Bruges.

I leave Paris to the sound of a pianist and arrive in #Bruges to the same. On the way to Belgium the train halts as they are defusing a WW2 bomb near the railway line a few kilometres away (as happens in Europe). They are apologetic that we'll be late (as they are in Europe when the trains are delayed - as I find out over the course of my year long travels).

I have booked a hotel that has belonged to hoteliers since the 13th century. In the old days, it housed foreign merchants. My room is spacious with shuttered windows that overlook the canal lined with dolls house like buildings bundled against each other other with peaked roofs, in shades of rust, sandstone, white, grey and dusty pink; all reflected in the water beneath the shadow of an old bridge.

Bruges is a city out of step with time. I walk and turn a corner and there she is, grand and proper. The main square is surrounded in a curve with thin, multi coloured houses. Carriages line the street, the smell of manure scented on the air, the clipping sounds of hooves on the cobblestones echoes. This is a city of lacemaking and the churches and public buildings have been inspired by the art. Even the grates at my feet are intricate and I stop to take a photo of my boots on them. Every second shop is a chocolate shop, every third it seems, a waffle shop. The scents of the sugary concoctions lingers in the cold air.

I decide to go all touristy and take a canal ride as the light begins to fade and turns the city to copper and bronze. Elegant swans glide by us, they were brought here in the 15th century and have their own park where they live and breed. We follow the small canals and return on sunset which illuminates the spires of the churches (whose bells play songs!) and the blackened branches of the wintered trees.

I find a lovely old restaurant, a fire crackling, old fashioned wallpaper, wooden furnishings, a welcome from the cold night approaching. It welcomes tourists at the ungodly hour of dusk. The friendly waiter suggests a traditional dish of rabbit with plums, that is full of flavour and arrives with the obligatory dish of chips. The waiter is Nepalese. He tells me that he met his Flemish wife in Nepal when he was a tour guide. He followed her here, married, had a son and then divorced but stayed on because the Flemish, he said, are friendly and accepting.

I spend the next day wandering. I lunch on white asparagus soup.I try one of the many artisanal beer cafes because I feel that since I'm in Belgium, I must have a beer. I ask the English couple beside me to recommend one, which they do but when it arrives, it tastes like swamp water but I'm committed and slowly drink it. I find a Salvador Dali gallery. I admire his slippery, sliding images, his morphing figures; perfectly executed. I look in longingly at the chocolate shops but sadly my chocolate craving seems to be under control and I have no desire. This causes concern as I have never felt this. I am a chocoholic! Anxiety must have the better of me. I buy a couple just to prove that I'm alive and consume them as I walk.

Night falls slowly, it's the weekend and the city is full of English. I choose a restaurant in the square so I can people watch. The city at night is glowing and glittering with lights, it could be the 15th century, the carriages full of people, the square crowded with tourists and locals rugged up in beautiful coats, gloves, hats and scarves. For dinner I order more Moules Frites, a big bowl of mussels in cream with onions and of course, chips. It's recommended by the waiter who's from Russia. He doesn't ask me if someone is joining me, he leaves the other setting and brings me bread and pours me a glass of wine. There is no markings on the glass as to where he should stop, so he fills my glass to the brim. I'm liking this place.

I wander home under a moon that is waxing and reflecting on the still canals, a moon that has watched generations of Flemish returning to their homes throughout the centuries. I am easily pulled into the past here. Time seems to have slowed.

#blendeditor