Frankfurt Cathedral

Run your hand along the outer wall and the stone feels slightly rough and warm, even on a grey day. It is red sandstone, the colour of dried clay, streaked darker where rain has run down it for centuries. Above you, the tower rises in stacked layers of Gothic stonework. Down here, trams rattle past, café chairs scrape on cobbles, and pigeons settle on the ledges. Welcome to Frankfurt Cathedral, the building that has watched over this river city longer than almost anything else around it.

Here is the first surprise. Frankfurt Cathedral is not, strictly speaking, a cathedral at all. A cathedral is the seat of a bishop, and Frankfurt has never had one here. Officially, this is the Imperial Cathedral of Saint Bartholomew, dedicated to one of the twelve apostles. Locals simply call it the Dom. The word cathedral stuck because of the building's size and its importance. That importance came not from bishops, but from emperors.

For several centuries, this church sat at the centre of the Holy Roman Empire. That empire was a loose union of German and central European territories, led by an elected emperor. In 1356, a decree known as the Golden Bull made Frankfurt the official place of election. Seven powerful princes, called electors, gathered here to choose the next ruler. They met in a small side chapel that still exists today, the Election Chapel, on the south side of the choir.

Later, the church took on an even grander role. From the sixteenth century onward, emperors were not only elected here but also crowned here. The last coronation took place in 1792, just a few years before the old empire dissolved. Picture the scene. Processions moved through these narrow streets. Crowds pressed against the walls. Then the new emperor walked out to the town hall square nearby for the celebration. This is why the word Imperial sits in the church's official name.

Now look up at the tower. Its design dates back to the fifteenth century, when the master builder Madern Gerthener drew up plans for this tall Gothic spire. But money and time ran out. For centuries, the tower stood unfinished, capped with a temporary top. It was only in the nineteenth century, after a disaster, that builders finally completed it. They followed the medieval plans closely, so what you see today is a late Gothic vision finished hundreds of years after it was drawn.

That disaster was a fire in 1867. Flames spread through the roof and badly damaged the interior. The city decided to rebuild, and the restoration gave the tower its long-delayed crown. Many visitors assume the whole building is untouched medieval work. In truth, it carries layers from many eras: medieval walls, nineteenth-century repairs, and later postwar restoration. Look closely at the stone and you can sometimes see the difference in shade between older and newer blocks.

The postwar work matters because Frankfurt suffered heavy bombing in the Second World War. Air raids in 1944 destroyed much of the old town around the cathedral. The church itself was badly hit. Its roof and interior were damaged, but the tower and main walls survived. Photographs from that time show the Dom standing almost alone above a field of ruins. For many residents, the surviving tower became a symbol that the city could rebuild.

Step inside, and the sound changes at once. The traffic fades. Footsteps echo softly across the stone floor. The interior is tall and fairly bright, with red sandstone columns and pale walls. The plan is unusual for a Gothic church. Instead of a long nave, it has a short main hall and a wide transept, the cross-shaped arms that stretch left and right. This gives the space a compact, almost square feeling, as if built for gathering crowds close together.

Look for the carved and painted altar known as the Dormition Altar, which shows the death of the Virgin Mary surrounded by the apostles. Faces lean in, hands reach out, and the figures seem caught in a quiet moment of grief. Nearby, the walls carry traces of medieval painting, and the choir has carved wooden stalls where clergy once sat. Take a moment with each piece. The details are small, and they reward patience.

Here is the second surprise. The church holds a relic said to be part of the skull of Saint Bartholomew himself. It is kept in a reliquary in the choir area. Whether the relic is truly the apostle's is a matter of faith, not proof. But for medieval pilgrims, this relic gave the church its spiritual weight. It is part of why Frankfurt chose Bartholomew as its patron, and why so many people came here long before the emperors did.

The ground beneath you holds even older stories. Archaeologists working under the church found the grave of a young girl from the early Middle Ages, buried with jewellery and other objects. It suggests that this spot was important long before the present building rose. Outside, just west of the tower, an open archaeological garden shows low stone foundations. These remains belong to Roman structures and to an early royal palace from the time of the Frankish kings.

Before you leave, consider the climb. The tower is open to visitors on foot, up a long and narrow spiral staircase. It is a workout, but the view from the top takes in the whole city. You can see the river Main bending through, the old bridge, the rebuilt half-timbered houses of the new old town, and the glass towers of the financial district. Few places show Frankfurt's two faces, old and modern, quite so clearly in one look.

As you step back out into the square, turn once more toward the tower. Notice how the red stone glows a little warmer when the sun moves behind you. Listen for the bells, which ring out across the rooftops at set times. Around you, people cross the cobbles with shopping bags and coffee cups, barely glancing up. They live with this building every day. For a few minutes, you have seen it the way emperors, pilgrims, and rebuilders once did... and now it is part of your walk through Frankfurt too.