If the Basilica of Saint Denis marked the end for French monarchs, walking across the labyrinth of Reims Cathedral was the first doomed step towards it.
Clovis, first King of what would become France, came here for his baptism around the year 500. In 816, Louis the Pious chose the site for his coronation. And in the centuries that followed, 33 more monarchs came to the city to follow the paths of their predecessors. In doing so, they began their own twisting journeys. And while supposedly not an allusion to the disorienting nature of ruling, I’d read that Reims Cathedral was even home to a labyrinth for much of this time.
You’ve probably heard the saying: “If all your friends jumped off a cliff, would you?” It’s often invoked by folks who wish to discourage blindly following the paths of other people. Yet while it is mostly well-intentioned, I’ve found it can do more harm than good. For years, it left me dizzy with confusion. On the one hand, I wanted to follow the advice. But on the other, I wondered if to follow the advice would be to do so blindly and therefore not follow the advice at all. It wasn’t until a surgeon to whom I owed money was smashed to pieces trying to pursue me over a train crossing that I reached a conclusion. Still, I expect you’ll decide for yourself.
What I’m saying, if you can’t follow, is that I have some experience following complicated paths. So, Reims Cathedral and its labyrinth didn’t faze me. Getting coronated there, on the other hand, did.
Watch out for these three things at Reims Cathedral
- The Gallery of Kings, 56 statues of French monarchs circling the towers. Each statue stands 15 feet tall, dizzyingly oversized.
- The Smiling Angel in the left portal. The statue is a symbol of Reims Cathedral and the damage it suffered between 1914 and 1918.
- An equestrian statue of Joan of Arc in the north-west corner of the courtyard. Without her, the ritual of coronations at Reims Cathedral may have met an early end.
The irresistible draw of art deco
It wasn’t the labyrinth, but almost immediately on my arrival, Reims presented me with a maze.
I’d heard that the city was notable not just for its gothic cathedral but its art deco architecture. So, I followed my direct, 45-minute rail journey from Paris with a very indirect two-hour stroll from the station. I took in the gentle geometry of buildings like the Cinéma-opéra and the Kodak building. On Rue de Vesle, two titans carved in the shallow art deco style reached above their heads for stone suns. Yet the doors below promised nothing so special – a motorbike dealer and a lawyer’s office.
Indeed, it seemed that round every corner was some new building to beckon me in the wrong direction. It didn’t help that I was following an unproven walking route drawn for me by a stranger on the train. Occasionally, a dark brick townhouse would cross my path like a length of thread in a labyrinth and remind me of my gothic intentions.
But by the time I had pulled myself free of art deco’s smooth and sculpted grip, orange light bathed the city. As the cathedral emptied of visitors, bars serving the champagne for which the region is known were fizzing into life. The evening quickly became fuzzy.
A labyrinth to hold the builders
Like life and death or first and last steps, consider Reims Cathedral the counterpart to the Basilica of Saint Denis and its royal necropolis.
The cathedral that stands today started to take shape in the 12th century, when the Archbishop of Reims saw the choir of that abbey just north of Paris and decided that his own cathedral was too small. But it wasn’t until the 13th century that, following a fire, rebuilding efforts brought the cathedral to the high gothic standard with the addition of a new choir, rose windows and more.
For their hard work, the four master masons and the new Archbishop Aubry were bound in a labyrinth, likely meant to hold them forever – though not physically.
Installed in blue stone on the floor of the nave, this labyrinth was ten metres on each side and flat so that pilgrims who had not wandered enough could do so a little more. Each of the four corners commemorates a master mason, while the centre holds Aubry. So it was until a priest, supposedly fed up with children playing around it during services, destroyed the installation in 1779.
Today, the design lives on as the logo for France’s national historic monuments, or monuments historiques.
Lost in the details of Reims Cathedral
I rose early the following morning and kept my gaze low as I traced the route to the cathedral. Art deco had led me off-course once and I feared it could again. Had I looked up, I’d have seen the gothic façade looming over the streets as I wound my way to it. But it wasn’t until I was confident I’d given art deco the slip that I dared to do so. The cathedral fell on me all at once.
There was no longer a labyrinth at Reims Cathedral. But it was easy enough to get lost among the statues, grotesques and gothic flourishes on the façade. My eyes went first to the Gallery of Kings – 56 statues of French monarchs circling the towers. Each statue stands 15 feet tall, dizzying and disorienting in their size. Bringing my eyes back to earth brought everything crashing down all over again – the cathedral is much bigger and the common people much smaller than the statues make it all look. It took renewed effort to pull myself away and head inside.
Here, however, the cathedral was comparatively sparse. Between 1914 and 1918, Reims was on the front line of bombing. It seemed most of the restorative focus had gone to the exterior but – perhaps deliberately – the clarity of the interior made the small moments stand out more. Statues of knights, saints and martyrs crowded the narthex, the porch at the entrance. Modern takes on stained glass lined the chapel windows. Candles lit by pilgrims illuminated the transepts.
But most significant was the spot, marked by a square stone in the centre aisle, where Saint Remi baptised Clovis and started all those monarchs on the maze-like journey to Reims.
Going deeper into the gothic labyrinth
As I left Reims Cathedral, however, I considered that my own journey owed more to the architects lost in that labyrinth than to the royalty towering above it. I’d read that similar designs existed on the floors of cathedrals in places like Amiens and Chartres. The practice came about as a way of crediting the master masons for their work. As far as I understood, some had survived.
I imagine I’ll be following that labyrinth across France – to the many monuments historiques where it appears. At this early step on my journey, good advice might prevent you from following me. But I’m grateful if you choose to.