his voice feels so close to us today. Through him, the Spanish court becomes human.

An Outsider at the Heart of Power

Peter Martyr was not Spanish. He was born in Lombardy, in northern Italy, and educated as a Renaissance humanist. He loved classical authors, clear reasoning, and moral debate. When he arrived in Spain, he was drawn into royal service—as a teacher, diplomat, and advisor.

This made him an insider and an outsider at the same time. He stood close enough to see how power worked, but far enough away to think critically about it. His letters are full of sharp observations, casual remarks, and moments of unease. He was impressed by Spain’s rulers—but never blind.

A Court That Never Stood Still

One of the first things Peter Martyr noticed was how much the court moved. Ferdinand and Isabella did not rule from one fixed capital. They traveled constantly: Segovia, Valladolid, Zaragoza, Granada. Wherever the monarchs went, the court followed.

Imagine it: hundreds of people on the road—nobles, priests, soldiers, clerks, cooks, musicians, petitioners. Horses, carts, chests full of documents and clothing. Temporary lodgings in monasteries, castles, or borrowed town halls. Letters written late at night because the court would move again at dawn.

Martyr often apologizes for rushed letters. News arrived slowly or out of order. Decisions were made between journeys. Power, in Spain, was mobile.

Queen Isabella: Faith and Firm Decisions

In Peter Martyr’s letters, Queen Isabella stands out strongly. He describes her as deeply religious, disciplined, and serious. She attended Mass daily and believed that ruling was a duty given by God, not a personal privilege.

But she was no passive figure. Isabella listened carefully, asked questions, and made firm decisions. She sat in councils, followed legal cases, watched finances, and took responsibility seriously. Her faith gave her strength, not softness.

Martyr respected her deeply. At times, he was troubled by the results of her policies, but he never doubted her conviction or her sense of duty.

King Ferdinand: Strategy and Control

Ferdinand of Aragon appears very differently. Where Isabella is driven by moral certainty, Ferdinand is guided by strategy. Martyr describes him as quiet, cautious, and calculating. A man who listens more than he speaks. A ruler who thinks long-term.

Together, Ferdinand and Isabella ruled as a partnership. They were different in character, but complementary. Martyr finds this balance fascinating. Through their marriage, Spain became a union of kingdoms held together by negotiation as much as force.

Scholars, Letters, and Rivalries

Peter Martyr belonged to a small group of scholars who brought Renaissance learning to Spain. Latin was their shared language. Letters were their lifeline. They discussed ancient authors, ethics, education, and the meaning of power.

But court life was risky. Patronage mattered. A poorly chosen word could ruin a career. A well-written letter could open doors. Martyr often hints at rivalry, jealousy, and exhaustion. Learning was respected—but only if it served the crown.

The court was not just a place of power. It was a place of competition.

News That Changed the World

Again and again, extraordinary news reached the court. The fall of Granada. Reports from the Canary Islands. Letters from Christopher Columbus describing unknown lands across the ocean.

Martyr records the excitement—but also the uncertainty. He asks questions. Who lives in these lands? How are they ruled? What does conquest mean for those who conquer—and those who are conquered?

In his letters, the Spanish court feels like a listening post at the edge of a rapidly expanding world.

Fear, Faith, and What Is Not Said

There is also a darker side. Martyr writes—sometimes carefully, sometimes indirectly—about forced conversions, expulsions, and the growing power of the Inquisition. He is not an open critic, but his discomfort is clear.

Certain topics are handled with caution. Some are avoided altogether. Silence often speaks louder than words. Faith defined belonging, and doubt could be dangerous. Martyr lived within these limits, never fully free, but never entirely silent.

A Living Court, Not a Monument

What makes Peter Martyr’s letters so powerful is their honesty. He admires, but he also questions. He participates, but he reflects. Through him, the court of the Catholic Monarchs becomes alive: full of prayer and ambition, hope and fear, confidence and contradiction.

These letters remind us that history is not only made in battles and decrees. It is made in conversations, journeys, doubts, and hastily written notes. At the court of Ferdinand and Isabella, the future of Spain—and much of the world—was taking shape, often without anyone fully understanding where it would lead.

The Spanish Wars: When Rome Met Its Fiercest Foes

Title page in Greek and English of the chapter on ‘The Wars in Spain’ in Appian’s Roman History (written in the 2nd century AD).

Most people know Rome’s great enemies: Hannibal in Carthage, Mithridates in Asia Minor, or Spartacus in Italy. Far fewer remember that in the rocky uplands of Spain, Rome fought some of its longest, most humiliating, and most tragic wars. The story comes to us through the Greek historian Appian of Alexandria, who in the 2nd century AD wrote his Roman History. One section, simply called The Spanish Wars (Iberica), describes how, from the 3rd to the 2nd century BCE, the legions tried to tame Hispania – and how fiercely the Iberian tribes resisted.

Appian begins with Rome’s arrival in Spain during the Second Punic War (218–201 BCE). At first, the task was simple: drive out Hannibal’s Carthaginian forces. Scipio Africanus succeeded in that mission, and Carthage was expelled. But Rome decided to stay, and that decision drew it into decades of bloody conflict with the native peoples. For the Iberians, it was a fight to preserve independence; for Rome, it was a struggle to secure a rich and strategic province full of grain, iron, and, above all, silver and gold.

From the start, the Iberians proved a different kind of enemy. The Celtiberians, living in the rugged central plateau, fought in small, mobile bands. They harried the legions, struck from mountain passes, and disappeared into the hills before Rome could retaliate. The Lusitanians, further west, did much the same. Roman armies, trained for set-piece battles on open ground, repeatedly stumbled into ambushes.

Appian’s account lingers on two unforgettable episodes. The first is the story of Viriathus, a Lusitanian shepherd who rose to become a general without equal. Between 155 and 139 BCE, he led his people in war against Rome. Time and again, he outwitted the consuls sent against him, luring them into narrow valleys, cutting off their supplies, and melting away before superior numbers could close in. Appian tells us that Rome came to fear this man so much that, when they could not beat him in battle, they bought his own envoys to murder him in his sleep. With his death, Lusitania’s resistance collapsed.

The second and even more dramatic episode is the siege of Numantia, the Arevaci stronghold in modern Soria. Between 154 and 133 BCE, Numantia became Rome’s nightmare. Generals and legions were humiliated; whole armies surrendered to the small hilltop town. Finally, Rome sent its most ruthless commander, Scipio Aemilianus – the very man who had razed Carthage to the ground. In 134 BCE, he surrounded Numantia with seven fortified camps and a system of ditches, walls, and watchtowers. Appian describes how he starved the Numantines into submission, sealing off every path of escape.

Inside the city, famine led to desperate measures. Some ate grass, others boiled leather; there are reports of cannibalism. Yet they refused to surrender. After almost a year, in 133 BCE, when all hope was gone, many Numantines chose suicide or burned their own homes rather than face slavery. Rome entered a silent, smoldering ruin. Appian’s stark lines capture the horror: the Numantines, he says, “preferred to perish in freedom rather than live in servitude.”

For Rome, Hispania was eventually secured – a province rich in mines, soldiers, and resources, essential to the empire’s future. But the cost was enormous, and the scars deep. For the Iberians, the wars of Viriathus and Numantia became symbols of heroic resistance, remembered centuries later by writers, poets, and even by Cervantes.

When you stand today among the ruins of Numancia, or in the hills where Viriathus once outmaneuvered legions, you see more than stones. You see the landscape of one of Rome’s hardest lessons: that conquest was never easy, and that freedom, for some, was worth more than life itself.

City plan of Numantia by Juan Loperraez (1788).

Further Reading

• Appian, Roman History, Book VI (The Spanish Wars). Accessible online in English at Livius.org.

• Appian, Roman History, Loeb Classical Library, vols. I–IV (Harvard University Press).

• Schulten, A., Numantia: Die Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen 1905–1912. Leipzig, 1914.

• Richardson, J. S., Hispaniae: Spain and the Development of Roman Imperialism, 218–82 BC. Cambridge University Press, 1986.

The Brandenburg Gate — From Division to Unity

The Brandenburg Gate, Berlin (Germany).

Few monuments carry the emotional weight of the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin. Once the proud entryway to the Prussian capital, it has stood through revolutions, wars, and the long shadow of the Cold War. Built in the late 18th century as a neoclassical triumphal arch, it symbolized peace and power under Frederick William II. But history had other plans.

In the 20th century, the Gate became a silent witness to chaos — Nazi parades, the devastation of war, and then the Berlin Wall that sealed it off from both East and West. For decades it stood in a no-man’s-land, unreachable, its meaning twisted by politics but never erased.

When the Wall fell in 1989, thousands gathered here to celebrate not conquest but reunion. The Brandenburg Gate transformed overnight from a symbol of division to one of hope and unity.

The Gentle 18th Century Prince of Trier – Johann Philipp von Walderdorff

The baroque tomb monument of Archbishop Johann Philipp von Walderdorff in Trier Cathedral — the prince lies serenely before Death itself, while angels above lift his soul toward eternity.

In the quiet side aisle of Trier Cathedral, beneath a swirl of baroque marble, lies a prince who once ruled not by fear or fire, but by grace. The inscription calls him “clementia alter Titus” — “in his mercy, another Titus.” His name was Johann Philipp von Walderdorff, Prince-Elector and Archbishop of Trier, Bishop of Worms, and perpetual Administrator of Prüm. He lived in a world where the Rhine was both a frontier and a lifeline, a corridor of faith and power running from Cologne to Mainz and beyond.

The 18th century was the twilight of the prince-bishops — those curious rulers who combined mitre and sceptre, and who governed both souls and streets. In the Rhineland, their territories were dotted with vineyards, abbeys, and the great palaces that embodied their dual authority. Among them, Walderdorff stood out as a man of refinement and quiet ambition. Born in 1701 into an old noble family, he rose through the church ranks to become Trier’s Elector in 1756, one of the seven men entitled to choose the Holy Roman Emperor. Yet his legacy was not in politics or war, but in the enduring beauty he left behind.

Walderdorff commissioned the lavish Kurfürstliches Palais beside Trier’s Roman basilica — a masterpiece of Rococo elegance where angels and cherubs play among stuccoed vines. He rebuilt the castle at Wittlich, improved the public roads of his domain, and founded the perpetual adoration of the Eucharist in Trier’s cathedral. His reign was gentle, prosperous, and deeply rooted in the artistic flowering of the late baroque — an age when faith still expressed itself through splendor.

When he died in 1768, his body was laid to rest in the very cathedral he had adorned. His monument speaks the language of the era: black marble veined with white, golden letters glowing under candlelight, and above it the sculpted figure of the serene prelate himself. To those who pass by, it is more than a grave — it is a reminder of a time when the Rhine valley was a patchwork of princely bishoprics, each with its own court, orchestra, and chapel, each ruled by men who saw no divide between holiness and beauty.

Walderdorff’s world would soon vanish. Within a generation, the French Revolution and Napoleon swept away the ecclesiastical states that had shaped the region for a millennium. Yet in Trier, among the stones that remember Rome and the saints who followed, his marble tomb still glows softly — a relic of an age when mercy and art walked hand in hand.

Further Reading

• The Electorate of Trier and the Prince-Bishops of the Rhine – A cultural history of ecclesiastical states in the Holy Roman Empire.

• The Rococo in the Rhineland – Architecture and patronage under the prince-archbishops of Trier.

• Trier Cathedral: From Constantine to the Baroque – A study of the cathedral’s evolving role in European history.

Foreign Policy for Sale: How Trump’s inner circle sees the Ukraine War as a Business Opportunity

Based on: Ukraine and America’s Credibility Crisis — with Anne Applebaum — The Prof G Pod – Scott Galloway

Trump and Putin (image created with AI).

Anne Applebaum’s analysis of the war in Ukraine exposes a troubling shift in how American foreign policy is currently being practiced. Her central argument is not that diplomacy has failed, but that its purpose has been distorted. Decisions that should be guided by public interest, democratic accountability, and long-term security increasingly appear to be shaped by private financial incentives.

At the heart of her critique is a series of informal and opaque “peace initiatives” related to Ukraine. These efforts are not being led by career diplomats, allied negotiators, or institutions accountable to voters and legislatures. Instead, they involve business figures and political confidants operating through private channels between the United States and Russia. While presented as attempts to end the war, the structure and content of the proposals suggest a different underlying logic.

According to reporting Applebaum cites, early versions of these peace plans paired Ukrainian territorial concessions with prospects for American–Russian commercial cooperation. These reportedly included access to natural resources, energy infrastructure, and even the use of frozen Russian assets. Within this framework, Ukraine’s sovereignty and Europe’s long-term security are not treated as fundamental principles, but as variables in a deal.

The substance of the proposed settlement makes this clear. Ukraine would be expected to formally recognize Russian control over occupied territories, renounce any future NATO membership, and accept an agreement without credible security guarantees. Applebaum stresses why this is not merely unfair, but dangerous. Russia has failed to win the war militarily. What it now seeks is a political victory—achieved by persuading or pressuring Ukraine, through American intermediaries, to surrender what Russian forces could not seize on the battlefield.

From Ukraine’s perspective, such a settlement would leave the country exposed. Without firm security guarantees, there can be no real reconstruction, no stable return of refugees, and no lasting investment. A “peace” built on these terms would not end the conflict; it would simply postpone the next phase of it.

Applebaum’s concern, however, extends well beyond Ukraine. What this episode reveals, she argues, is a deeper corrosion of decision-making within the United States itself. Foreign policy begins to resemble a commercial transaction, shaped by individuals whose primary expertise lies in deal-making rather than statecraft. The critical question shifts from “What serves national and allied security?” to “Who stands to gain financially?”

This model closely mirrors the systems Applebaum has long studied in authoritarian states. In such systems, political power and economic power are fused. Diplomacy, business, and state authority become indistinguishable, and public institutions serve the enrichment of a narrow elite. Her warning is stark: when anticorruption laws are ignored and access to power can be purchased, democratic systems begin to function in ways that closely resemble those they once opposed.

The contrast with Ukraine itself is striking. Despite being at war, Ukraine maintains active anticorruption institutions that investigate even figures close to political leadership. These efforts persist because Ukrainians understand something fundamental: corruption is not only immoral, it is strategically dangerous. It weakens the state and makes it vulnerable to external coercion. In this respect, Ukraine often appears more committed to democratic self-correction than the country negotiating its future.

Europe, meanwhile, is adjusting to the realization that American leadership can no longer be assumed. Countries closest to Russia have increased defense spending and military cooperation, while broader European support for Ukraine continues to grow. Germany’s shift in strategic thinking is particularly significant. The war is accelerating Europe’s move toward greater responsibility for its own security.

Applebaum does not argue that the United States has lost all influence. But she makes clear that influence erodes when foreign policy is treated as an opportunity for profit rather than a public trust. A settlement shaped by private interests would weaken Ukraine, destabilize Europe, and further undermine confidence in democratic governance.

The lesson of her argument is ultimately straightforward. When the Ukraine war is viewed as an opportunity—for access, leverage, or financial gain—foreign policy ceases to serve the public. The cost is paid not only on the battlefield, but in damaged alliances, fragile peace, and the gradual erosion of democratic credibility itself.

About Anne Applebaum: Anne Applebaum is a Pulitzer Prize–winning historian and journalist, best known for her work on authoritarianism, Eastern Europe, and the legacy of Soviet power. She is a staff writer at The Atlantic and a senior fellow at Johns Hopkins University. Her books include Gulag: A History, Red Famine: Stalin’s War on Ukraine, and Autocracy, Inc., in which she examines how modern authoritarian systems merge political power with private wealth. Applebaum lives in both the United States and Poland and has written extensively on Ukraine, Russia, and the evolving crisis of democracy in the West.

Rotterdam my City — A Room with a View

Rotterdam my City — A Room with a View.