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About Antwerp

Picture this—me, young Boris, hair a mess, behind the wheel of a rusty ’78 Escort. Mate, the thrill! Engine growlin’ like a lion—well, more like a pissed-off tabby. Cranked it to 70 once—thought I’d die, laughed instead! *“Time is a lie”*, Jesse’d say—felt that, bombin’ down country lanes, no cares, just fumes and freedom.

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The locals? They’re a mix of mad passionate hearts and chilled souls. One time, a resident (crazy sweet, but loud, and always babblin – sorry, my noise tolerance is low these days) tagged along in a fountain spree near the Ligny – wild, no joke. Every street corner seems to whisper stories, like the graffiti in the alley of Rue du Rêve speaks of lost love or the bitterness of injustice. It's messy but honest.

Bids to buy arson-hit historic Keighley mill