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About Namur

Oft, I ponder—did she dream o’ more? A cottage, a lad who’d not pay fer her? Makes me soft, that does—her starin’ out some grimy window, sighin’. But then—ha!—she’d prob’ly shag the dream away fer a laugh. “Truth’s in the telling,” Polley whispers in me skull, and Bess’s truth? She’s a storm, a jest, a middle finger to fate.

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So, walking through the centre, there's this charming old hall at the Marktplein that always gives me a warm, almost nostalgic buzz. Sometimes, I feel a sudden urge to scribble down a line or two, like “I was feeling so damn lost but then... boom – found love in the smallest moment.” Yeah, lost and yet found moments here are like hidden gems peakin’ out from between old brick walls. At night, the reflections in the puddles on Rivierenlaan kinda remind me of that movie, ya know? "I felt like I was falling in love with the world."

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