Brugge

The first time I’ve visited Brugge it was on a gray, overcast day in May that felt as cold as November. We were not dressed for the weather at all, but we warmed up with Jamison from a flask and with omelettes and frites and Casteel for a late breakfast, and loved it anyway. Since then, I’ve been here a few more times. It’s best when it’s overcast, and frankly, I have never seen it be sunny anyway. The heavy cloud cover fits Brugge’s slightly medieval, gothic look; it brings out the colours in the brick and stone and the dark, slightly green water of the canals. It casts a pall over the city, a hush that even hordes of tourists can’t quite disturb, like the breath of another time on the back of one’s neck. It’s a sort of refined mood to try on for a bit, like a costume from a ghost story, a rift in reality, the underside of things visible here and there underneath the veneer of modern life.

This time, it was Brugge after the New Year, still festive with lights and Christmas markets, sleek with rain, the scent of glühwein and waffles tickling the nose. This time better prepared for the weather, we set off to explore Brugge in yet another shade of its overcast, gothic moodiness.