In Bruges

Deep green canals. Cool stone bridges. Cobbled streets. Gothic churches, step-gabled buildings, leafy squares. Mornings exploring the city on foot and by boat. Creamy Belgian hot chocolate before the sun rose too high. Ice cold cherry beer in the heat of the day and warm evenings. Beautiful tapestries, intricate, delicate lace. The rich, deep, dark smell of the chocolate shop where we stocked up on gifts. Climbing the tall bell-tower, and surveying the city beneath us glowing in the late afternoon sun, as the sweat from 366 steps cooled on our backs. Hot, salty frites with a dollop of thick mayonaise eaten in a park by a fountain. Sifting through other people's junk at the flea market, walking away with dusty hands. Window box after window box, stuffed with geraniums in bubblegum pink and pillarbox red. Fluffy waffles with a dusting of icing sugar. Stumbling off the beaten track and finding beauty in the mundane, elaborate doorknockers, bicycles leant against walls and trees.

No sign of Colin Farrell (sadly).