Prior to the French Revolution, French law was far from being unified. The prevailing system was layered and mixed, with civil matters following local customs at times, and Roman law at others. Even religious matters fell under their own canon. While the king sat above it all as a source of justice and supreme authority, he couldn’t change civil laws as they were a product of historical accumulation (ie, ancient, or a result of divine order) and existed independently of him.

This Ancien Droit reigned until the Revolution and reflected a kingdom that was not only still finding itself but that was split in other ways, such as between Oïl and Oc dialects, and pays de coutumes (spoken laws) and pays de droit écrit (written laws). The divide was both geographical, roughly along the Loire, and political. The south retained stronger Roman influence in both language and law, while the north developed along more local and partly Frankish lines.

The divide between types of laws continued for centuries, shaping legal practice across the kingdom without ever being fully resolved under the monarchy. It was only with the collapse of the old order at the end of the 18th century, followed by extensive reforms, that this long-standing legal duality was ended. The change came with Napoleon’s Civil Code of 1804, which established a unified legal system across all of France.

Not long after, in 1837, law student Henri Klimrath produced the first graphic representation of this historical divide, the Carte de la France coutumière, giving visual form to a boundary that had long structured the kingdom. The sinuous line ran from La Rochelle in the west to Geneva in the east. Klimrath would have relied on earlier compilations of the customs, such as Antoine Loisel’s Institutes coutumières (1607) and Bourdot de Richebourg’s Nouveau Coutumier général (1724) which were some of the most comprehensive sources available.

These compilations and maps preserved customs that had long existed in practice rather than by decree. They set the stage for customary law, rules that grew organically within communities and were later recorded in writing.

Spoken Law

Spoken law in France came about “from the practice of acts, repeated and recognized, by the members of the same community on the same territory, for a period long enough to fix its continuum” [2]. Furthermore, it’s born from and used by the social group it applies to, in an organic, bottom-up manner that is as flexible as the speech it’s based on. Its origin can be found in the 11th century, in the web of loyalties and obligations between lords and their subjects, as well as in the local authority that lords exercised over their lands.

In effect, customary (spoken) law was the result of a need for practices to regulate everyday interactions. Practices that were too recent or lacked historical precedent could be challenged as mauvaise coutume, or a bad custom1. Likewise, customs that were no longer valid or useful could be discarded, showcasing a system that was both adaptive and flexible.

In the North, customs could be proved through the testimony of trusted local men in a procedure called the enquête par turbe2, showing how customary authority was fundamentally communal [2]. If their decision was unanimous, the custom was recognized as valid and could thereafter be treated as a coutume notoire, meaning it no longer needed to be proven in similar cases. This system continued until the Civil Ordinance of 1667, one of the major legal reforms under Louis XIV.

While these northern laws were oral in nature and transmitted that way, some were eventually written down, as previously mentioned. This included royal charters guaranteeing local customs as well as collections called customaries, where jurists recorded rules already familiar to inhabitants and those who governed them. These texts illustrate how oral law could be documented without changing its social and practice-based character. The recording of these customs also led jurists to consider whether they could serve as a model for other regions.

Celebrated French jurist Charles Dumoulin considered that the customs of his Parisian hometown, being the most refined and coherent, could be used for the entire country. Dumoulin’s aim was not to impose Parisian law by force, but instead to provide a foundational reference point when local customs were unclear or underdeveloped. This desire for a reference partly explains why some legal theorists later tried to draw comparisons between French spoken laws and Italian statuti, or medieval city statutes that were more akin to municipal legislation [3]. In Italian cities, if a statute covered an issue, it was applied; if not, jurists and judges fell back on the main European legal framework known as ius commune, of which Roman law was the dominant component (both served as a default system to fill gaps and guide interpretation).

Dumoulin opposed this comparison because it oversimplified inherently different legal systems. French customs developed organically from long-standing social practice and were recognized by the community, whereas Italian statutes were deliberately created as written legislation. He similarly rejected equating Roman law with common law, since each had different sources of authority and internal logic - views shared by his contemporary, French jurist Guy Coquille. While northern customs continued to develop organically, the foundations of written law in southern France reached back centuries.

Written Law

In the 6th century, after the fall of the Western Roman Empire, the Corpus Juris Civilis was commissioned by the Eastern Roman emperor Justinian. It was a systematic codification of centuries of Roman law intended to unify and clarify legal practice across the empire. Written law, by contrast, was created to cover most foreseeable cases and relied on theory and formal authority. Its development differed from customary law, which adapted organically from lived experience.

In the 11th and 12th centuries, this body of civil law was rediscovered in Italy and venerated as precedents from classical heritage. It soon spread to southern France. This wasn’t the start of pays de droit écrit in the region since pre-Justinian Roman law was already prevalent there and had influenced southern Gaul for centuries. What the Corpus did was standardize and formalize written legal tradition so that everyone in the legal field had a single body of work to refer back to.

Traveling notaries making their way from Italy into France - likely along the same paths used by itinerant peddlers - brought this revitalized set of laws into the Languedoc and Provence regions via trade routes in the late 12th century. In a region tied to Mediterranean trade and shaped by urban life, Roman law offered a degree of legal precision that made it especially attractive.

The transition was largely driven by the practical need to defend one’s property. Landowners quickly recognized that the rediscovered Roman law provided a technical advantage in court, governed by rules the profane couldn’t understand. It soon created a distinct professional class of jurists who traveled to Bologna for extended studies before returning to take up key administrative roles [4]. But a large class of notaries, who perhaps couldn’t afford to go to Italy, learned on the job, using Roman terminology to dress up medieval practices and get results that wouldn’t be possible had they merely followed one strict set of laws [5].

Roman law did not simply replace local custom. In many cases, local jurists borrowed its vocabulary and prestige while continuing to apply older practices. Its influence was often linguistic and technical, shaping the law in the south without entirely displacing what had come before.

Cases

Political expansion, such as the Treaty of 1259 between Saint Louis and the English king, helped solidify the boundaries of Capetian authority3 in France. These feudal fronts effectively made it so that certain regions were under different levels of royal control, which in turn reinforced the historical divide between customary law in the north and written, Roman-influenced law in the south. Local political relationships also played a role, as territories that submitted more fully to the French crown tended to fall on the customary side, while others kept written-law traditions [6].

Many examples survive of how this legal divide played out in practice, sometimes in ways that were highly technical and at other times almost absurd. The academic paper La France méridionale avait-elle une frontière sous l’Ancien Régime? covers such cases, three of which are below:

• The Bridge at Saintes: In 1427, the Parliament of Paris had to investigate whether a specific court was located in the city of Saintes (written law) or on the bridge spanning the Charente river. Because the river served as the legal boundary, a courtroom’s physical position on the bridge determined whether a litigant had to pay a fine for an “unjustified appeal” (a penalty that only existed in customary law).

• The “Odd and Even Months” of Cournon: In this Auvergne village, two separate jurisdictions (one written, one spoken) were eventually bought by a single lord. To resolve the conflict, a bizarre system was established: cases initiated in even months were judged by written law (appealable to Clermont), while those in odd months followed customary law (appealable to Riom).

• The Split Households of Auvergne: In some areas, the legal border was so granular that it was said to pass through the middle of a street or even a single house. This led to inextricable situations where a person’s legal status, such as whether a minor reached adulthood at puberty (written law) or at age twenty-five (customary), could theoretically change depending on which room they were in.

End of the old divide

By the 18th century, France’s legal fragmentation had become a common object of criticism. Voltaire, a vocal opponent of spoken law, famously remarked that one changed laws in France as often as one changed horses. What had once reflected the kingdom’s long, layered history increasingly came to be seen as a problem.

The events of 1789 and the reforms that followed aimed to end that patchwork. While provincial privileges were abolished and regional divisions were broken up, departments were created to replace local differences with a single system. In legal terms, this was brought about by Napoleon’s Civil Code of 1804, which abolished the old customs and applied one civil law across France.

Even so, the transition was not exactly immediate, and legal voids still existed. Revolutionary governments had not managed to legislate for every area of civil life, and older customs sometimes continued to be applied out of necessity until the Code was fully implemented. Even after 1804, older legal situations, such as inheritances and marriages contracted under provincial custom, could still be judged according to the previous rules.

Yet the disappearance of the old divide didn’t mean its legacy vanished. The Napoleonic Code itself retained aspects inherited from both spoken law and written law, preserving a unified version of what had once existed in parallel. In that sense, the Code didn’t erase the legal history of France so much as absorb and reorganize it.

This larger movement toward standardization was not limited to civil law alone. Royal efforts to impose uniformity had already extended into language and administration centuries earlier, most famously with the Ordinance of Villers-Cotterêts in 1539, which required all legal and administrative acts to be written in French rather than Latin, laying a foundation for centralized authority.

For most of its history, France did not operate under one rule of law but under several, depending on where one stood (including literally). The divide between spoken and written law reflected older regional worlds that long survived inside the kingdom. The Civil Code of 1804 finally closed that chapter, replacing local variation with a single, national system, but it did so on the shoulders of the customs and Roman principles it inherited, absorbing centuries of layered legal history instead of erasing it.

Additional Information

Captions for the spoken laws map: grey (applies only to real estate); off-white
(applies to lifetime gifts); green vertical stripes (acquired property can be subject to the area); yellow horizontal stripes (applies to the property of the deceased); yellow (excluded in favor of Roman legal principles); green (leaves both the reserved portion for heirs and the disposable portion undefined).

Sources

1 - Aux origines de la réserve héréditaire du Code civil : la légitime en pays de coutumes (xvi^e-xviii^e siècles)

2 - La coutume: conserver, rédiger et réformer

3 - Le droit commun en France selon les coutumiers

4 - Le droit féodal dans les pays de droit écrit

5 - Pratique notariale et droit romain dans les pays de droit écrit

6 - La France méridionale avait-elle une frontière sous l’Ancien Régime?

Centuries after Dante and Petrarca, Italy produced a style of writing that freed the Italian language from its constraints. No longer would elements like syntax, punctuation and adjectives rule the way Italians expressed themselves on paper. Instead, nouns would randomly hit the page, joined with mathematical signs and musical symbols.

The 20th century, being one of progress, meant that dynamism and speed would be the new way of life. Wars, wireless telegraph, the radio, airplanes, and cameras altered the idea behind distances and time. Movement itself called for a style that matched it. In the words of the man who found a way to convey it:

The rush of steam-emotion will blow apart the pipe of the sentence, the valves of punctuation, and the regular bolts of adjectival decoration.

It was 1912-13 when Italian poet Filippo Marinetti, founder of futurism, introduced the literary side of the movement, known as “parole in libertà” (words in freedom). This push for liberated words was laid out in his second and third manifestos1, however they existed upon the foundations he laid out years earlier.

Birth of Italian Futurism

In 1902, his first poetry book La conquete des étoiles showcases Symbolist/proto-Futurist elements, like loosened syntax, free verse, repetition and exclamatory energy, as can be seen in the opening lines:

Hola-hé ! Hola-hé ! Hola-ho !

O Vagues antiques, ô Vétérans de la Mer Souveraine, debout, guerriers puissants aux barbes vénérables d’écume!

Debout ! Debout, nos frères !

Yet, Italian futurism itself was born from a collision, both figurative and literal. In a 1908 car crash, while trying to steer clear of two cyclists, Marinetti’s high-end motorcar crashed, sending him into a ditch. Upon being fished out, he felt determined to free himself from decorative excesses and refined aestheticism.

One year later, Marinetti’s Manifesto del Futurismo debuted in four Italian newspapers and then on the front page of the Parisian newspaper Le Figaro [1]. Aside from it laying out the eleven tenets of the movement, he concludes with a fervent argument in two parts. In one, he lambasts the existing cultural order which he sees as the status quo of reverence:

Italy has been too long the great second-hand market. We want to get rid of the innumerable museums which cover it with innumerable cemeteries […] To make a visit once a year, as one goes to see the graves of our dead once a year, that we could allow! We can even imagine placing flowers once a year at the feet of the Gioconda!

And in the second part of his argument, he targets his own revolution, saying he doesn’t seek to replace the old canon with a new permanent one. Rather he expects to be overthrown and even invites it. In other words, constant generational destruction:

The oldest among us are not yet thirty years old: we have therefore at least ten years to accomplish our task. When we are forty let younger and stronger men than we throw us in the waste paper basket like useless manuscripts!

His style evolved further with the 1914 novel Zang Tumb Tuuum. It’s a first-hand account of the siege of Adrianople in the Balkan War, which Marinetti had witnessed as a war reporter. The title reflects mechanical noises, with zang representing the firing of an artillery shell; tumb, its explosion upon impact; and tuuum, the resulting echo. In his signature style, the book closes with the following [2]:

These weights thicknesses noises smells molecular whirlwinds chains webs corridors of analogies rivalries and synchronisms offered offered offered offered up as a gift to my Futurist friends poets painters musicians and noise intoners.

Word Tables

One year after Marinetti launched Futurism, a group of painters in Milan published their own Futurist manifestos, establishing Futurist painting as a distinct sub-movement. Like the literary side, they rejected reverence for the past and found inspiration in the energy and chaos of contemporary life. This radical experimentation aided in the development of a visual component to liberated words.

This flows from Marinetti’s prescription for Futurist writing, which was not only phonetic but also visual, inspiring the invention of specific tables of words (tavole parolibere). Italian Futurist artists such as Pino Masnata and Fortunato Depero ran with the style, making it their own. Masnata’s work carried a multi-dimensional approach that was sometimes described as poliespressività, combining visual, verbal, and auditory elements.

These word sets displayed a “graphic-verbal duality” and “phonic-verbal communication”. In other words, texts of poetry resolved into graphic form, expressing themselves through fragments of images, sounds, noises, onomatopoeias, metaphors and synesthesias. Other Futurists, like Ardengo Soffici, also explored the word-table format: his 1915 artist’s book BÏF§ZF+18 is considered one of the most accomplished examples of Florentine Futurist words-in-freedom, in which he adapted the movement’s experimental spirit.

Conclusion

Futurism would continue to evolve with a second wave a decade after the first wave had begun. The newer version was a more fluid and less rigid movement than the first, freed from the voice of Marinetti and with more room to experiment.

FT Marinetti tried to dynamite grammar (and that’s not all2). But nobody replaced Dante Alighieri. The shockwaves of Futurism were absorbed and filtered through centuries of literary and cultural tradition. The experiments with the avant-garde couldn’t replace all that came before. Europe’s strength is that it can confront radical upheavals and continue to produce works of enduring beauty and thought. It also turns out that Marinetti and Soffici championed Fascism, which history did not look kindly on. And much like that political current, they left their mark but couldn’t erase the foundations that came before.

Additional reading

1 - The Futurist suit becomes anti-neutral (Historia Minuta)

Sources

1 - The Futurist Manifesto

2 - Italian Futurism 1909-1944

3 - Tavole parolibere

4 - Montagne russe a Coney Island, Fortunato Depero, 1930

In the courts of medieval Spain, royal authority was made visible through symbols as well as decrees. In Castile and León, when the king needed to grant a courtly privilege (such as donations of land, tax exemptions, market rights, or confirmations of earlier favors), royal charters were used with formal and visually impressive signs known as privilegios rodados.

Its introduction in Hispanic documentation is linked to the famous Archbishop Diego Gelmírez in Santiago de Compostela. During his stays in Rome, Gelmírez became familiar with the papal rota, a circular sign used to authenticate documents1 in the tradition of medieval diplomatics2. Once in Galicia, he began using a similar sign from the year 1115 in his own charters as a mark of authority [1]. The use of the privilegio rodado was primarily Iberian, even though it took its inspiration from Rome.

Before the privilegio rodado took its mature form, royal symbolism in León was already evolving. The circular wheel offered a model for expressing authority in documents. Alfonso VII of León and Castile employed the lion as a personal emblem linked to royal strength and the kingdom of León, but under Fernando II of León it became a clearer territorial symbol when incorporated into the king’s official sign. This integration helped establish the wheel as a central marker of royal legitimacy, paving the way for the privilegio rodado later standardized in Castile.

Building on these developments, Alfonso VIII was the first Castilian king to issue privilegios rodados with pendent lead seals (between 1175 and 1212), setting the standard for elegance and authority [2]. Collections featuring around 100 examples survive today, such as in the Archivo de la Casa Ducal de Medinaceli located in Toledo [3]. Over time, the privilegio rodado developed from these early examples, reaching its most elaborate form under Alfonso X, illuminated in vivid colors and gold, with ornate script.

The important symbols on these charter documents consisted of a signum regis: a large circular wheel drawn in the document, featuring a cross, emblems like a lion or castle, the king’s name inside, and officials’ names outside [1]. Often, the document included the intertwined Greek letters chi (X) and rho (P) to invoke Christ and signify that the king’s authority derived from God. Finally, a plumbum (pendent lead seal) hung below to provide legal authentication and protect against tampering.

After the union of Castile and León in 1230 under Ferdinand III, the Castilian cross prevailed while the Leonese lion was removed. The wheel grew larger and more decorative while the phrasing around it expanded to reflect the crown’s widening territorial claims (ex. Córdoba, Murcia, Jaén, Seville) [1]. In the reign of Alfonso XI, the cross was removed, leaving just the signs of the realm in the center.

Despite their elaborate design and symbolic weight, these charters were functional objects intended for specific recipients. They rarely “traveled” and were usually given directly to the beneficiary (town council, monastery, church, or noble) for archival storage. Before being stored, however, they were exhibited or read aloud publicly to affirm rights in disputes, ceremonies, or assemblies. The elaborate visual elements emphasized stateliness and propaganda, meant for viewing by relevant audiences rather than remaining unseen.

In the medieval world, the distinction between private and public separated everyday dealings among individuals from matters concerning the crown and the realm [4]. Whereas private exchanges relied on personal trust or custom, acts undertaken in the king’s name demanded visible symbols that projected legitimacy and made authority publicly recognizable.

By the late 15th century, the consolidation of royal administration and standardized record-keeping made such highly ceremonial displays unnecessary. Authority was now guaranteed by bureaucratic control and archival registration. In this sense, the disappearance of the rueda marks the passage from a performative medieval kingship to the documentary culture of the early modern state.

Sources

1 - El Signo Rodado Regio en España. Origen, Desarrollo y Consolidación. Siglos XII-XV

2 - Los “Privilegios Rodados” originales del Archivo Ducal de Medinaceli: Alfonso VIII de Castilla (1158-1214)

3 - The Ducal Archive of Medinaceli

4 - The Origins of the Modern Public [14-part podcast, & original link]

5 - Los códigos visuales del privilegio rodado en tiempo de Alfonso X

French geographer Jean-François Gravier described the extreme primacy of Paris as a case of urban macrocephaly, or an overconcentration around a single dominant pole. In his influential 1947 book Paris et le désert français (Paris and the French desert), he traces this imbalance to a chain of historical choices: monarchs like Louis XIV drawing elites to Versailles; the French Revolution’s deep distrust of the provinces as potential counter-revolutionary strongholds; and Napoleon, followed by later regimes, sticking with centralization because it was seen as efficient, controllable, and stabilizing.

These large swaths of the mainland suffering from low population density and divestment, known as the diagonale du vide (empty diagonal), extend from the Ardennes to the Pyrenees via the Massif Central. These trends were already apparent to 19th-century observers.

At its 1884 congress, the Société des Géographes Français - concerned about the exode rural - warned about the depopulation and demographic stagnation of vast areas of the country. A few decades later, in the same intellectual milieu, the father of French geography Paul Vidal de la Blache explored his interest in the relationship between man and his environment in his 1904 book Tableau de la géographie de la France1. He paid particular attention to how industrialization and rapid urban growth were reshaping settlement patterns.

The main concern is not just where people settle but how demographic changes affect the sociability threshold. Once an area drops below it, schools close, shops disappear, services vanish, and social networks thin out. This was particularly relevant during the so-called Trente Glorieuses2 which saw industrial expansion, rising living standards, urbanization, and the growth of the welfare state.

One issue with diagnosing the empty diagonal in any era is the shifting definitions of French administrative divisions: departments, cantons and municipalities [1]. This difficulty stems from the instability of territorial units throughout history. After the 1790 creation of the départements, the two most significant shifts of this type were the late-19th-century adjustments of communes and cantons alongside the rise of modern statistics, and the post-1960s reorganization that created régions and intercommunal bodies, changing how population and activity are counted.

Territory in language

Linguistics also play a role in determining how society views macrocephalic changes. The term parisianisme - initially meaning a linguistic or cultural trait of a Parisian - underwent semantic drift towards the pejorative. A modern interpretation is more aligned with a contemptuous attitude that distinguishes what happens in Paris as being more important than what happens elsewhere in the country. It contrasts with the terms province and provincial in French. From pro + vincere (“to conquer”), it speaks to subordination; a territory brought under control.

Nineteenth-century literature crystallized this opposition. Balzac famously framed France as split between Paris and a jealous, diminishing province, a view repeated throughout the century. Dictionaries later fixed this meaning in language itself, defining provincial as gauche or lacking distinction. And writers from Goncourt to Mauriac reinforced the image of provincial life as stagnant and dull.

Language doesn’t only demean the province; it can also empty it of identity. Marc Augé’s notion of the non-lieu (or non-place), captures this shift, where certain spaces are no longer even described as inferior, but as functionally anonymous and culturally unworthy of mention.

Industry & inequality

It is not just historical configurations and negative connotations that define these geographical differences. Industry and services can change the fate of entire areas of the country. For example, agriculture’s economic role varies sharply across territories. High-yield cereal regions in the Paris Basin or highly specialized wine areas like Champagne are well integrated into global markets, while medium-mountain regions where one finds extensive mixed farming remain far less profitable and weakly connected to wider economic networks.

In 1827, mathematician Charles Dupin highlighted the Saint-Malo-Geneva line, a statistical northwest–southeast figurative boundary illustrating early industrial vs. agrarian regions. Later commentators have linked it conceptually to the idea of the empty diagonal. In his treatise, he divides France into North and South, according to productive and commercial forces, stating [2]:

The division is by no means arbitrary; the two parts it presents contain two populations that differ more from each other, in wealth, industry, and education, than France as a whole differs from the three British kingdoms, similarly taken as a whole.

Dupin’s figurative Map of the Popular Instruction of France above is the world’s first choropleth map3, depicting the availability of basic education in France by department. In it, he highlights the aforementioned the Saint-Malo-Geneva line, showing the “enlightened France” of the North and the “dark France” of the South.

Throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, industrialization and infrastructure - from railways to roads - gradually reinforced these regional contrasts. Northern and eastern France became more urbanized and industrially dynamic, while many southern and mountainous areas remained mostly rural, with their economies tied to small-scale farming and local markets.

From the 1950s onward, the French state tried to counterbalance Parisian overconcentration through decentralizing industry. By limiting new industrial construction in Île-de-France and pushing these companies toward provincial cities - often with subsidies - it aimed to take pressure off Paris and to spur regional growth. This approach was later organized through DATAR4, which promoted “equilibrium metropolises” to encourage development outside Paris.

This logic fits within aménagement du territoire, a distinctly French way of treating space as a political and economic problem. After WWII, territory was thought of as something to be actively organized, including populations, industries, and infrastructures. Over time, especially from the 1980s onward, this model weakened with decentralization and European integration, giving way to more competition and fragmentation.

Along with these policies, French geographers popularized a new divide called the Le Havre–Marseille line, separating more dynamic eastern areas from agricultural western ones, to the east of which about 60 % of the French population lives.

Conclusion

Paris et le désert français highlighted the country’s overreliance on Paris, creating a lasting and memorable metaphor. Gravier not only described the gaps but framed them as a structural pathology. That framing directly led to postwar aménagement du territoire thinking.

He deliberately used harsh, provocative language against cities, perhaps to shock readers and draw attention to his argument. His ruralist and authoritarian assumptions show how deeply anti-urban and anti-Paris ideas shaped early policy around territories. While many of his claims didn’t age well, the core idea of a Paris-province divide remained. Later planners and policy adopted his views of the imbalance more so than his proposed solutions. Even as the opposition shifted, from Paris vs province to cities vs peripheries, the metaphor continued to influence thinking and keep his work relevant.

France’s unusually early decline in fertility around the turn of the 19th century made these contrasts visible sooner. Of course, low birth rates didn’t create the inequality but they made it difficult to self-correct. In areas outside the cities, departures weren’t being offset by births, while Paris and a few large cities continued to increase their populations through migration. This unevenness helped keep regional differences in place. Ultimately, the story of Paris and the provinces reveals how historical patterns of settlement and policy created lasting regional contrasts.

Additional information

1 - Les voyages de Mat: Diagonale du vide

A diagonal journey through rural France, in words and images. 2500 km off the beaten track to discover the least populated departments of France and meet those for whom life is here.

Sources

1 - La diagonale se vide? Analyse spatiale exploratoire des décroissances démographiques en France métropolitaine depuis 50 ans

2 - Forces productives et commerciales de la France (pg 249)

While Italy’s North-South divide often focuses on the South’s economic struggles, the medieval city-republics of the North (ex. Venice, Genoa, Milan, and Florence) built a unique tradition of cooperation among citizens, merchant guilds, and generalized trust among strangers. This puts them closer to the high-trust cultures of northern Europe than to the more family-focused, top-down patterns in the South.

In an era before centralized authority existed, protection was provided by the city itself. These so-called communes, in the late 11th and early 12th centuries, were at the center of self-governing corporations where residents swore oaths of mutual defense and peace-keeping. Born from a compromise between feudal nobility and a rising bourgeoisie1, these northern Italian communes grew in ways that other autonomy movements in Europe2 couldn’t. In places like France and England, strengthening national monarchies kept similar experiments in check.

This type of self-organization was a result of a secularization process that ocurred between the High and Late Middle Ages with the growth of the bourgeois-mercantile class. This arose from advancements in agriculture that led to a population boom, which freed up labor and intensified competition. Under these conditions, practicing a trade became more rational, with time seen less as a divine gift and more as a practical resource to be measured and managed.

The Commercial Revolution and Renaissance humanism pushed this shift further by bringing practical calculation into everyday economic life. Tools like double-entry bookkeeping and Arabic numerals helped organize trade, while logic and arithmetic were taught to prepare people for business. Legal tools such as insurance separated risk from individual fate, making commerce more rule-based and less dependent on personal or family ties.

Hanseatic & Protestant influences

Northern Italian cities were part of a bigger European picture, not examples in isolation. Like the Hanseatic League up north, cities such as Lübeck and Hamburg started out in the late 12th century as small groups of towns and merchants banding together to protect trade and expand their markets. Over the next couple of centuries, that loose network grew to include hundreds of towns across northern and central Europe, with shared rules, protections, and tightly connected commercial and family networks.

Northern Italy did something very similar. In Venice, the Arsenale and merchant tribunals managed trade and settled disputes, while Genoa used consulates and merchant guilds to protect contracts and organize long-distance commerce. Meanwhile, Milan’s artisan guilds set standards, ran apprenticeships, and managed local markets. Many cities, including Florence, had a podestà (a magistrate who enforced the law and kept the peace) and later a capitano del popolo (a representative for artisans and small merchants who balanced the podestà’s authority).

These institutions shaped who held power. In Florence, the popolo grasso (wealthy merchants and bankers belonging to major guilds) dominated political life, while the popolo minuto (lower classes of artisans and laborers) had far less influence. Across northern Italy, this combination of guilds, magistrates, and civic representatives created a structured, high-trust environment that let commerce and cooperation grow beyond the family or neighborhood, essentially copying the networks of the Hanseatic League.

Before the rise of communes and these mercantile networks, trust in Europe was mostly limited to family, clan, or village. Broader society lacked the institutions and norms needed for cooperation among strangers, making high-trust interactions rare and even risky. Northern Italian cities helped build that framework, spreading trust horizontally through guilds, contracts, and public duties.

Later developments, such as the Protestant Reformation in northern Europe, reinforced these patterns. Promoting literacy, civic responsibility, and social accountability, the Reformation encouraged individuals to engage directly with texts, think independently, and adopt the kind of ethics that lead to dependability, honesty, and honoring contracts. These cultural changes increased the society-wide trust and forward-looking behavior that northern Italian communes had already started establishing, further setting high-trust regions apart from those dominated by hierarchical or kin-based structures3.

Contributing factors

The economic and civic energy of northern Italy fits into bigger patterns across Europe. The French geographer Roger Brunet noticed a difference between “active” and “passive” spaces and, in 1989, described a West European “backbone” (aka Blue Banana), an urban-industrial corridor running from northern England through the Rhine Valley to northern Italy, especially Turin, Milan, and Genoa. For Brunet, this European Backbone wasn’t something new. It grew out of long-standing historical factors, from medieval trade routes to the buildup of industrial capital, showing how geography and existing infrastructure helped some regions develop faster than others.

Northern Italy’s role shows up in patterns of human achievement too. Charles Murray, in Human Accomplishment, measured contributions to the arts and sciences between 1400 and 1950 and found that most came from Western, Central, and Southern Europe. This suggests that northern Italy’s medieval communes’ combined commercial density with unusually high literacy and durable civic institutions created conditions that supported cultural production over long periods rather than in short bursts.

Climate may be a third factor. In colder, seasonal environments, survival depended on anticipating future conditions, such as storing food, building shelter, and organizing labor in order to survive. In warmer, stable climates, there was less pressure to think ahead or innovate. Over generations, this kind of seasonal pressure could favor societies that are more organized and forward-looking. Seasonal thinking may have reinforced the advantages of the European core, helping explain why northern Italy, along with other backbone regions, became a hub of innovation and development.

Taken together, these factors help define what I’m calling the questione settentrionale, or Northern Question. Northern Italy followed a different regional trajectory, rooted in structures that proved remarkably durable.

Four decades after unification, southern Italy exposed the limits of a unified state. Political unity had been achieved, but the administrative kind required managed integration once it became clear the South wouldn’t catch up on its own. The Kingdom of Naples, for example, had long operated with weaker institutions, different land systems, and centralized rule. Unification in 1861, however, didn’t fix this. It simply transplanted Piedmontese law (setting the standards by which the rest of Italy would be judged) onto a very different society.

A unified Italy, while beneficial in the long term, stripped power, status, and control not only from the Kingdom of Naples but from the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. The result was fiscal pressure, social unrest marked by revolts and repression, widespread rural banditry, mass emigration to the Americas, recurring cholera outbreaks, and fragile local institutions.

Naples had already been singled out for state intervention with the 1885 Legge Napoli, aimed at urban and sanitary renewal. It was the first recognition that the city required separate treatment1. And while it did achieve limited success in its aims, it also displaced poor residents and failed to revive the city’s economy.

Amid a banking crisis and general unrest in the 1890s, momentum built for a renewed attempt at fixing lingering issues, but on a broader scale. The official response came in the form of the Legge Speciale per Napoli of 1904 which removed or reduced customs taxes on raw materials and consumer goods, among other measures that sought to boost employment and industry. Again, the results were mixed but it was the first real attempt to address the “Questione meridionale” (Southern Question) through economic and industrial policy on a regional level rather than merely city-wide, like the 1885 law.

Southern Question

The expression “Southern Question” refers to the age-old internal political dilemma between the North and the South of the nation, determined by economic, civil, social, and cultural imbalance. There are many causes for the divide.

The origins are often traced back to the medieval period. Much of the North experienced a long communal phase, in which self-governing cities developed civic institutions, commercial law, and local administrative traditions. Meanwhile, the South remained under centralized monarchies and never developed the same culture of municipal autonomy.

This divide was reinforced by centuries of foreign rule. Under Spain, the South was governed as part of a wider imperial system. Northern Italy, on the other hand, was more closely tied to more advanced French and central European administrative and economic models.

Geography and culture deepened the differences. The Po Valley’s flat and fertile terrain and trade routes favored commerce and early industrialization, while northern dialects formed more continuous linguistic zones. Southern dialects, influenced by political centralization and regional separation, as well as Greek and Arabic, evolved more independently, strengthening long-standing regional differences.

After effects

The after effects of the two Neapolitan laws were many - including on urban planning. The 1885 post-cholera law was behind the landfill that buried the historic Chiaia beach (once a sweeping sandy shore celebrated in Grand Tour-era paintings) beneath the Caracciolo promenade found today. Two decades later, the 1904 law placed massive steelworks in the Bagnoli quarter, transforming the pristine Phlegraean bay, once envisioned by famed architect Lamont Young as a Neapolitan Venice, into an industrial zone [1].

As the 1904 law attracted northern investors to establish heavy industries, they ended up absorbing local firms and providing short-term employment gains in an era of continued corruption. It also paid for better electricity, trade schools, worker housing, and a bigger port to increase trade, but most of the grand plans to reshape the city never got off the ground [2].

Nonetheless, it can’t be argued that there was a mini-boom, that is, a rapid industrial surge in Naples between 1904 and 1914. If it weren’t for WWI, perhaps Naples might have potentially rivaled northern cities, but the war redirected state contracts to northern firms2, forcing southern factory closures and cheap acquisitions. This ties into a broader argument on how the conflict strengthened the North-South divide by prioritizing the industrial triangle of Milan, Turin and Genoa [3].

Critics, however, ultimately viewed the law as being too narrowly focused, neglecting broader southern regions and creating economic dependency on northern capital - a trend that continued in the interwar and post-war periods. More than a century later, the debate persists. Administrative law professor Giovanni Leone has argued that any further special laws solely for Naples would reinforce harmful stereotypes of the city [4]:

Naples has always been considered an exception. “Napoli è Napoli.” “Bella e maledetta.” “Unica e impossibile.” “Napoli non è l’Italia: è un mondo a sé.” Expressions repeated for centuries, clichés so deeply rooted that they have become tradition. But this tendency to exaggerate Naples’ uniqueness risks, according to some, pushing the community into a corner. “Naples does not need parochialism or populism,” Leone stresses. “The city is part of a country that is central to Europe, and it is from this perspective that we must think.”

Leone argues that special laws and initiatives for Naples are consistently partial and reactive. Instead, he advocates a national agency dedicated to the entire Mezzogiorno3, capable of channeling resources (including a reversed north-south allocation of EU funds), prioritizing sustainable infrastructure, and shielding projects from organized crime4.

More than a century after the 1904 law’s partial efforts to incentivize Naples’ industrial revival, the Southern Question persists not only economically but, as economist Pasquale Saraceno observed in 1989, as an “ethical-political” challenge to Italy’s national unity [5]. Only a unified vision, that sees the Mezzogiorno’s potential as integral to Italy’s future, can finally move the country beyond the divisions it inherited from unification.

Additional information

1 - How Italy Became the Most Divided Country in Europe [29m]

2 - La Napoli Del Futuro - Il Sogno di Lamont Young [50m, subtitles]

3 - Sud: questione meridionale o nazionale? [54m]

Sources

1 - 1884-1904, i vent’anni del delitto di Stato: quando Napoli fu privata del suo mare

2 - Legge speciale per Napoli e mini boom economico di inizio Novecento

3 - Quando il Nord comprò La Campania

4 - “Per rilanciare Napoli e il Mezzogiorno serve un’agenzia nazionale”, la proposta di Giovanni Leone

5 - Questione meridionale ancora aperta. Superare il divario tra Nord e Sud centrale per ritrovare unità nazionale

Starting in the 15th century, Venice was emerging as a printing hub, when itinerant peddlers known as venditori ambulanti began disseminating pamphlets, ballads, and religious tracts1 across the peninsula. During the Reformation, this grassroots network shaped public opinion, with peddlers navigating Catholic censorship to distribute Protestant and Catholic texts. These early distributors, often undocumented, were central to cultural and religious shifts, making printed ideas mobile.

From hubs in Venice, Bologna, Rome and Naples, these printed works radiated outward. Below is a map of early printing towns across Italy. These were places where incunabula2 were produced and then disseminated. The colored dots indicate the decade in which they started to crop up, as well as how many editions were being produced and where.

Yet producing books was only part of the story - getting them into readers’ hands across Europe presented a whole new set of challenges. In an article from The Groiler Club on The Book Peddlers of France, the author states how difficult it was early on in Europe to take possession of books [1]:

Rough terrain slowed down shipments, licensing and copyright laws limited what books could be sold where, and religious and secular disputes over the content of the books further complicated matters.

Nonetheless, according to an article on an exhibition titled Colporteurs – I venditori di stampe e libri e il loro pubblico (Colporteurs - Print and book sellers and their audience) [2], bureaucratic and logsticial hurdles weren’t always detrimental:

The peddler’s trade was often carried out with dignity and professionalism, enabling social ascent, the purchase of a shop, or even a publishing house, and should not be confused with the ever-mobile groups of charlatans, swindlers, or beggars who frequented the same roads and markets.

The brief article goes on to mention how these hawkers spurred the creation of a collective European imaginary. Expanding on this idea, epic printed poems from the late 15th and early 16th century Italy, such as Orlando Innamorato, Orlando Furioso, and Morgante offer a glimpse into that shared imagination. Produced and distributed via early printing presses in Venice and other towns, they spread heroic deeds, via tales of knights, love, and moral struggles within a Christian framework.

This religious backdrop was never meant to be far from the minds of readers - Rome and the Holy See made sure of that. As printing flourished, controlling its content became a priority for authorities, leading to formal mechanisms of censorship.

Index of Forbidden Books

The Index Librorum Prohibitorum, or Index of Forbidden Books, was a heretical list of banned books that started in 1560 and lasted four centuries. Perfect candidates for exclusion included theologians challenging papal power, astronomers pushing Copernican ideas, progressive philosophers linked to pantheism, and those who questioned faith with reason. The Index went even further, banning Protestant texts on secular subjects such as botany, medicine, jurisprudence, geography and cosmography.

One of its six regulae, or rules - that was more a consequence than a criterion for banning - was related to ownership. Catholics were forbidden from reading, owning, selling, or distributing listed books under penalty of sin. For the Church, printing was a double-edged sword; on one hand, it allowed for the spread of the holy word but, on the other, its democratic nature made way for all manner of competing and unrelated thought to flourish. This was, after all, the same general period as a split in the Church known as the Protestant Reformation.

Permissions to print

Catholic censors declared a book nihil obstat3 if the publication had no offending declarations, followed by an imprimatur4 from a bishop permitting its publication. To give a real-world idea of what this meant, of the roughly 8,150 editions5 printed in Venice from 1550 to 1599, around 71 new titles per year required a governmental imprimatur [3].

In this case, the use of “governmental” refers to permission from the Republic of Venice, which is different from the Catholic Church’s imprimatur for doctrinal approval. In other words, as an important printing hub, Venice exercised independent control over its presses while occasionally pushing back against the Church’s Index restrictions. At times, this backfired, as wealthy Venetian bookstore owners often had shops across Italy.

With countries - or rather, kingdoms and republics - tightly controlling the printing process within their borders, it led to a market for the clandestine sale and trade of forbidden publications - a job that was carried out by hawkers, including transnationally. One is reminded of the Tesini pedlars from the Italian Alps, active from the 16th to 19th centuries, who distributed affordable prints across Europe on foot.

The demand for hidden texts naturally shifts the focus to how such materials reached their audiences and the distinction between distribution and dissemination. A study that investigates these terms is The Dissemination of European Popular Print: Exploring Comparative Approaches [4]. In it, the authors show the physical transportation of printed materials like books and pamphlets differed from broader cultural processes, including the meanings, social interactions, and multimediality (eg, oral performances, adaptations, and non-commercial exchanges) attributed to them.

The paper also opens up the discussion to the many types of sellers, such as peddler, hawker, chapman, street vendor, and colporteur. In turn, these could further be categorized by wealth, credit, trade practices, or specialization in printed matter versus other goods. So while they weren’t necessarily “charlatans, swindlers, or beggars”, they also weren’t homogeneous either.

Conclusion

No matter the viewpoint, book peddlars benefited the local government via taxes and licenses, allowed low income residents to have an income and supplied literature to people in rural areas, among other things. They were crucial to both the dissemination and distribution of written ideas, and thus popular movements, in addition to helping form cohesive cultural identities.

In an era when Venice’s ruling class curbed open discourse to preserve order, lively public chatter filled streets and squares, where peddlers democratized ideas by spreading printed materials to the masses. Their work fueled Italy’s literary spread, leaving their mark in urban spaces, rural homes and everywhere in between.

Sources

1 - The Book Peddlers of France

2 - Colporteurs – I venditori di stampe e libri e il loro pubblico

3 - The Roman Inquisition and the Venetian Press, 1540-1605 (pdf)

4 - The Dissemination of European Popular Print: Exploring Comparative Approaches (pdf)

5 - The normative role of public opinion in the republican experience of Renaissance Venice (pdf)

Forming associations in France before the 20th century was tightly controlled by legal decree under the ruling monarch or head of state. This system served to suppress dissent, sedition, and unauthorized organizing, as those caught forming unsanctioned groups had no legal defense for their act of association.

The way around this was with a 12th century invention out of France and England, called lettres patentes, or letters patent1 [1]. If you successfully petitioned the state to allow your group to legally exist, you would be granted a public document2. Non-compliance fell under the purview of the local bailliff and seneschal3 or - in the case of the republic - the bureaucratic apparatus formed by a prefecture, prosecutor and criminal court.

In the absence of judicial process, the king could issue lettres de cachet, signed personally and not subject to court oversight [2]. These kinds of documents fell under two types: administrative, which were absolute orders to stop group assembly; and punitive, used to imprison, confine, or expel individuals from the realm.

Letters patent grew out of post-Roman bureaucracy, preserved and spread by the papacy. Royal and, later, civil chanceries - charged with handling official documents - adapted these legal instruments for the medieval period.

The Law of 1901

As shown above, before the 20th century, no general right to associate existed in France. Associations weren’t outright illegal, but they required government authorization, which was rarely granted. The Association loi de 1901, or Law of 1901, effectively ended that system by granting automatic legal status to associations of two or more people, as long as they followed the rules [4]. There were only three requirements: a contractual agreement, the pooling of knowledge or activity without seeking profit, and a selfless purpose.

Legit profit-making businesses formed a société, or company, which were ipso jure part of the legal structure. But a not-for-profit entity, let’s say a political group, cultural club, or charity, required the loi 1901 structure to operate.

There is a loophole of sorts, or rather more of an anomaly, that sidesteps the Law of 1901 and is therefore disconnected from the linear evolution of French law. The Alsace-Moselle association law allows for simpler association formation on a narrower, more local level, as long as the entity is formed in one of the departments of the Alsace-Moselle region [5]. Just like how Llívia, a Spanish exclave in southern France, retains its native identity outside the mainland, Alsace-Moselle preserves a unique legal framework within France, grandfathered in when the region was under German rule.

Conclusion

Anomolies aside, medieval ordinances for the exercising of professions in France were often regulated under letters patent [6] and were historical precursors to the Law of 1901. In fact, the law was a turning point. Instead of needing special, top-down permission, people could finally form groups by default, without royal permission or any legal gymnastics required. What used to be a privilege became a basic right, opening the door to everything from sports clubs to political movements.

Sources

1 - Letters patent (Wiki)

2 - Lettres de cachet (Wiki)

3 - Letters close (Wiki)

4 - Association loi de 1901 (Wiki)

5 - Association de droit local alsacien-mosellan (Wiki)

6 - Liste des ordonnances médiévales touchant aux métiers (Wiki)

In 1809, as Napoleon’s armies swept through Spain, the small Galician port of Vigo became an unlikely beacon of resistance, defying the odds to reclaim its freedom. The period in question is the Peninsular War, when Spain, Portugal and the UK teamed up to expell the French under Napoleon. Galicia was in the midst of becoming occupied territory and the British were forced to withdraw. The French troops started to head south, through Santiago de Compostela and eventually Vigo - the last key town before the Portuguese border, even though Portugal had already been invaded over a year earlier1.

Until that point in time, every major Spanish city on the war path - Barcelona, Pamplona, Madrid, Zaragoza and A Coruña - fell to the French. And yet a city with just 10,000 residents at the time, smaller in both size and population than any of the others, was able to repel the French imperial forces.

The uprising would become known as the Reconquest of Vigo, and took place on the night of March 27th 1809 and, by the next day - after nearly two months of occupation - it was over. But the plan didn’t come together overnight - it had begun weeks earlier, in mid-February, with secret meetings, covert resistance, and acts of sabotage, “by hiding food from the French, stealing their weapons, and passing messages.” [2]. By mid-March, the siege had already started with locals no longer content in their subterfuge, they became more bold in their strategy and started attacking soldiers here and there. On March 23rd, a demand of surrender is sent to the French.

Although French reinforcements are fast approaching, British frigates are arriving to support the local efforts. Time has run out and all out fighting starts. An old sailor takes an ax to the main gate at A Gamboa but is swiftly killed but his effort is taken up by Captain González, aka “Cachamuíña”, before he is also hit by French bullets2. As the gate breaks open, the French soldiers retreat. By dawn of the 28th, they surrender and 1,400 are taken prisoner aboard the British ships.

In recognition of their triumph, King Ferdinand VII granted Vigo the title of “ciudad fiel, leal y valerosa” (faithful, loyal, and courageous city) in 1810, a phrase that can now be found on the city’s coat of arms. The lesser known irony is that, in the same year, the king wrote a letter to Napoleon declaring loyalty and requesting an imperial princess.

Darker Days

While the Reconquest is a solid tale of bravery and heroism against an invading force, it’s perhaps important to note that Vigo was not a bastion of defiance and triumphs.

Ninety years before the French attack on Vigo the British were the ones who briefly captured the city. In late 1719, during the War of the Quadruple Alliance, the British arrived in the bay with 80 warships and 6,000 troops and bombarded O Castro fortress as punishment for Spanish support for the Jacobite rising. The British held Vigo, Redondela, and Pontevedra for ten days, destroying military stores and ships, with 300 Spanish casualties. Then they swiftly withdrew, but not before looting the cities [3].

And, returning to Ferdinand VII, it wasn’t long after the events of the 1809 Reconquest that the King temporarily lost his absolute monarchy after a military uprising in 1820 forced him to accept limiting his power. The shortlived period of liberal governance ended in 1823 when French forces yet again invaded Spain, to restore Ferdinand’s absolute rule. In Vigo, this led to the city’s quick surrender & the execution of liberal rebels in the city of Redondela [4].

Yet, despite these darker chapters, the spirit of the 1809 Reconquest continues on, celebrated each year with a festival that transforms the event into a lively display of Galician pride.

The Annual Reconquista Revelry

Since 1994, Vigo’s city council has celebrated the Reconquest every year, on March 28th3 and also transformed it into a public holiday. From 1994-96, it was commemorated in a more demure manner until the residents of the Casco Vello, or old town, spurred on reenactments from 1997 onwards, turning it into the city’s most lively and anticipated event.

The main theatrical events are: the seizure of the town hall, the closing of Vigo’s walls, deadly tavern clashes between locals & French soldiers, local women distracting the invaders, the storming of Gamboa Gate, and the French retreat by sea. Yet the overall entertainment goes beyond theater, as the description below shows [5]:

What once took place in a single square of the Old Town now spans a full month of events, reaching its peak around the historical dates. Hundreds of people participate in the reenactment; there are hundreds of artisan and food stalls, and thousands of visitors take part.

Online, one can also find street interviews - usually humorous in nature - with reenactors [6] where they espouse their opinion on varied topics.

In preparation for the big event, the city’s tailors and rental shops - such as Non te Cortes and Arranxos - become quite busy. Costumes in the style of the period, mostly made of linen and wool, cost around 500 euros for the full set and are, of course, reusable in subsequent renditions. Menswear consists of items such as vests, berets, sashes and clogs while womenswear includes corsets, shawls, headscarves and a faltriqueira4. Budget-friendly options also exist, to an extent, for those with a grandparent’s closet to raid. And for those bold enough to embrace the role, dressing up as a French soldier is also an option. No matter which role is taken on, it might be wise to tailor the costume to leave room for the culinary fare and the libations.

Among the food and drink, the visitor will find empanadas, churrasco, filloas and choripán [see above], with the usual drinks being wines, ciders, sangria and beer5. In the spirit of a Renaissance Fair, there are also demonstrations of traditional crafts and musical performances featuring over thirty bands and dance groups.

In 2019, Spain declared it a Festival of National Tourist Interest, one of twelve in Galicia. And the most recent celebration in 2025 attracted 250,000 spectators, a record number across all 28 editions and further cementing its status as a cultural cornerstone. The next celebration is reportedly scheduled for March 21-29, 2026 and promises another lively tribute to Vigo’s past. From the heroic stand of Cachamuíña at Gamboa Gate to the lively reenactments and artisan stalls of today, Vigo’s Reconquest continues to bring together different generations and celebrate a spirit of community and courage.

Sources

1 - Vigopedia: 16 de marzo de 1809: Se estrecha el cerco sobre Vigo

2 - Con la Reconquista Vigo se liberó de la ocupación francesa

3 - La fortaleza del Castro, la historia olvidada de Vigo (video clip)

4 - Algunas curiosidades y omisiones sobre la Reconquista de Vigo

5 - A Reconquista de Vigo: A festa

6 - La Reconquista de Vigo (Reportaje) & La RECONQUISTA de VIGO

7 - El Español: ¿Cómo ser un auténtico vigués de 1809?

If there’s a single book that defines Italian cooking, it’s La Scienza in Cucina e l’Arte di Mangiar Bene (Science in the kitchen and the art of eating well), by Pellegrino Artusi. Written all the way back in 1891, it originally wasn’t a bestseller. “L’Artusi”, as the book is sometimes referred to, originally consisted of 475 recipes - now 790 - from all over Italy, which required two decades to gather and curate, and selling 52,000 copies while the author was still alive1.

Even though Pellegrino Artusi was from a very well-off background, his book was geared towards middle-class families and everyday housewives. Not only that, it wasn’t the first book of its kind - there were other cookbooks featuring regional cuisine - and he wasn’t even a cook, so we can think of him more like the first food blogger of his time, or perhaps equally, an amateur scientist.

He also pushed back against the dominant haute cuisine, which was the French model of fancy, highbrow cooking. This was not because Italians weren’t sophisticated, but because such cuisine didn’t fit the needs or tastes of Italy’s growing middle class, especially the urban women who were starting to run their own kitchens [2].

This shift in culinary focus occurred in a country still recovering from centuries of economic stagnation. As one study notes [3]:

From the 17th century until the end of the 19th, GDP rose as the population increased. Yet per capita income slowly diminished together with real wages, urbanization, and living standards.

The book’s title is intentional as it aligns with the 19th-century positivist movement that sought to apply scientific principles to all areas of life, even cooking. In fact, Artusi argued that the cookbooks of the era weren’t useful as they didn’t include basic information like dosages. In the preface, however, he describes a less rigid, more playful side to his approach [1]:

The kitchen is a little rascal; it often and willingly drives you to despair, but it also brings pleasure, because when you succeed or overcome a difficulty, you feel satisfaction and sing victory.

If you don’t aspire to become a master chef in some grand court, I don’t believe it’s necessary to be born with a saucepan on your head to succeed. All you need is passion, great attention, and the habit of being precise. Then, always choose the finest quality ingredients, those alone will make you shine.

So what exactly made Artusi’s book special? Well, the breadth and scope of the recipes he gathered, for one, and he did it at a very opportune time in Italian history - in the period during and after the unification of Italy. In other words, he helped populate people’s minds with a novel notion: what it means to be Italian. And it apparently worked, as Italy and its food culture are tied at the hip - or rather, the panza2.

Political unification did not mean cultural or even economic unification. Linguistically, they couldn’t understand each other. But food has long been the great unifier, though it would be wrong to say that his initial editions were truly representative of the peninsula and the isles. Artusi, being from Romagna, favored both northern and central regions including Tuscany and what is now Emilia-Romagna. That said, a later edition in the year of his death, included many more contributions which more fairly represented the newly formed country.

How did he do it? By trying recipes he already knew, collecting others from those around him, and roaming from restaurant to restaurant, bakery to bakery. He took meticulous notes and also any anecdotes that were told to him in the moment, such as the situations and circumstances around which certain foods came to be cooked. Perhaps too many anecdotes, as the book didn’t sell well initially and was said to be boring, with too many irrelevant facts. Some shops would reportedly receive the books for sale but when no one bought them, the shopkeepers used the pages as wrapping paper for items purchased. Not quite like taking a hammer to a David and using the pieces for gravel, but perhaps sacrilegious in its own way.

Some traditional foods weren’t included simply because he personally did not like how they tasted, though others were included despite his distaste for them. People started to send him their recipes, too, once the book caught on. With no children, never married, and only two beloved cats3, he left the rights to his book to his two kitchen helpers who were at his side the whole time.

Artusi worked on his recipes until his final days. In his eighties, he could still see just as well as always, and regularly revised subsequent editions. By age 90, the year he died, he was still correcting recipes. La Scienza’s success surprised and delighted him, keeping him engaged until the very end [4].

Fittingly, given his legacy as the creator of the first true Italian cookbook, his death in March 1911 coincided with Italy’s 50th anniversary, marked by celebrations across the country. On the centennial of Artusi’s death, in 2011, there were many celebrations across the country as well. And that’s not all. Since 1997, his hometown of Forlimpopoli has celebrated the Festa Artusiana, an annual food and entertainment festival in his honor.

Effects

L’Artusi, which has sold over a million copies, and has been translated into ten languages, remains a beloved classic. Its modern success is in part thanks to a version published by Einaudi in 1970 and edited by noted historian and gastronomist Piero Camporesi who once reflected how La Scienza did more for national unification than the 1827 book I promessi sposi (The Betrothed) managed to do. And as the latter is the most widely read novel in Italian and a cornerstone of Italian literature whose use of Florentine Italian helped standardize the national language, that’s no small feat!

The curious reader can peruse the more than 1,800 letters he received from all over Italy, and the world, using the digital archive at Casa Artusi. These were the letters that contained the recipes that helped build the book and the gratitude that grounded the project - a living dialogue between Artusi and a nation finding itself through food.

As famed chef Massimo Bottura said in a 1st edition reprint, “L’Artusi paved the way for us to get to know ourselves and our nation, one spoonful at a time.”

Additional Information

1 - Culinary Luminaries: Pellegrino Artusi | The New School (video, 1h18)

2 - Pellegrino Artusi. L'unità d'Italia in cucina (video, 14m, English subs)

3 - Verso una cucina, lingua ed identità nazionale: uno sguardo storico attraverso La Scienza in Cucina di Pellegrino Artusi (pdf)

Sources

1 - L’Artusi (both first & modern editions, pdf, in Italian)

2 - Pellegrino Artusi - La scienza in cucina e l’arte di unire l’Italia a tavola

3 - The Italian Economy Before Unification, 1300–1861

4 - Artusi, un secolo dopo: il gentiluomo in cucina

5 - Mostra Pellegrino Artusi. Il tempo e le opere

In the late 16th century, with Spain dominating southern Italy and influencing the north, Grand Duke Ferdinand I pushed for more autonomy in Tuscany. Aside from improving the economy at home and making Livrono a free port, he also looked to establish colonies abroad - in Africa - but Spain and Portugal refused. Not looking to give up so easily, he looked further afield.

It was then that Ferdinand ordered an expedition, in 1608, to explore the Amazon and Orinoco rivers. The exploratory mission - known as the Thornton Expedition after the English sailor Robert Thornton who was commissioned to head it - sought to establish a colony in South America to facilitate trade in valuable Amazonian goods, such as spices, dyes, and medicinal plants, and to enhance Tuscany’s economic influence. He focused the mission on parts of the Amazon and Guiana as they were less tightly controlled by Spain & Portugal.

However, Ferdinand’s death - in early 1609 - cut the project short, and his successor Cosimo II abandoned it. The Thornton Expedition wasn’t a total loss, however. They not only were able to utilize extensive maps from Livorno’s renowned cartographic school but they brought back a lot of new information. Robert Dudley, Earl of Warwick, had joined the crew while in Livorno, eventually creating the first maritime atlas and introduced Mercator projection maps to Italy [3]. Other “belongings” they returned with included unknown metals, a few dozen aborigines and some tropical parrots.

While the mission ended prematurely, Ferdinand’s death underscored the reality that Tuscany might have established the only Italian colony in South America. The failure sheds light on how smaller Italian states - namely Venice, Genoa and Florence - couldn’t compete with major colonial powers when it came to establishing their own.

Here’s an imaginary map of what the colony might have looked like, along with a short story, in Italian, on how it might have proceeded.

Additional Information

1 - The Brazilian spice trade

2 - Reimagining roots in the New World

3 - Il tentativo toscano di colonizzare le Americhe (14m)

Sources

1 - L’esperimento coloniale fallito di Ferdinando de’ Medici.

2 - From Livorno the "Thornton expedition", colonial attempt by Ferdinando I

In Spain, the above scene is tradionally known as pelar la pava (lit. to pluck a turkey), an expression referring to the conversation between a man and a woman, separated by the window grille where the young woman looks out. It comes from the late 19th and early 20th centuries and is reminiscent of Andalucian customs.

The origins of the phrase are slightly disputed, with Sevillian folklorist Luis Montoto saying the story follows that of a lady who requests that her maid help with dinner by preparing the turkey for cooking. The maid either goes to the window or a balcony to carry out the task and it’s there that a young man courts her. When she takes longer than expected and is called from the other side of the house, she replies estoy pelando la pava! [1, 2]. Yet another explanation goes as follows:

Baron Davillier, in Viaje por España, compares the pose of a man holding a guitar to that of somebody plucking poultry [2].

Today, young people use the phrase in an altogether different manner: to express idleness, wasting time or doing nothing special. I suppose one could say that in the old days they perfected the art of doing nothing (chatting at the window) while also knowing how to make it special. These days, the “turkey” is store-bought and scarfed down, stripped of the slow cook, the basting, the herbs & aromatics that once made it something special.

As the saying goes, “traditions are the solutions to problems we’ve forgotten we had.” And yet, once the lesson is lost, the ritual disappears - leaving us without the romance, the anticipation, and the slow, deliberate dance that made even idleness feel meaningful.

Sources

1 - ¿Cuál es el origen de la expresión ‘Pelar la pava’?

2 - Courting (Pelando la pava)

In the July 1907 edition of the prominent weekly French magazine L’Illustration, journalist and writer Jean Cervin takes the reader on a journey through France [1]. The ultimate destination? Royan1 - a popular summer getaway for Parisians in the years leading up to WWI, known for its mild climate, beautiful beaches, and upscale seaside resorts.

During the famed Belle Époque, a time of industrialization and urban growth, expanding railway lines spurred the rise of seaside tourism. Starting in England, the trend of domesticating the beach and turning it into a place for thalassotherapy (sea therapy) had reached the French Atlantic coast at the start of the 1800s. Over the course of the century, seaside activities - such as taking in fresh air and sea baths - shifted away from health and more towards leisure, enjoyment, rest and relaxation.

Although the wealthy were already vacationing by train, by 1875, improvements in rail service made the trip from Paris to the southwestern coast rather quick, at under 10 hours. Soon, an influx of upper-class visitors - mainly the bourgeoisie from Bordeaux and Paris - led to the rise of casinos, theaters, trams, & rapid urban development in places like Royan. [2].

By the 1880s, third-class travelers were able to take day-trips with circular tickets that allowed for multiple stops. They enthusiastically boarded these trains de plaisir, or pleasure trains - for dedicated excursions at reduced rates of 40-70% - to destinations like Deauville, Nice, Biarritz, and Cannes.

Suddenly, everyone could “enjoy wandering for a few hours in lazily picturesque, somewhat hidden corners” [1], just like the early 20th century itinerary we’re following (to which I’m adding commentary).

Saumur and Montreuil-Bellay

Four hours from Paris, the first two stops lie in the heart of the Loire Valley, a region celebrated for its vineyards. The highlight is Saumur, a city shaped by the two rivers that encircle it, its châteaux and churches, and its renowned AOC-designated sparkling and red wines. These qualities have earned it a place in the works of Balzac, Voltaire, and Victor Hugo.

Montreuil-Bellay is part of the Saumur Attraction Area2, which is composed of 31 towns. The city has 17 historical sites to explore - including its famous Château de Montreuil-Bellay - on the banks of the Thouet River.

Niort and Saintes

A few hours southwest from Saumur, we arrive at the historical Poitou-Charentes area. Despite its small size in 1907, Niort and the surrounding Poitevin Marsh3 drew significant attention in the 19th century, with both Napoleon and King Louis-Philippe ordering extensive public works to develop the marshlands through canals and drainage systems.

In the 1870s and 80s, mutual insurance companies started forming to support agricultural workers and small businesses, and it would eventually turn Niort into France’s fourth most important financial center.

Tourists could explore city’s Romanesque twin dungeons, visit Les Halles de Niort - a historic covered market built from iron and steel, inspired by the famous Halles of Paris - ride through the calm canals of the nearby marsh, or perhaps even catch a glimpse of an automobile, as Niort was home to Automobiles Barré4, one of France's pioneering car makers.

As for Saintes, it was the regional seat of the French state-owned railway company, making it an obvious stop on the way to the seaside. Tourist activities also abound here, especially in terms of Roman era constructions and ruins5.

But, alas, it’s time to catch the final short stretch of rail to our destination.

Royan’s rise, fall & rebirth

Situated at the mouth of the Gironde estuary - the largest estuary in Europe - Royan was always an attractive site, but also open to siege. It was subject to Visigoth invasions and Viking incursions, and was destroyed by Louis XIII during the Wars of Religion in the early 17th century. During the Restoration, after the fall of Napoleon, Royan finally had some respite from ruin, and began to be known a place of repose.

Royan experienced an era of grand villas and elegant promenades, along with its aforementioned mild climate and beautiful beaches that intermingle with five limestone cliffs - locally known as conches. And if the seaside isn’t of interest, the city is surrounded by the Pontaillac, Pousseau and Belmont marshes, with the latter two being special protection areas for 31 bird species.

Future generations would find another city in its place. During the Allied bombings in 1945, over 85% of Royan was destroyed, including its town center, its historic buildings, harbor and beachside6. Far from an isolated incident, the same occurred with Dunkirk, Toulon, Le Havre, Saint-Dié and Calais. The collective rebuilding of these seaside towns was deemed an "urban planning research laboratory".

The rebuilding of Royan itself was supposed to adhere to a regional Saintongeais style of architecture and urban design but Brazilian modernism, filtered through Le Corbusier, took hold in the city. By the early 1950s, elements such as brise-soleils, curved forms, and indoor-outdoor integration transformed the city’s architecture, replacing older 19th-century features with something avant-garde [4, 5].

Today, Royan offers much for the modern visitor: a blend of sport and relaxation, culture and nature, urban beaches and the Atlantic coast, oyster marshes and vineyard hillsides, Romanesque heritage & 50s architecture [6].

In 2010, it was classified as protected cultural heritage status, or a Town of Art and History (Ville d’Art et d’Histoire). These days, it attracts around 700,000 yearly visitors, generating 172 million of the region’s 430 million euros [7].

The city's evolving narrative mirrors the experience of a train journey through time, where one moment you’re aboard a runaway train, the next you’re taking a leisurely ride on one of France’s classic tourist trains, revisiting its past. One thing is for sure, if the historical journey of Royan were itself a train ride, its stations would require passengers to switch trains, alternating between these two paths. Luckily, readers can skip the runaway kind7.

Additional Information

1 - Le peuple, grâce aux chemins de fer, apparaît enfin sur « les plages saines et vivifiantes »

2 - Un âge d’or du chemin de fer français : a-t-il existé et quand?

3 - Un aspect du voyage en chemin de fer: le voyage d'agrément sur le réseau de l'Ouest des années 1830 aux années 1880

Sources

1 - L’illustration (pg 11), or simply here.

2 - François and the Atlas Mountain: "Royan"

3 - Les affiches touristiques

4 - L’invention du balnéaire « cinquante » à Royan

5 - La reconstruction de Royan

6 - Royan Atlantique Tourist Office (& online guide books)

7 - Royan and its festivals

When one thinks of Italy in the last 20 years, one process that comes to mind is certainly its declining demographics, on both ends of the spectrum - whether death due to old age or emigration and brain drain. According to a 2024 article from Fortune [1], more than a million Italians have left in the past 10 years - a third of them aged 25 to 34. They blame low salaries, lack of recognition for their skills and high taxes [2], the conditio sine qua non of their decision to seek better opportunities abroad.

In cross-country comparisons, Italy ranks just above Romania with less than 20 percent of 25-64 year-olds with degrees, compared to 18.78 percent in Romania. Meanwhile this figure is 50.8 percent in Ireland, 40 percent in France and Spain, and 30 percent in Portugal and Germany [3].

As such, it was surprising to discover that Italy is a hub for science and research. As of 2023, the country was the world’s sixth-highest producer of scientific articles, publishing more than 155,000 documents - most of them in the field of medicine [4]. In the 2024 Global Innovation Index, which evaluates innovation based on more than 80 indicators across 133 countries, Italy ranked 26th [5].

Helping to coordinate all the research is none other than the Ministry of University and Research which oversees the country’s scientific and academic landscape, supporting both universities and institutions. In 2013, it launched ResearchItaly, a web magazine dedicated to showcasing and promoting Italian scientific production [6].

Beyond its institutional framework, Italy actively engages the public in science. The SHARPER project is Italy’s official initiative for the European Researchers’ Night, an annual EU-wide event that brings science to the public through interactive activities, talks, and workshops [7]. Taking place in multiple cities across Italy, SHARPER connects universities, research centers, and institutions with local communities, with the aim of making research more accessible.

Italy is also home to some of Europe’s best research institutions. In Rome, the Accademia dei Lincei, one of the oldest scientific academies in the world, has been in operation since the early 17th century. Deep beneath the Apennine Mountains, the Laboratori Nazionali del Gran Sasso stands as the world’s largest underground research center, a focal point for the study of particle physics. Meanwhile, the National Research Council, Italy’s main public research body, ranks among the top global institutions for scientific output.

This strong research infrastructure means Italy’s scientific achievements shape global knowledge. But within the country, no place does it more than Trieste, with its concentration of international research centers.

Trieste - City of Knowledge

With 37 researchers per thousand inhabitants, Trieste holds the European record for the highest concentration of researchers. By comparison, Italy's national average stands at just 4.9 per thousand, while even Finland - a country known for its strong focus on research - does not surpass 15. In total, Trieste is home to an impressive 10,400 researchers and teachers, making up nearly 5% of the city’s population - a figure that highlights its importance in science [8].

The city hosts several internationally renowned research institutions, including the International Centre for Theoretical Physics (ICTP), the International Centre for Genetic Engineering and Biotechnology (ICGEB), and the International School for Advanced Studies (SISSA). These institutions, alongside its universities and scientific centers, have made Trieste a leading hub for research in physics, biomedicine, environmental sciences, and advanced technology.

This concentration of scientific activity is further supported by the Trieste Città della Conoscenza (Trieste City of Knowledge) initiative starting in 2007, a collaborative effort among the city’s major institutions to promote scientific research, innovation, and education [9]. This project strengthens Trieste’s reputation as a place for learning and discovery, and further encourages worldwide collaboration and public engagement with science.

Recognizing its scientific significance, Trieste was named the European City of Science in 2020, serving as the host for EuroScience Open Forum, Europe’s largest interdisciplinary meeting on science and innovation. This designation highlighted Trieste’s impact on global research and its role in advancing science.

Conclusion

Niceties and accolades aside, Italy - especially its government - will have to do more if it wants to maintain the status quo in Trieste, elevate other major cities, and both attract and bring back talent. Achieving this is easier said than done, particularly in the less prosperous meridionale (Southern Italy).

One doesn’t need to go all the way back to the golden age of contributions, but it’s important to remember the intellectual heritage from which Italy draws. From Da Vinci, Galileo, Fibonacci, and Fermi to Marconi, Volta, Matteucci, and Perotto, they laid the groundwork for modern science, revolutionized entire fields, and made inventions that shaped centuries.

If Italy wants to become the Paese della Conoscenza, it needs to move away from the bastone (stick) - ex, poor remuneration, undervaluation, and disregard - and cultivate the carote.

Additional Information

1 - Science in Europe: by the numbers (2019)

2 - Italy - Love it or leave it (documentary trailer, 2011)

Sources

1 - Brain drain in Italy

2 - Tax break clampdown adds to Italian brain drain fears

3 - Italy is stuck in a European brain drain

4 - Scimago Journal & Country Rank: Italy

5 - Global Innovation Index 2024 (pg 173, pdf)

6 - ResearchItaly

7 - SHARPER Project

8 - Trieste, è record europeo di ricercatori: 37 ogni mille abitanti. Più della Finlandia

9 - Trieste City of Knowledge

The island of Madeira in the North Atlantic Ocean is unique in many ways, one of them being its intricate network of irrigation channels - known as levadas - that wrap around the rugged escarpments. Originally devised in the 15th century when the island was first settled, they carry rainwater - both freshly fallen and stored in underground aquifers - from the wetter, mountainous northern side to the flatter, drier agricultural lands in the south. Over time, this remarkable irrigation network grew to an impressive length of 1,400 kilometers, on an island spanning just 756 square kilometers.

These levadas, integral to Madeira’s early agricultural success, channel water captured and held by the Laurisilva subtropical cloud forest. This unique forest absorbs moisture from rain and mist and releases it through springs, streams, and aquifers. Thousands of poios - small terraces with arable soil supported by basalt rock walls - were built across the steep slopes of the island to create farming surfaces [1]. Over time, this method of terracing spread throughout Madeira, transforming its landscape and making agriculture possible.

The origins of Madeira’s levadas

The early settlers of Madeira, primarily from the Douro and Minho regions in Northern Portugal, brought with them knowledge of irrigation. This expertise helped them construct the island’s first levadas. Interestingly, the idea of levadas was not new to Portuguese agriculture; for instance, the Levada do Piscaredo [3] was constructed in the 13th century near the Douro River during the reign of D. Afonso II.

Building levadas on Madeira, however, posed unique challenges. The work was perilous, often requiring laborers to dangle from ropes while carving out channels along the steep mountainsides - sometimes at heights of 500 meters. The responsibility for constructing and maintaining the levadas fell to rocheiros (excavators) and levadeiros, with early labor provided by convicts and slaves.

The levadeiros became so renowned for their expertise that Afonso de Albuquerque, the viceroy of Portuguese India, once requested from King Manuel a group of Madeiran workers to help divert the Nile and conquer Egypt. This ambitious request, however, was denied [4].

Agricultural evolution

The purpose of the levadas evolved over the centuries to meet the island’s changing needs. Initially, they were built to irrigate wheat and sugarcane fields, establishing Madeira as Europe’s largest sugar producer during the 15th and 16th centuries. Sugarcane production became such a massive enterprise that it attracted bankers and merchants from across Europe. However, the environmental cost was staggering - by 1520, 75% of Madeira’s forests had been destroyed, as sugar production required burning 50 kilograms of wood to produce just one kilogram of sugar. Moroccan Berbers were initially brought in as laborers, followed by West African slaves when they proved to be a cheaper workforce.

When sugarcane became cheaper to grow in Brazil, Madeira shifted its focus to grape cultivation. The island developed its renowned wine industry, which became a staple on ships during the Age of Exploration. This fame was partly accidental - Madeiran wine required fortification to survive long voyages, and the heat in ship holds was discovered to improve the wine’s flavor.

Sugarcane made a brief comeback in the 19th century due to vineyard diseases, but by the 20th century, another crop had taken over as the dominant one on Madeira: bananas. Now a symbol of the island’s agricultural identity, they employ 21% of the working population, across 10,000 farms [6].

From private to public

In the first four centuries following the island’s initial colonization, the arduous construction of the levadas was left to private initiative, carried out by owners of springs or the lands to be irrigated – either individually, or grouped into associations of heréus, co-owner farmers who own a share of the levada water and pay for the preservation of the waterway, electing an administrative committee from among their number [7].

In 1947, the levadas were formally placed under State control with the establishment of the Administrative Commission for the Exploitation of Water Resources of Madeira. This shift allowed for the creation of hydroelectric power plants, further modernizing the island’s infrastructure. However, public investment in levada construction had already begun more than 100 years earlier, with the construction of the first publicly funded levada.

Today

The estimated 200 levadas on the main island exist not only thanks to the arduous work of the men who built them, but due to the unique characteristics of the Laurissilva forest and its vegetation. Through an ecological process known as hidden capture, the environment is one that collects, retains, and slowly releases water, meaning it’s a stable system that offers a continuous water supply, perfect for irrigation purposes. Portuguese historian Gaspar Frutuoso, who witnessed the early colonization of the island, said that it burned for seven years straight, in an attempt to lessen its super dense vegetation. If true, one can imagine that the current day flow of water is less intense than originally witnessed.

Today, water from the levadas doesn’t only sustain irrigation, but also contributes to the 33% of the island’s energy that comes from renewables. This feat is accomplished via four hydroelectric power plants, as well as wind and solar systems.

The volcanic origins of the island’s jagged terrain, combined with the orographic effect - where the northeast trade winds bring moisture to its subtropical microclimates - create the ideal conditions for the lush Laurel forest. The forest allows for hidden capture, which enables life and livelihood.

All the elements combined have led to lots of tourism where one of the top attractions is the opportunity for hiking, including along ten of the 200 levadas [8]. The more than 5.2 million tourists in 2023 converted into 652.7 million euros in revenue for the island and its people [9]. The millions of tourists who visit Madeira each year are drawn not only by its stunning landscapes but also by the interplay between ecology and sustainable development - a carefully balanced process that respects the nature of the island, much like the levada system that has sustained it for centuries.

Additional Information

1 - The Birth of Macaronesia (Ambulatin)

2 - Visita Guiada - Ilha da Madeira, Levadas (48m) | Youtube

3 - A few other countries have irrigation channels similar to levadas. Some examples are the Bisses of Switzerland, the seguias of Morocco, and the acequias of the Canary Islands.

Sources

1 - Madeira 1440 a 1540: Escravos, açucar e capitalismo desenfreado

2 - Trabalhos de construção da Levada do Norte 1952

3 - Piscaredo Watercourse (pdf)

4 - Estudo Fitogeográfico dos Jardins, Parques e Quintas do Concelho do Funchal

5 - Rum da Madeira: História

6 - Banana production in Madeira (pdf)

7 - Levadas of Madeira Island

8 - Madeira Hiking

9 - Turismo da Madeira bateu todos os recordes em 2023

When Isabella II was overthrown in the 1868 Revolution, it brought about a push for economic modernization at a time when Spain was financially strained. A few months later, the Mining Law passed which would open up the country to foreign capital and companies. Very liberal concessions were granted and made in perpetuity, starting a boom in the mining of mercury, copper, lead and iron, which would fuel the industrial revolution already occurring across the UK and Central Europe [1].

The source of all these raw materials was the Iberian Pyrite Belt, running from Setúbal in Portugal to Seville, which is the largest concentration of massive sulfides in the world. Mining in the Huelva province had been occurring since the time of the Phoenicians, continuing through the Roman, Moorish and Christian rule.

The resumption of mining in the 19th century was no coincidence. Advances between 1833 and 1859 enabled the full use of pyrites, as sulfur was found to be exploitable, capable of producing sulfuric acid, and copper was extracted from desulfurized pyrites. These developments were of great use to the electricity, transport, chemical and fertilizer industries [2].

Even before the Mining Law, Spanish engineer Luciano Escobar saw the potential in escavating at the Tharsis mines of Huelva, where any serious activity had been dormant since the Roman times. In the 1850s, he presented a proposal to businessmen from the region but it fell upon deaf ears until French engineer Ernest Deligny heard about it. He went on to set up a mining exploration concern in 1853 with the aim of claiming mining rights through concessions and leases. Two years later it was swallowed up by the Compagnie des Mines de Cuivre de Huelva, of which Deligny was a director. There was early success followed by several major hurdles which saw the company fuse with Tharsis Sulphur and Copper Company, a larger British mining company.

This renewed activity, together with the easing of laws around foreign capital investment proved a boon for the British-owned Rio Tinto Company - competitors to Tharsis - which began mining the area along the Rio Tinto river in 1873. Over the course of five years, three mining railways were built to connect the cuencas mineras, or mining basins, with the port/pier which in turn became important for local exports.

In 1907, Rio Tinto opened Corta Atalaya, which was the largest open-pit mine in the world, employing 2,000 workers and giving birth to its own mining town (eventually destroyed to enable more mining). The company’s main excavation sites were located in the area, and gave rise to the city of Las Minas de Riotinto - known in Classical Antiquity as Urium.

Development

This economic activity was vital in transforming Huelva from a smaller settlement into an urban center. By 1876, Huelva was officially recognized as a city and, by the next decade, passenger railway lines were running to Seville and Extremadura.

In the period between 1850 and 1900, Huelva's population surged from approximately 7,000 to 20,300. In contrast, nearby Cádiz grew from 52,000 to 69,000 over the same period, but its size, growth, and development were influenced by different factors. Nonetheless, Huelva grew at a rate of 190% compared to 33% for Cádiz, and the change was seen in more than just the population. The following were all either British-built or greatly influenced by their presence in the province.

From this era come many of the city's most representative and beautiful buildings, such as the Muelle del Tinto (1876), Hotel Colón (1883), the Reina Victoria neighborhood (1916-25), the old Sevilla station (1888), and the Santa Fe market (1905), among others [3].

Influences

The aforementioned Reina Victoria neighborhood, also known as the Barrio Obrero, was built to house the English and features 274 houses in a British style, with semi-detached homes, and gardens. Originally planned to be mere copies of each other, a secondary design won out and featured more than 20 different kinds of façades, with blended styles made up of Andalusian, neo-Mudejar and colonial architecture [4].

The British are also to thank for Spain’s longest playing football club - Recreativo de Huelva, founded in 1889. However, soon after arrival in 1873 they were already having “kick-abouts”, and by 1878 they had an unofficial club supporting a variety of sports, including tennis which they also introduced to the Spaniards.

They also left their influence on local expressions such as “saber más que Brijan” (know more than Brian) and “tomarse un manguara” (to have a brandy) [5]. The first refers to Dr. Brian, a famous doctor from Rio Tinto and the second is how they referred to brandy - “man water” (likely a back translation of “agua para hombres”).

Conclusion

The British impact on Huelva extended far beyond buildings, ball games, and buzzwords. They arrived with a distinct way of life - speaking a different language, wearing unfamiliar clothes, and operating within a model that clashed sharply with local norms. Yet, they were also “victims” of their Victorian ethos.

The most criticized point of the British footprint is the hermetism of the British, their strict conception of classes and the elitism that they used to not mix, at any level, with the natives, who were excluded from social life [6].

Furthermore, their contributions to mineral extraction, worker organization, and industrial practices offered a stark difference to national practices. Yet, the strip mines also stripped away a sense of Spanish identity, turning local resources into impersonal commodities exported abroad. While Jerez wine retains its provenance on every bottle, the materials extracted in Huelva were disconnected from their origins and shipped abroad to aide industrial powers [7].

This disconnect was multiplied by the fact that much of the profit bypassed Spain entirely, leaving little reinvested in local or national economies - contrary to the Mining Law’s intent. Opportunities for local companies to participate in the wider supply chain, from processing to transportation, were lost as the British enterprise internalized nearly every aspect of production. Even the everyday needs of British workers were met by their employer, further limiting economic diversification in the region.

As Spain faced imperial decline, companies like the Rio Tinto Company - backed by Rothschild capital - grew globally. Meanwhile, Huelva saw minimal long-term economic transformation.

Today, Huelva’s British influence exists largely in its architecture and historical footprint, with just over 1,000 British residents comprising 0.2% of the city’s population. The industrial revolution came late to Spain, mostly benefiting regions like the Basque Country and Catalonia, while Southern Spain remained economically stagnant. The mineral wealth extracted during the 19th-century boom facilitated growth across Europe, but for Huelva and much of Spain, the legacy is one of missed opportunities and externalized gains.

Additional Information

1 - La internacionalización de las minas de Huelva

2 - one claim says British workers in Vigo were the first to bring football to Spain

Sources

1 - La Historia del Puerto de Huelva (1873-1930) (pdf)

2 - Británicos en Andalucía

3 - Crecimiento y evolución de la ciudad de Huelva

4 - El Barrio Reina Victoria, una de las joyas del legado arquitectónico inglés en Huelva

5 - La esencia del legado británico en Huelva

6 - El camino de hierro de Río Tinto, la modernidad 'british'

7 - La presencia ''inglesa'' en Huelva: entre la seducción y el abandono (pdf)

Under a treaty aimed at redrawing European borders post-World War I, the region of South Tyrol was transferred from the Austrian-Hungarian Empire to Italy. This move was part of a pre-war treaty, where Italy agreed to join the Allies in exchange for new territories. At the time of this cession in 1919, South Tyrol was predominantly German-speaking, with about 90% of its inhabitants using German as their first language. This fact presented a challenge for Italy as it sought to integrate these new territories into its culture and language as well as incorporate 220,000 German (and Ladin-speaking) Tyroleans into Italy.

This integration process, known as Italianization (or Provvedimenti per l'Alto Adige), was actually a forced assimilation of the majority to adjust to the minority, in what might be deemed - at least regionally - an upside-down cultural hegemony. Its aim was not merely to Italianize the region but rather to ban both Austrian influences and the German language across South Tyrol. Its implementation occurred in a gradual manner, starting with administrative changes, but escalated sharply with Mussolini's rise to power in 1922.

Catacomb Schools

In the realm of education, the 1923 Gentile Law centralized and standardized Italy's school system, aligning it with Fascist ideology. The law, combined with Italianization, brought about the banishment of German as a language of instruction in 1925, which affected 30,000 students. As a result, it led to the creation of an underground network of secret German schools known as Katakombenschulen (catacomb schools) or Notschulen (emergency schools) where 5,000 children studied at least two hours per week. Among the driving forces leading the effort for clandestine learning was priest Michael Gamper who said:

If we are no longer allowed to speak German in public, then we will do as the first Christians did; we will go underground, we will go into the cellars, we will go into the catacombs [1]

Aside from financing, via a German cultural association - the VDA, books had to be spirited among farms and convents, and teacher aides had to be procured. Two-thirds of the estimated 500 young female volunteers were soon smuggled in from both Germany and Austria.

These verboten hotbeds of grammar drills, declinations and case systems reportedly started in 1923 when the proverbial writing was already on the wall. Teaching was done in homes, farmhouses and churches, in small groups to minimize detection, with lessons mostly held late in the evening. The sessions operated under the constant threat of raids, leading to a chaotic learning environment where children had to quickly hide materials or escape [2]. When adults were caught they were fined, imprisoned and at times deported from the Kingdom of Italy or to Lipari, near Sicily.

Wider Oppression

The Italianization scheme in the Trentino-Alto Adige region went longer and harder than one might imagine. Mussolini said his desire was:

[…] to push the Italianization of the region to the maximum, that is, to profoundly and durably alter its physical, political, moral, demographic character; that is, replacing, or at least mixing, the current German majority, with an Italian majority or a very strong minority that takes away from the region the character it has today, and which is predominantly German [3].

Eventually, the Italian government brought in swaths of Italians to replace locals in public positions, leading to cultural suppression and land expropriation for industrial purposes. This disenfranchisement pushed some Tyroleans towards Nazism. In 1939, under the Berlin Agreement, they faced an ultimatum: move to Germany or stay and accept Italianization, with rumors deterring the latter choice by suggesting deportation to Sicily.

The "vote" saw 86% (or 213k) opting for Germany, and while only 35% (or 75k) actually relocated, upon arrival they faced harsher realities than what was promised. The results empowered the Nazis locally, leading to a dual power structure with Italian authorities allowing Nazi activities, including the opening of German schools. This left many German-speaking Italians caught between two oppressive forces [3].

Conclusion

It would take until after the end of WWII for the German-speaking population of the region to secure cultural and linguistic autonomy, initially promised by the 1946 Gruber–De Gasperi Agreement and enshrined in the 1948 Constitution. This was later reinforced by the 1972 Autonomy Statute, which realized these promises by granting concrete legislative and administrative powers. However, full resolution of some issues wasn't achieved until the 1992 acknowledgement (the kind of timeline that showcases Italy’s famous “lentocrazia”, or slow bureacracy).

Following the 100 year remembrance of the negative effects of the Gentile Law, there was a ceremony held in Bolzano in 2023, in appreciation of all the Catacomb teachers, as well as a suggestion for a way to honor them. The head of the South Tyrolean Rifle Association stated:

Let us look back with humility and gratitude and simply be thankful to these almost 500 teachers for their selfless dedication. This dirty era deserves a memorial, and the heroic teachers of the Catacomb Schools should have a monument erected right in the center of Bolzano [4].

Linguistically, nearly 60% of South Tyroleans today speak German as their first language and 22.6% speak Italian. Across the 116 municipalities of South Tyrol, 102 are German-speaking majority. Such statistics hint at perhaps the real memorial to the efforts of the underground schools: the living one that can be heard across the region.

Additional Information

1 - Michael Gamper (Wikipedia)

Sources

1 - Documentary on schools in South Tyrol, Part 1 & 2 (German)

2 - Le scuole clandestine durante il fascismo

3 - La resistenza sudtirolese, parte #1

4 - Danke für Euren Einsatz!

5 - Popolazione e aspetti sociali, 2024 (pg 116, pdf)

France has had a total of nine different capitals, inlcuding places that temporarily acted as seats of government due to political unrest and wars. Overall, the location of the capital has changed 13 times. Yet Paris, the heart of France, has strangely never been officially named its capital by law - despite having stood as the de facto and symbolic center of power and culture for over 400 years of the country’s history.

Settled in the 3rd century BC by the Celtic tribe Parisii (the city's eventual namesake), it was a key trading hub. The Romans found Paris - which they named Lutetia - to be the best place in the region to cross the Seine. Despite it being an important trade route between modern-day Germany and Spain, Lutetia was initially not ranked highly among the seven cities of its province. So how and why did Paris rise to prominence?

From provincial city to capital

Paris gained recognition and eventually became the capital of Roman Gaul due to a combination of advantages, including militarily. Its location on the Île de la Cité in the middle of the Seine provided a strong defensive position, making it difficult for enemy forces to capture. The river’s natural barriers, together with the need for long, exposed bridges to approach the city, made it a military stronghold during the eventual decline of the Roman Empire. [2].

In addition to its defenses, Paris had many natural resources that contributed to its development. The region had high-quality limestone for building, clay for roof tiles, and gypsum for making plaster [3]. Additionally, there was plentiful timber during the time of the Parisii on the hills of Montmarte, Ménilmontant, Belleville, and the Montagne Sainte-Geneviève. And in the Roman era, timber was found further afield in the forests along the Somme river, which was important as a fluvial trade route and - unlike the Seine - never froze, overflowed, or dried up [4, 5].

The French capital could have easily become Lyon, or Lugdunum as it was known in Roman Gaul. Lyon was better positioned as it connected northern Europe to the Mediterranean (as well as Rome itself), and its location at the confluence of the Rhône and Saône rivers meant that trade and transportation was greatly facilitated. The city’s influence was greater than its location or attributes, as it was also the administrative capital of the Three Gauls.

As the Roman Empire declined, partly due to the Frankish conquest under King Clovis, the Franks advanced from the northeast, with Paris being the first major Roman outpost they encountered after winning a battle against the Visgoths in 508. Frankish rulers saw the city’s defensive and political advantages and its importance grew from there.

Clovis did not have a permanent capital or centralized government but by choosing Paris as his burial site, he gave the city significant symbolic value. His grandsons nearly came to blows over who would rule the city but finally decided it should be a common possession and a key symbol of their dynasty [6].

Another show of the city’s importance was during the reign of Eudes, or Odo of France, after he was coronated the king of West Francia in 888. Already the Count of Paris, his rule saw the gradual emergence of a separate West Francia following the decline of Carolingian rule.

Finally - if such a word can even be used - further solidification of Paris as central to the French monarchy came by the late 12th century. Under Philip Augustus, the Louvre was built, the royal archives at the Palais de la Cité were established, and the royal administration was centralized, placing Paris at the epicenter of royal power.

To find out how the city of Rome came to be, see my article on that topic.

Additional information

1 - During my research I found an intriguing short article saying another location - in the Paris suburbs - is the original site of the Parisii, not the Île de la Cité.

Sources

1 - Voyage en Gaule Antique: Paris

2 - Why is the capital of France historically not located in the centre of France?

3 - Paris Perspective #10: Lutetia and the foundations of empire

4 - Commerce maritime en baie de Somme

5 - Histoire de Paris par Fernand Bournon

6 - France in the World: A New Global History

A world of entertainment where amusement takes precedence, a world where culture is trivialized, and where journalism irresponsibly spreads gossip and scandal instead of information [1].

This is the civilization of the spectacle, which Peruvian novelist Vargas Llosa speaks of in his novel Notes on the Death of Culture (2012). Likely inspired by Guy Debord’s The Society of the Spectacle (1967), it shares similar sentiments throughout literature, philosophy, science and even technology - namely, that with the passage of time, things inevitably trend toward disintegration. Concepts it might evoke range from entropy and “enshittification” all the way to Plato’s Cave and Baudrillard’s simulacra in which things are as likely to decay as they are to deceive.

A lesser-known but equally interesting concept in a similar tradition is Spanish novelist Ramón María del Valle-Inclán's esperpento, a literary and theatrical approach that revealed the grotesque and absurd aspects of Spanish society at the time. But before diving into the concept, it’s important to understand the environment that engendered esperpento, and grasp the national mood it was capturing.

Spanish decline

The late 19th and early 20th centuries in Spain were marked by stark social inequalities and economic challenges. The nation remained predominantly agrarian, with 83–88% of the population living in rural areas [2] under the inefficient latifundio system. Also, industrial progress lagged far behind other European nations for a handful of reasons such as a lack of coal, transportation infrastructure and an internal market. This contributed to widespread poverty, high unemployment, and inflation.

The loss of its last remaining colonies (Philippines, Cuba and Puerto Rico) in 1898, during the decline of the Spanish Empire, resulted in a sense of humiliation and introspection on the national level. Traditional institutions such as the Church and the aristocracy were also in decline, though the Church still controlled much of the education system as Spain remained a confessional state, with a government-backed religion.

Politically, the 57-year Bourbon Restoration period, which separated the First and Second Republics, offered relative stability through the turno pacífico or turnismo system, where power between conservatives and liberals was alternated every two years. While effective in theory, this system was corrupt in practice, with local political bosses controlling elections in the rural areas, known as caciquismo, and systematic electoral fraud in the cities, known as pucherazo. Turnismo ensured that a top-down and centralist structure was maintained and meaningful progress was prevented.

Mirrors as a metaphor

Valle-Inclán, an early modernist and a member of the so-called Generation of ’98, portrayed Spanish society - particularly politicians and clergy of his time - in exagerated and unflattering ways. He believed that the deformed, sordid, and ridiculous national reality of Spain could only be accurately reflected through an equally deformed aesthetic. This critical stance, shared by the Generation of ’98, looked to confront Spain’s decline through cultural analysis.

To illustrate this idea in his play Luces de Bohemia, Valle-Inclán famously referenced the distorting mirrors of the Callejón del Gato in Madrid as a metaphor for his artistic approach. The fact that the mirrors were placed there, in the early 1900s, to attract clients to a nearby business perhaps reflects the psychological undertones of Spaniards at the time. A brief moment of escapism revealing underlying contradictions and a sense of alienation.

Max, one of the main characters of the play, says that esperpentismo was invented by Goya. The Spanish painter, who was from the previous century, lived through the Napoleonic invasion and the Spanish Inquisition, and his work reflects the corruption, violence and despair of the time. This connection suggests the possibility that the grotesque might be a recurring characteristic of Spain itself.

In Valle-Inclán’s novels, characters representing classical heroes are paraded before the mirrors, only to be reduced to absurd, distorted versions of their former selves. Inspired by figures like Don Juan, Othello, and even Homer, they lose their once-heroic stature, as Valle exposes their flaws and makes them laughable caricatures [4].

Conclusion

At the turn of the century, these representations reflected real meaning - an interpretation of the reality Spaniards were living through. Valle-Inclán’s depictions were an artistic truth that mirrored the fractures of the society he lived in. In our current era, with all the technological advances of modern society, the “authentic” is often staged and passed off as something real. In a world where people find love & validation through smartphones, follow trends in search of acceptance, and navigate through non-places, the lines between true and false blur even further.

In this sense, figures like Valle-Inclán are useful as interpreters of our manipulated realities. Just as esperpentismo revealed what was lurking just below the surface, we too should engage with the spectacles surrounding us and tease out the truths that belie them.

Sources

1 - Mario Vargas Llosa, La civilización del espectáculo

2 - Algunas consideraciones acerca de la evolución de la población rural en España en el siglo XIX

3 - Los espejos de la calle del gato

4 - Introducción a la vida y obra de Valle-Inclán

In the High Medieval period, having a fire always going in one’s home was essential for warmth and cooking. While the fire didn’t need to be at full flame, having embers hot and ready was a handy and time-saving practice. Having the ability to start a fire from those embers revolved around the action of covering and therefore preserving them and their residual heat, not only for reasons of practicality but for safety too, especially with wood and hay around as unintentional kindle.

In France, the device used to cover the fire was literally called a “couvre-feu”, or cover fire (after the Old French carre-feu or cerre-feu). It’s hypothesized that the word “curfew” derives from this concept due to the Medieval practice of ringing of a town bell, around 8PM, to remind people to cover their fires so as not to burn down their homes and establishments while they slept [1].

The curfew itself was a lid like construction with vented sides. This allowed the fire to be contained whilst allowing oxygen to breathe life into the embers. This meant that with the help of bellows, the fire could be brought back to life easily in the morning. The curfew could be made from various materials from unglazed terracotta clay to metal depending on the wealth of the user [2].

A semantic shift occurred where curfew became less about covering fires and more about the town bell that was rang when people turned in for the night. Popular etymology will say this concept was initially due to William the Conqueror terrorizing the English as he invaded their lands (to prevent rebellious meetings, associations and conspiracies by night), but the practice of covering fires and ringing bells at night was already common practice across Europe at the time.

According to researcher Lionel Cresswell in a 1895 article on the origins of the word curfew, he states that there’s little to no apparent connection to fire and that it’s more likely the word derives from the medieval “third place”: carrefour (a town square or crossroads where a bell tower would normally be located) [4].

Of course, a curfew bell is most effective from a bell tower, and such edifices were born from churches going back to 400 AD. They served to summon the faithful to religious services, but also for giving an alarm when danger threatened. As a central institution of medieval towns and cities, churches have been mostly located in the town square.

Nonetheless, the modern term for curfew in two Romance languages remains a variation on “cover fire” (for example, the aforementioned couvre-feu in French, and coprifuoco in Italian). In Portuguese and Spanish, the terms differ: toque de recolha and toque de queda, which can be interpreted as “ring to gather” or “ring to stay,” respectively.

No matter the origin, meaning or the manner of employment of curfews - be it the device or directive, they can both be thought of as risk mitigation for the Middle Ages.

For another look at the history of social safety in Europe, see The Salvation of San Servolo.

Sources

1 - The Curfew Bell

2 - The History of the Curfew

3 - The forgotten medieval habit of 'two sleeps'

4 - A four-forked etymology: curfew