Does time really stand still here? It’s a fact there’s only a single clock that adorns the many spires.

Once a buzzing trade town and home to the family Van der Beurze, from whom we have the word beurs (stock market), this Manhattan of the Middle Ages was like a magnet to the world, and every single cellar was stocked with precious goods. Merchants imported and exported exotic goods by ship from all over the world. The city prospered thanks to the taxes imposed on commodities such as English wool, Irish salmon, herbs and spices, diamonds, paper and books, all according to fashion.

This spirit of commerce happily prevailed until the canal to the sea silted up in the 15th century, and the small city fell into a wintry sleep, only to be rediscovered much later by dreamy poets – and hence tourists.

Religion has always been a major force in town. Nothing less than the Holy Blood of Christ was brought in to grace a new church. Even today, countless pilgrims queue up to touch the relic (for a small fee). At one point, protestant heretics were burned at the stake. At another, Napoleon closed all churches and confiscated their possessions. Religion is a bit of a gamble, after all.

Though bishops come and go, the church spires in Bruges still dominate the low town, even if they offer little resistance to the cold winds that blow so fiercely. National icon Jacques Brel sung about the wind of the north blowing around the towers of Bruges, and there are still windmills on the old dykes. So, be warned: If you step off in Bruges, bring a sweater.

It’s undeniable: Bruges is just perfect for a tremendous good day of touristy fun, whether strolling its labyrinth of crooked streets, entering its churches at will, discovering its turbulent history or its world-famous art. Be sure to take a boat ride or climb the 366 steps of the Belfort to see where actor Brendan Gleeson took his famous fictional plunge. (It’s just one of the stops of the movieinspired city map In Bruges.)

Or stay at the foot of the belfry and order a hearty portion of fries at the oldest fritkar in town. Bruges is chock full of the oldest this, the oldest that. No wonder romantic couples dream in this Venice of the North about mating for life like the swans in the Minnewater.

“We people of Bruges enjoy a good façade,” a Bruges friend mockingly orates. The 19th-century city architect Louis Delacenserie saw the city’s potential and revamped many major buildings into a Neo-Gothic style, which gave the city its architectural uniformity of gabled façades that so many appreciate and that gained Bruges as a whole its Unesco World Heritage status. I hardly found his grave, a plain grey slab amongst the ornate edifices of the cemetery. (He himself wasn’t all too fond of Neo-Gothic.)

Bruges. The streets are full, yet somehow empty. The city is set in stone, petrified, yet light. The sun is shining down hard, but doesn’t seem to touch the ground. There’s wind, but like in a bell jar. There’s beauty, but remoteness. There’s a mystery, but no insurmountable desire to solve it.