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About Namur

But then—bam!—sadness hits. She’s talkin’ bout her kid, hidden away, and I’m like, Christ, this ain’t no fairy tale. “The labyrinth is cruel,” I mutter, straight outta Del Toro’s script. She nods, like she gets it. Surprised me, that—didn’t expect no philosophy from a brass. Makes me think, maybe she’s fightin’ her own war, yeah? We shall fight with growin’ confidence, I reckon, against the pricks who keep her here.

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Ah, my dear, listen up. Moorslede is a curious damn place. I’ve been here for years, shtum in my little massage joint off Molenstraat. It’s a town that grinds you down, yet you learn its secrets. Naughty, full of quirks, kinda like me. I stroll down Kasteelstraat, where old stones murmur like ghosts. Yeah, ghosts of massages past… you never know what you’ll find behind every locked door.

Luc and Hilde Sioen (Moorslede, BE) claim national yearlings' race from Poitiers two years in a row