Material Witness

50 Books #11 - Labyrinth by Kate Mosse

There are certain books that have had me taking diversions to seek out evocative places or neighbourhoods. A beer in the Oxford Bar in Edinburgh’s new town in honour of John Rebus, for example, or a diversion in Barcelona in pursuit of Julian Carax.

There’s only one book, however, on which a holiday itinerary has been based: Labyrinth, Kate Mosse’s evocative and exciting time-bending historical novel in which a 20^th Century archaeological discovery is linked to a 13^th Century war.

 

Labyrinth kindled an enduring interest in the Cathar heresy, which challenged the conventional thinking of the Catholic Church in southern Europe in the 12^th to 14^th Centuries.

The medieval fortress city of Carcassonne was a stronghold of the Cathars. In 1209 the Albigensian crusade of the established Church set out to retake it and a bloody and cruel siege and subjugation followed. The historical elements of Labyrinth begin in July of that year when a young herbalist, Alais, is given a book by her father who tells her it contains the secret of the Holy Grail. In parallel, 800 years in the future, young archaeologist Alice Tanner discovers two skeletons and a strange labyrinth symbol in a Pyrenean cave.

So begins an adventure for both women as they seek to illuminate their mysteries. It’s a great story and brilliantly told with pace and tension and two heroines for the ages: brave, curious and resourceful. But what really grabbed me was the atmospheric settings. Mosse brings to life the desperation, danger and resilience of a city under siege but also the essential mystery of the Pyrenees, an ancient frontier, hiding place and natural reserve.

So in 2017, by which time I’d already visited Carcassonne on a couple of occasions and spent time in the Pyrenees, my son and I set out in search of the Cathars and Labyrinth.

After a night in Catalonia, our first stop was the Chateau de Peyrepertuse (left) a ruined fortress in the Aude which sits 800m up on a limestone ridge commanding magnificent views of the Pyrenees. We climbed to the castle through the woods below and got a pretty good idea of why this and other Cathar castles were called unassailable. There are few better places to imagine the Cathar age.

From Peyrepertuse the next stop was Montaillou, about 90km to the east just over the border in the Ariege. Montaillou is another Cathar village, made famous by the eponymous history written in the 1970s by Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie. This history creatively narrates the social, economic and beliefs of the people around the turn of the 14^th Century. Just outside the modern village sits the old chateau and with it evidence of the history Ladurie details. This is another remote, isolated place and speaks loudly to the zeal and paranoia necessary to want to suppress religious belief and practice in such a community. I found it very moving.

And from Montaillou to dinner in Carcassonne. The ancient citadel, sat on the outskirts of a largely unlovely modern city, is best seen from the outside where its towers and walls offer views from every side. It’s a truly impressive sight. Inside, less so, as it’s crowded with tourist attractions, but nonetheless there are quiet corners where it is possible to conjure up the ghost of Alais. And if you can find a place to sit and eat outside with a good view of the walls and a bottle of Languedoc red, well, there aren’t many better spots.

Our final stop, the following day was beautiful Albi, the city of Toulouse-Lautrec and the source of the name of the Albigensian Crusade. The lasting impact of the Cathars there is the commanding 13^th Century fortress Cathedral, built to demonstrate Catholic dominance. In there, after another fabulous dinner, we met a couple of Belorussian nuns from whom we bought Christmas tree decorations, which was a bold sales pitch on a sweltering August night.

The power of great historical novels is to bring to life the sights, sounds, smells and other sensations of a place at a particular moment in time. Kate Mosse does that consistently and powerfully throughout her Languedoc trilogy, of which Labyrinth is the opening volume. In particular she evokes the sixth sense, and that feeling that ghosts and history are near if just out of reach. It’s a great gift and one for which I am profoundly grateful.

REVIEW: Queen High by C.J. Carey

There is a powerful and telling moment late in C.J. Carey's Queen High, a brilliant and evocative follow up to the alternate history novel Widowland, in which the story's heroine Rose Ransom recalls a line from Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey: "Everyone in English society is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies." 

This is the reality of life in Britain in 1955, when the country remains subjugated by the Nazis in the Anglo-Saxon Alliance. Every individual is subject to the scrutiny and snitching of strangers, neighbours, friends and even family in a regime that dictates that the only loyalty that matters is to the state.

It's a key moment for two reasons, firstly because it encapsulates so clearly the oppressive reality of life in the Alliance. It also explicitly asks every reader the question most have probably already been considering throughout both books: whether modern Britain would be any different. Would we turn on each other?

Queen High, like Widowland before it, is a triumph because Carey so successfully builds that atmosphere of suspicion, fear and claustrophobia against a backdrop that is at once both familiar and alien. London is still the City of the Thames, Spitalfields and Rules restaurant but also of Heydrich Square and the Amnesia Institute, both occupying familiar landmarks. 

It's not just the sense of place that is crafted with such detail and diligence but an entire ideology that is complex, chilling and credible. That ideology is based sqaurely on the suppression of the spirit, voices, identities and lives of Britain's women, each of whom is allocated to a caste that dicates everything from her job potential to her calories intake and clothing. 

Rose is a 'Geli', a member of the highest caste, destined for a life ultimately dedicated to providing new life of the highest genetic order for the Alliance. At the other end of the scale are the 'Friedas', older unvalued women cursed to live in poverty in  the Widowlands. Unclassified, apparently, but an important feature of the political landscape is the widowed Queen, Wallis. 

And while the action is set in a warped facsimile of London, it does so against a more familiar historical backdrop, the beginning of the Cold War and the division of Europe into allies of the US and the Soviet Union. The event at the heart of Queen High is a visit to London from President Eisenhower, in search of a pact with Germany. Rose, still working at the Culture Ministry sanitising literature for Alliance sensitivities, is inevitably drawn into the intrigue. She is a heroince for the ages: strong, courageous and smart but also fraught with doubt and moral dilemma. And she's just one of a number of well-drawn and empathetic characters. There are no cartoon Nazis or Boys Own heroes here, but real people living challenging lives. 

Queen High is often labelled a dystopian novel, and that is core to its instant appeal, but this multi-layered novel is so much more than that. First and foremost it's a terrific thriller, taut with tension and drama throughout. It's a feminist novel with important messages about the role of women in society. It also has much to say about literature and poetry and their roles in our private and public affairs. And it also holds a mirror up to modern society, not least in its discussion of Austen's 'neighbourhood of voluntary spies' and the way in which we trust and treat each other in society. 

During that conversation Rose's companion recalls life in Berlin at the start of the Nazi regime. "I thought it could never happen here, in Britain."   Given what we've witnessed here in the past decade, could any one of us believe that again?

This is a rich and compelling novel, and one that, like Widowland, demands a sequel. The impatient wait has begun again. 

Living like Torres for a day, running the London Marathon

On the last day of the 2019 season 65,000 gathered at the Estadio Metropolitano to pay homage to Fernando Torres as he played his final game for Atlético de Madrid. It was an emotional occasion. Torres is the kid from Fuenlabrada, el niño, who rose through the ranks to become a club legend. He rose to a magnificent occasion, scored twice and had grown men in tears everywhere as the noise reached a crescendo and his name rang out around the stadium.

It was difficult to imagine what being Fernando Torres in those circumstances would be like until last Sunday in London when an estimated 750,000 came out on the streets to cheer on 42,000 runners. That number included 39656, a jogger from Madrid aiming to overcome a difficult experience in 2019 and run a sub four hour race for the first time.

There are people on the streets throughout the whole course, but just after mile six the course comes into Greenwich on Trafalgar Road, and it is here for the first time that the pavements are packed with people. The wall of noise that greets runners as they turn towards the Cutty Sark is extraordinary, so loud in fact that there may even have been something in my eye as I ran up King William Walk.

 

The experience is repeated six miles later as the route crosses Tower Bridge. The volume is incredible and the minute or it takes to get to the north bank is very emotional. Running under those famous towers is wonderful, and it’s no surprise that so many runners stop to take selfies. Were it not for the fear of seizing up, I might have done the same.

There are areas of the course that are much less populated, and so I am particularly grateful to the man on Hill Reach in Woolwich yelling that the top of the hill was near and that it’s all downhill from there. The small groups on the streets in the quieter parts of Rotherhithe and Deptford were also very welcome. Running can be a lonely business, a mental battle as much as a physical one and the shouts of “Come on Ben, you’ve got this”, on Poplar High Street could not have been timelier.

This is around mile 20 and the infamous marathon “wall” when energy levels are at their lowest. That’s OK though because the people of East London have “got this”. They’ve got jelly babies and all the vocal encouragement you need to break through the mental barriers and finish the race.

Over the 26.2 miles I heard my name – or possibly that of the celebrity running just behind me – several hundred times. I cannot describe the lift it provides. Every single one of those is a small Torres moment, a recognition of the blood, sweat and tears that goes into preparing for and running those 26 miles. Wherever possible I acknowledged that moment of kindness, with a nod or a raised fist, in part to say thank you, in part to encourage them to keep providing the same boost to the runners following. (One piece of advice to future marathon runners, try to have a very short, one syllable name. I’m sure it helps.)

This is the spirit of the London Marathon: 42,000 runners, each with their own story and their own motivation, being dragged around the course by the incredible goodwill and generosity of the people who come out onto the streets to cheer them on. If there was a way to bottle that goodwill you could solve most of the world’s problems very quickly.

It’s an incredible privilege to take part and on this occasion I was running well enough that at the 23 mile mark, just as the route passes Tower Bridge for the second time, I was able to relax and soak it all in knowing that the time I wanted was all but in the bag.

So I was able to coast through the City to Westminster along Birdcage Walk and past Buckingham Place to the finish line in a time of 3:58:47. And during that time I was able to reflect on how lucky I was to have the help of so many people to achieve this. I owe them all a lot of thanks. First to Jane for just letting me do it. Running a marathon is a selfish and disruptive business, sometimes taking whole days out of weekends for long training runs and recovery. To her and my daughters and my parents and Ben and Hector who came out onto the streets to support me. To Adam who put together the perfect training plan that made sure I arrived in London in the best condition. To Nicole and the UK Youth team for their support and encouragement. (They’re looking for runners for April). And finally to everyone who generously sponsored me and ensured I hit both my targets for the race, and in particular Tilly whose offer of meals was a particularly good source of sponsorship.

And if you’re out there reading this and wondering if the London Marathon is for you, all I can say is, give it a go. It’s a joyful, thrilling, and, yes, sometimes painful experience, and I wouldn’t have missed my Torres moment for the world.