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About Namur

I wuz happy, like, “Whoa, she’s real!” Kinda mad too—why’s she out here? World’s messed up, man. I says, “Hiya, lady, you workin’?” She’s all, “What’s it look like, pink boy?” Ouch, burned me like Eduardo in the movie—“You’re a little slow!” I laughed tho, ‘cause I’m Patrick, duh!

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The neighborhoods, well, they're quirky. There's a part by the old mill. Oi, the mill, with its creaky wheel and that old river nearby, the Sambre, gently murmuring secrets of yesteryears. I often sit by that river – dipping my toes, sulking about the absurdities of love and life… sometimes whispering, “Stupid, fat hobbit!” to the ripples, just for kicks. The park near here, Parc du Moulin, is my little haven. At night, the trees become witnesses to tender confessions – a little slice of magic where even the shadows seem to smile.

Farmers block access to several Colruyt supermarkets