The Alps — Edition Insights

Medieval Attitudes and the Birth of a Cult

Lunn begins by challenging the notion that mountain appreciation is modern. He notes that the retina of the human eye has not changed, implying that beauty was always there to be seen. Yet he concedes that before Rousseau, mountain lovers were eccentrics. The medieval attitude, he suggests, was dominated by fear and superstition. He cites the Old Testament's mountain praise but observes that the New Testament is less rich in such passages. The chapter draws on literary evidence to trace a shift from dread to admiration, though Lunn is careful to note that the evidence is sparse and the conclusions tentative.

The Matterhorn: From Superstition to Drama

The Matterhorn chapter is the book's dramatic centerpiece. Lunn recounts local legends: the mountain was called the Becca, believed to be the highest in the Alps, and said to harbor a ruined city of spirits. Mothers threatened children with the wild man of the Becca. The first attempt in 1858 by three natives of Breuil—Jean Jacques Carrel, Jean Antoine Carrel, and Aimé Gorret—is described as a light-hearted quest by men who defied these superstitions. Lunn frames the story as a drama, noting that life lived up to the conventions of art. He draws on Whymper and Guido Rey, but the narrative is his own, emphasizing character and conflict over technical detail.

The Pioneers and the Opening of the Alps

The book's structure moves from medieval attitudes to the pioneers of mountaineering. Lunn acknowledges his debt to Mr. Gribble's histories and quotes from translated works of early climbers. The chapters on Mont Blanc, Monte Rosa, and the Tirol trace the gradual exploration of the range. Lunn's focus is on the personalities—the ragged, independent guides and the English climbers who later dominated the sport. The final chapter on the Alps in literature suggests that the mountains' cultural significance is as important as their physical conquest. The bibliography and index indicate a scholarly approach, but the prose remains accessible and narrative-driven.

Lunn's The Alps is best approached as a cultural history of mountaineering rather than a guidebook or scientific treatise. Readers interested in the physical geography of the Alps will find little here; instead, the book offers a vivid account of how human attitudes toward mountains changed over centuries, from fear to fascination. The excerpts suggest that Lunn is a skilled storyteller who weaves together legend, history, and personal observation. For a full understanding, one should read the complete chapters, as the excerpts are necessarily fragmentary.

Sometimes a book stays with you less for its peaks than for the quiet way it traces how people's eyes shifted. I felt that with the Alps survey, all those superstitions giving way to rope and granite. Your Canterbury — A Closer Reading has that same unhurried temper, watching pilgrims walk, each step a small argument with themselves. It lingered, almost without my noticing.