The Magic of Maramures

There’s a sacred island off the west coast of Scotland called Iona that was once described as a ‘thin place’ –  one where the layer that separates heaven from earth is especially slim. The same can be said of Maramures. There are many things that impressed me about this region of Romania, hidden away in the mountains, close to the border with Ukraine. The warmth and hospitality of its people, the splendour of their traditional dress, the breathtaking beauty of the landscape, the harmony of humanity and the natural environment. But above all it was the spirituality of Maramures that left the strongest impression on me after a week on holiday with my family celebrating Easter.

It’s very evident that the Orthodox Christian faith is central to the life of the community. The church stands at the centre of the village – or rather two churches, one an outstanding ancient wooden church, now preserved as a UNESCO monument, the second a larger one with the capacity to hold all the villagers.

And at the dawn service on Easter morning they were all there, as we circumvented the church in the last hour of the night, clasping the candles lit from the Holy Fire from Jerusalem, stumbling on the pebbles, shivering in the cold, sharing the mystery and majesty of Easter morning. On the opposite bank of the stream the old church stood tall, its spire touching the dawn sky, a sentinel on countless Easter Sundays for five centuries before. And candles winked in the churchyard on the graves of previous generations of villagers, also bearing witness to the Resurrection of Christ.

On Easter Monday my friends dressed me in traditional Maramures clothes to join them again in the church for the morning service. With my family we took our place in the celebrations, then strolled through the village and up to the old church. A group of tourists were waiting there for our friend to open it up with a great iron key. I asked why they had come all the way from France to spend Easter here in Romania. “Because it is so wonderful to see you all in your traditional costumes” they replied. I had to tell them that actually I was Scottish, and should be in a kilt, but I was proud to be mistaken for a true Maramuresean!

The next day the horses were out all around the village, the villagers ploughing the fields to sow the crops now that the festivities were over – their agricultural calendar keeping step with the liturgical one. I’d love to come back in the autumn to see them bring the harvest home. ‘Spor la treaba!’