Mention the name Maastricht to anyone on the British side of the Atlantic and you risk setting off the Brexit arguments all over again – the less said about that, the better. Yes, Maastricht will go down in history as the place where the European Union was signed into existence in 1992; no, that’s not the only thing about it. This lovely Netherlandish town, with its international infamy, has plenty to write home about on its own terms.
Just across the Meuse – or Maas – from Belgium, the town is jam-packed with history. St Servatius died here in 384, far away from his home in Armenia. The solid basilica that bears his name was begun over his grave 200 years later when St Monulph moved his diocese from Tongeren to Maastricht. In 720, St Hubert – he of the stag with the crucifix between its antlers – moved the episcopal seat to Liège, where it remains.
Liège rose to become one of the great prince-bishoprics of the Holy Roman Empire, but it doesn’t seem to have done Maastricht too much harm. A strategic position on the river meant that it was always going to be well-placed for trade, and trade it did; but it also developed a thriving economy in pilgrimage. And a steady stream of businessmen and pilgrims meant one thing above all the others: wealth. An established pilgrimage was a handy little earner.
Maastricht’s two major churches – dedicated to St Servatius and to Our Lady – regularly vied with each other for the efficacy of the devotion linked to the cult of their relics: two pieces of the True Cross and the Virgin’s girdle respectively. The indulgences attached to their veneration were generous, and the town also became a stabling post for pilgrims going to Compostela, who were housed in a hospice dedicated to St James.
Such was the attraction that a huge event was organised once every seven years: the Pilgrimage of the Relics. At its height, over a hundred thousand pilgrims descended, but the Reformation wrought havoc and by the time France annexed Maastricht and abolished its religious communities at the end of the 18th century, the pilgrimage had been in abeyance for decades. It was finally revived in 1874 and will next occur in 2025.
Despite all that turbulence and loss, Maastricht still has plenty to offer Catholic visitors, whether they come as pilgrims or tourists. Churches abound, although the Dominicans’ is now a bookshop, the Jesuits’ an apartment block and the Crutched Friars’ a luxury hotel. Those that endure are magnificent, as you might expect from a wealthy medieval town; St Servatius and Our Lady look like two well-armoured Romanesque battleships.
There’s plenty of good art, too. The Bonnefanten museum has a superb collection of religious paintings from Flanders, Holland, France, England and Germany. It’s also long on statues; one of its finest pieces is a wood-and-polychrome set of Christ and the 12 apostles, from the first decades of the 16th century. My favourite is St Lambert, from the same period: he looks so cheerful. Lambert was bishop of Maastricht at the end of the seventh century; you can spot him in one form or another on street corners and above doors. Lambert denounced Pepin of Herstal’s adultery with Alpaida, and for his trouble was murdered at Liège. His cathedral there was destroyed by the French; his tomb is now in its successor, but he remains firmly in the hearts of the local people on the Dutch side of the border.
Our Lady, too, has her place. Next to her basilica is the little shrine of the Star of the Sea: all flickering candles with its special prayer up on boards in different languages. People come and go constantly: to light a candle, make a petition, or just to give thanks. Sometimes it seems as though the two minor basilicas call to each other across the town; the fact that there are two in such proximity is a reminder of what once was, and what might have been.
Protestantism has left its mark. In the main square the soaring red gothic church of St John – out of Catholic hands since 1632 – towers over the honey-stone of the still-Catholic St Servatius next door. It’s a confluence that speaks of pain and separation, and an immense amount of history. Both are separated from each other by a narrow alley.
Sipping a local lager and musing on the juxtaposition, I fell to chatting to a couple of locals. Although the main language is Dutch, you’ll hear plenty of French about the place, and almost everyone seems to speak English. “Do you know the local name for that street between the Catholic and Protestant churches?” one asked. I didn’t. “Purgatory,” he replied.
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