Lille

Lille

I didn’t know what to expect — a weekend escape in Lille, a city I couldn’t quite place.

Lille looked like it had been dipped in burnt orange and brushed with gold. Flemish façades, ornate gables, delicate carvings, wrought iron balconies, mustard yellows and rust reds catching the light… smoulderingly beautiful.

We meandered down tree-lined boulevards, stumbled into grand squares that felt like open-air theatres, and accidentally found ourselves in a local marché — face to face with an explosion of colour, scent, sound, and chatter. Warm, familiar, alive — like every vendor was your quirky, absolutely lovely aunty/uncle.

I couldn’t resist a steaming cone of frites — hot, crisp, unapologetically garlicky, just a little spicy, eaten on a chilly cobbled street. And then the dangerously sinful hot chocolate — clinging to the spoon like it knew it was the best thing you’d tasted all day.

Everywhere we went, people met our half-attempted French with a smile. Ask for the best chocolate shop? We got more than directions — we got a story, a laugh, a little piece of Lille itself. (FYI: Meert. Go now. Trust me!)