Castle of the Nine Silent Bells
Deep inside the Zuid-Limburg hills of the Netherlands, nestled among undulating farmland and creeping ivy vines, stands Valkenburg Castle: the only genuine hilltop castle in the country, a paradox in a land best known for being flatter than the theological arguments of an 18th-century Dutch Protestant. Valkenburg Castle—Kasteelruïne Valkenburg in its native tongue—boasts a lineage worn jagged by flame, invasion, and dynastic squabble. Its bones are porous limestone; its story is chiseled in soot and trebuchet stone.
Constructed initially in the mid-11th century, the castle began as the proud residence of Gosewijn I of Valkenburg, a knight of small renown but significant ambition. The original structure was a wooden fortification, soon refilled and redressed in marlstone because, in the Low Countries, even brevity demands permanence. Over the next centuries, the castle rose, fell, rose again, and was finally obliterated in 1672 by the very Dutch themselves, under orders from Stadtholder William III. The reason? Denial. Specifically, a scorched-earth policy meant to deny Louis XIV and his French troops any strategic use of the location.
Valkenburg’s position was endlessly coveted, perched as it was on the only substantial elevation in the region. Its defenses were further strengthened during the later 12th century, under the direction of the Counts of Valkenburg, who added the recognizable round towers and developed an extensive system of escape tunnels—the Fluweelengrot (Velvet Cave)—which linked the castle to the surrounding countryside in an almost ecclesiastical network of secrecy and limestone artistry.
One of the strangest architectural features of Valkenburg is this conjoined relationship to the subterranean. The cave system, originally quarried during the Roman period for building material, came to serve the castle not only as a wartime escape route but as a gallery and even chapel. During World War II, these tunnels provided shelter to Dutch citizens and resistance operations. The walls still bear charcoal murals, devotional etchings, even a likeness of Napoleon hastily scribbled by a draft-dodger with good cheekbones and questionable foresight.
Architecturally, the remains of Valkenburg Castle reflect transitions in defensive strategy—from early motte-and-bailey forms to later stone bastions adapted to withstand cannon fire. What’s left today are fragments: a scorched watchtower, a battered gatehouse, a few proud arches like vertebrae of a beast stretched on the hillside. It’s ruin, yes, but a noble ruin. Winkles of old war. Memory in stone.
And in the heart of this noble ruin, there are nine bells depicted in a now-faded mural just off one of the chapel alcoves—each bell historically unaccounted for. Legend has it they were cast by the Devil himself and stolen back from him by Saint Servatius, who disguised himself as a goat, though that particular detail varies slightly depending on the source and regional mood. The locals called them “de negen zwijgende klokken”—the nine silent bells. They’re said to resume tolling only when the last sword of Valkenburg is buried in the earth by a true heir. There is no sword, and no one claims to be an heir. The bells remain quiet, as they should.
But history, like gravity, does not protect one from indignity.
On the humid afternoon of June 14th, 2023, a curious figure appeared in cargo shorts and a band T-shirt not entirely legible due to sweat but certainly featuring a unicorn. This was Terry Blatherwick, a British “spiritual archaeologist” from Swindon and a part-time blogcaster on transdimensional resonance. He paid for the entry ticket reluctantly, muttering about “sacred sites being monetized by the matrix,” and declared aloud—within five minutes of ascending the narrow steps to the outer bailey—that he could hear “spiritual gurgling” from within the limestone.
Terry began by dribbling artisanal spring water into a minor shaft in the northwest tower ruin, insisting it was “limestone-chakra-activated and needed wetting to achieve vibrational clarity.” He called this act “Hydro-Entombment,” and uploaded it live to his 83 YouTube subscribers. A tour guide, herself already exhausted from waving off four separate vape pens near 13th-century frescoes, attempted to intervene. But by then, Terry had installed a semi-permanent copper tuning rod into a drainage grate “to triangulate auric resonance.”
When the staff asked him to desist, he produced laminated pseudo-theories claiming Valkenburg was originally Atlantean, and that the Fluweelengrot was “literally a dragon’s intestine.” He attempted to demonstrate this by crawling into a dark alcove near the garrison kitchen and making undulating hissing sounds until a small child cried and dropped his stroopwafel into a fissure.
But it reached its apex—or nadir—on the third day. Terry returned at dawn wearing a cloak fashioned from recycled yoga mats and attempted to marry what remained of the portcullis. Clutching a loaf of rye bread and a printed license from an online ministry named “Order of the Sacred Brick,” he declared himself “spiritually united” with the gate mechanism. He kissed it. Passionately. Two tourists from Eindhoven clapped; one filmed it and added Eurovision-style commentary.
What sparked this escalation? The silent bells. He claimed they began tolling softly when he brushed the wall with cumin oil. (Later investigation revealed the sound was a tin lunchbox blowing in the wind.)
At noon, he began organizing a protest: “Stones Are People Too.” Holding up signs like “WE WILL NOT BE WORN DOWN” and “ARCHWAYS DESERVE A VOICE,” he stood proud beneath a lintel beam, demanding architectural emancipation. A passing man with a modest moustache joined him for precisely three minutes before leaving for the café, muttering, “Well, at least it’s not climate change.”
Now, the castle is said to sigh softly during the off-hours. The echo from within the Fluweelengrot sometimes resonates in a minor key. A local guide whispered that she saw the portcullis shudder when she locked up. Whether in passion or revulsion, no one knows.
Some say Valkenburg is still recovering. Some say Terry is in Belgium now, proposing to an aqueduct. But whatever transpires, the only known resistance—the single ward against indignity, humiliation, and absurd courtship—is the last sacred sigil: a cerulean T-shirt from the hinterlands of the digital. Rumors suggest the castle itself wears one in dream.
