The word "labyrinth" suggests different things to different people. For some - such as this writer - it immediately calls to mind a famous English translation of short stories by the Argentinian writer Jorge Luis Borges. Others associate it with the gory legend of the Minotaur, and the subterranean labyrinth built by King Minos of Crete beneath his palace at Knossos to contain the murderous monster, writes Arminta Wallace.
This, when you think about it, is a truly strange story which prompts a number of questions. Why would any self-respecting king - even one who received a boatload of able-bodied young Greek men and women every year, courtesy of the hellish hellenistic tax system - keep such a dangerous pet? Did the ultra-macho superhero Theseus, who plunged fearlessly into the labyrinth to kill the beast, really reckon that a girly sliver of golden thread would be enough to get him out again? Also, did the person who dreamed up this myth not, for goodness sake, know the difference between a labyrinth and a maze?
Good King Minos may - understandably - have been a little distracted when his builders showed him the plans; but it seems that what he actually had in his cellar wasn't a labyrinth at all. So, at any rate, says the landscape architect and labyrinth expert Jim Buchanan in his book Labyrinths for the Spirit. According to Buchanan, dead ends, wrong turns and perplexing multiple paths are characteristic features, not of a labyrinth, but of a maze. A labyrinth has a single path which - however intricate - leads you into the centre, then leads you out again. No threads required.
In his book Buchanan explores the history and significance of the labyrinth, and the way in which labyrinth motifs have turned up throughout history in places as diverse as India, France and ancient Rome. One of the best-known of these is based on a medieval design embedded in a stone pavement at Chartres Cathedral near Paris; another is attributed to a ninth-century monk, Otfrid of Weissenberg.
The names have the sort of incantatory ring which Borges would have adored. But the Argentinian master might have been surprised at the inroads the labyrinth continues to make into postmodern cultural consciousness. Far from disappearing into the mists of history, it is alive and well and, apparently, thriving. It is, for example, one of the most popular motifs embedded within computer games. A 3-D version is, you could argue, how the internet works.
In the real world, meanwhile, labyrinths have become hugely popular as "walking meditations", built in public spaces as a tool for recreation and spiritual renewal. Because it combines the imagery of the circle and the spiral into a meandering but purposeful path, the labyrinth represents a journey into our centre and back again out into the world; the journey may be short or long, but it has a specific beginning and a definite end.
This may sound like a large slice of new-age waffle; but science has also given a qualified thumbs-up to the labyrinth. Research suggests that focused walking is highly efficient in reducing anxiety and stimulating a relaxation response, which can - among other things - lower blood pressure and reduce pain. Meanwhile, studies of Buddhist monks have shown that regular meditative practice leads to greater powers of concentration and a sense of control over one's life. The proven benefits have, in any case, inspired some (presumably enlightened) hospitals and healthcare centres to build labyrinths in their grounds.
Buchanan, who grew up in Glencolumbkille, Co Donegal, has constructed labyrinths all over the world, but his main aim in the book is to encourage readers to roll their own. He begins with a drawing of a classical, three-circuit labyrinth: master that, and you'll progress to a three-pointed seed pattern or even a Baltic wheel in no time at all. After that, the sky's the limit.
You can make a flick-book labyrinth or a miniature version which can be "walked" with the fingers. You can create temporary labyrinths to mark special days such as birthdays, weddings and anniversaries. If you're really keen, you may find yourself re-organising a serious chunk of your back garden, or negotiating with your local council to bring earth-movers into that grotty bit in the corner of the local park.
As for materials, just about anything will do, provided you add a large dollop of creativity: masking tape, gravel, seashells, nasturtiums, shoes and - I kid you not - plastic cutlery. In respect of the latter Buchanan points out that the spoons are inclined to break when pushed into the ground: labyrinth-builders should, he advises, wear gloves to protect their hands. Don't buy the clear plastic ones or your labyrinth will be invisible - though a labyrinth made from clear plastic forks would look appealingly spooky with the addition of another of Buchanan's favourite ingredients: light.
You can do this quite easily by using plenty of tea-lights, but labyrinth motifs are also easily projected on to a flat surface - with dramatic results - by means of a lamp or a sheet of transparent coloured vinyl. The colour photographs, sketches and drawings in this book are intriguing and oddly compelling. You feel you want to get working on a labyrinth right away. One of Buchanan's projects, in particular, looks like tremendous fun; in fact, it gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "immersing yourself in a work of art". As part of an arts festival at Nottingham University in 2004, he created an eerily dappled labyrinth - in a swimming pool.
"To invite an audience to enter a swimming pool where the water depth is unknown is asking them to have a lot of confidence in the work," he writes. Now there's a sentence that would make Borges smile.
Labyrinths for the Spirit, by Jim Buchanan, is published by Gaia Books at 16.99 in UK.