A pale dawn light filtered through the mist that hugged the banks of the Canal Charleroi-Bruxelles, transforming the water’s black glass into ripples of pewter. On the quai at Braine-le-Comte station, Sylvie Marchand stood motionless, her auburn hair pinned back with a simple comb bearing the carved emblem of the town’s medieval coat of arms. She was twenty-eight, slight of frame, with eyes the color of storm clouds—keen, reflective, and immeasurably wise beyond her years.
Sylvie’s morning ritual was always the same: arrive at the station by six-thirty, watch the first TER train of the day chug past toward Brussels-Midi, and pray silently for the souls who’d departed these shores during the Great War, many of whom had embarked on similar platforms. Braine-le-Comte’s role in history was never lost on her: founded in the 7th century as ‘Braginium’, fortified in the 12th century under the influence of the abbey at Nivelles, besieged and scarred by armies three times over. She carried that weight in her posture, in her respect for the town’s venerable Collegiate Church of Saints Peter and Gertrude, whose twin spires rose behind her.
On this morning, as the steam dissipated in cottongrass swirls, the stillness was broken by the creak of a bicycle wheel along the iron railing. A man approached—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a charcoal-gray overcoat that flared to his knees. In his gloved hand he cradled a violin case, its wood polished to a soft glow. He stopped a pace behind Sylvie, clearing his throat softly so as not to disturb the sleeping canal.
“Pardon,” he said in lightly accented French. “I do not wish to startle you, but could you tell me when the café opens near the Place du Marché? I need coffee before the heat of today sets in.”
Sylvie turned, her eyes unexpectedly bright in the grey dawn. “Le Café de la Vieille Porte opens at sept heures,” she replied, her voice melodic, with just a hint of the Walloon accent so familiar here. “It’s a ten-minute walk, along Rue de la Comtesse up to the square. You cannot miss it—there’s a mural of Saint-Roch above the door.”
He smiled, lifting a lock of dark hair away from his forehead. “Merci beaucoup. I am new to Braine-le-Comte. My name is Thomas Alberti.”
“Sylvie Marchand,” she replied, inclining her head. “What brings you here so early, Monsieur Alberti?”
He hesitated, then said, “I am a musician, traveling the canals of Belgium—playing in small towns, telling stories with my violin. This morning’s concert is at ten, here in the municipal hall. But first…coffee.”
Sylvie studied him: the elegant curve of his violin case, the wear on his boots, the earnest way he peered at the mist. Something about him—a flicker of both pain and resilience—struck her. She wondered how many storms he carried, like a secret cargo. Yet there was also a quiet hope in his stance, as though the canal’s current called to him.
“Then come,” she said, stepping from the quai onto the cobblestones. “I will show you the way, and we can speak of music.” She walked without another word, and he followed, both of them casting long shadows over the mist-draped stones.
The Café de la Vieille Porte was a relic of the ancien régime: low beams, chipped Delft tiles, and the unmistakable aroma of strong coffee mixed with the scent of freshly pressed croissants. Above the hearth, in cracked glass, the mural of Saint-Roch—patron saint of the sick—seemed to watch over them, his hand raised in benediction. Outside, the Place du Marché hummed to life: market stalls unveiling vibrant arrays of Flemish endives, gaufres liégeoises, and the first crates of strawberries from Wépion.
Sylvie led Thomas to a corner table. She ordered two cafés allongés and a plate of ham-and-cheese beignets—their edges golden-brown and steaming. Thomas sank into the high-backed chair, his gaze drifting to the ancient façade of the Maison de Ville, with its ornate gables and coat of arms emblazoned above the heavy oaken door.
He unlatched his violin case, caressing the maple wood as one would an old friend. “I play here today,” he said, stroking the neck of the instrument. “These small towns…they have stories hidden in their walls. I want to bring those stories back to life.”
Sylvie leaned forward, her chin resting on a slender finger. “Braine-le-Comte remembers many stories. Did you know the town was once a frontier post between the Duchy of Brabant and the County of Hainaut? Its people have always stood between two worlds, shaping history and bearing the weight of change.”
Thomas nodded. “That’s why I came. In my travels—east through Liège, south near Namur—I find that smaller places tend to forget their past. Here…I feel the roots still run deep.”
She smiled. “They do. And we celebrate them: at the kermesse every August, when the streets fill with dancing, brass bands, and people bearing garlands of wheat. Or at the Fête de la Moisson in September, giving thanks for the lowlands’ barley and rye.”
He watched her face, lit by the flickering embers in the hearth. “You…you know these traditions well.”
“I know them,” she said simply. “Because I study history—and because I live here. My family has been in Braine-le-Comte for five generations; my great-grandfather worked on the canal’s barges, my grandmother tended the Église Saint-Michel’s gardens, and my mother teaches at the Lycée. I…carry their stories with me.”
Thomas’s features softened. “I wish to play them—the stories.”
Sylvie sipped her coffee. “Play them honestly. There is beauty in sorrow, and sorrow in beauty. In every note, you must let both live.”
He nodded, closing his eyes as though tasting the wisdom she offered. “Perhaps…perhaps you will come to the hall today. I am giving the first performance of my new suite, ‘Echoes of the Meuse and the Sambre.’ It ends with a piece called ‘Lament for the Lost Canal’—dedicated to this very waterway.”
She glanced toward the window, where morning traffic rumbled past the old water tower. “I will come,” she said, “if only to tell those stories afterward.”
By ten o’clock, the Grand Hall of Braine-le-Comte’s communal center was filled with townsfolk and curious visitors. The vaulted ceiling arched above them like a ship’s hull, echoing with whispers of past addresses—political proclamations, wartime bulletins, heartfelt farewells. On stage, Thomas tuned his violin, while Sylvie slipped into a seat midway back, her notepad resting on her lap.
When the first movement began, the bow danced across strings singing of dawn mists on the canal; the second, a vivace in memory of the town’s medieval mills; the third, a gentle adagio for lives lost in the trenches of 1914. Throughout each phrase, Sylvie felt her own ancestry stirring in resonance.
But as the final note of “Lament for the Lost Canal” faded, a hush fell—so profound one could hear a distant church bell toll twelve times from the Collegiate Church. Then, a single weeping murmur from the back. Thomas’s bow hovered above the strings, uncertain.
In that moment, Sylvie stood. She walked briskly to the stage, each step sure, carrying her notepad as if it were a shield. Reaching the footlights, she raised her hand until the murmurs ceased.
“That was…beautiful,” she said, voice steady. “This canal has been our lifeline, our dividing line, and our constant thread. You have given it voice tonight. But those we mourn did not drown beneath its waters—they stood at its banks with longing in their hearts. Let us remember not only their sorrow but their courage.”
A ripple of applause rose. Thomas’s face, illuminated by the glare of stage lights, was unmistakably moved. He offered her a bow—a silent agreement that her words held truth.
Afterward, beneath the lantern glow of Rue du Gros-Chêne, they walked side by side. Sylvie spoke of the annual pilgrimage to the Chapelle Saint-Géry, where believers light candles for lost loved ones. Thomas recounted his Sicilian childhood, the sounds of his grandmother’s tambourine in church processions, the years he spent drifting between orphanages after her death.
She listened. And as the moon climbed above the slate rooftops, she placed a gentle hand on his arm.
“You do not have to share the burden alone,” she murmured. “History may weigh heavily, but so does hope. Let me bear yours.”
He stopped and looked at her, his eyes reflecting the streetlamp’s halo. “You are…wise, Sylvie Marchand.”
She smiled, the street’s damp warmth rising in the night breeze. “And you are brave, Thomas Alberti. Even the canal’s bravest bargeman could not sail without one hand on the rudder—and the other on the rope that binds him to shore.”
They stood in silence, two souls delineated by past wounds yet united by a fragile promise: that whatever lay ahead, they would navigate it together.
By mid-December, Braine-le-Comte lay beneath its first blanket of snow. The annual Carnival, held in the Place de la Gare, had been postponed for frost, but the spirit lingered: children paraded through Rue de la Station in whimsical costumes, and brass bands practiced in heated cafes, their notes echoing like chimes in the cold air.
Sylvie and Thomas had grown close these weeks—walking the frozen canal at dawn, carving initials into the ice; sharing lunch of boulets à la Liégeoise flavored with speculoos; reading by the fire in Sylvie’s family home, where portraits of black-and-white wedding photos framed the mantle. But a shadow had fallen on their happiness: Thomas’s cousin, gravely ill, had requested his return to Sicily.
On a grey morning thick with drifting flakes, Thomas arrived at Sylvie’s door with two steaming mugs of chocolat chaud. His expression was taut, as though braced against a gale.
“Your cousin?” she asked softly, leading him inside.
He nodded, unraveling a letter—ink smeared from the damp. “He writes that time is short. The doctors say days, maybe hours. Family…they want me.”
Sylvie’s heart clenched. She reached out to steady his trembling hand. “And you must go?”
He swallowed, as though gathering strength. “I must. I cannot…desert him now.”
She looked past him to the frost on the windowpane. “I understand.” Her voice caught. “I will miss you, Thomas.”
He stepped forward, wrapping her in his arms. “Stay for Carnival tonight. Promise me that.”
She sniffed back a tear. “I promise.”
That evening, they attended the Carnival’s masked ball in the Salle des Fêtes. Beneath a canopy of twinkling lanterns, townspeople in elaborate papier-mâché masks spun and twirled. A quartet played mazurkas, and laughter rose like steam from a cauldron. Sylvie and Thomas danced until their feet ached, finding in the whirl of skirts and feathers a fleeting sanctuary from despair.
At midnight, beneath the statue of Saint-Géry, he slipped a folded note into her coat pocket. “Read this when I’m gone.”
Before she could object, he pressed his lips to her forehead, then vanished into the milling crowd, carrying with him the promise of tomorrow wrought in borrowed time.
January bled swiftly into February. Thomas departed on the 6:42 train to Charleroi, and no amount of letters could bridge the months that followed. Sylvie remained in Braine-le-Comte, teaching local children to recite the history of the town’s water mill and the story of Charles-Alexandre de Lorraine’s 18th-century canal expansion. Each afternoon, she wandered the chilly bank, reading Thomas’s words by lantern-light:
“Sylvie, when the Adriatic sun sets, I see your eyes in the ripples of its waves. My dear, do not wait for me in endless winter. Live in our traditions, dance at the kermesse, laugh like the old canal barges that never rest. I will return when the almond blossoms unfurl…”
She clung to every line, yet the pages grew thin, worn, as though the ink might vanish at any moment. She wrote back in flowing script.
“Thomas, the first crocuses have broken through the snow. I teach the children your melody; even the canal seems to hum your suite. Come home to us before the first mayfly emerges…”
In early May, the annual Fête du Printemps took over the Place d’Armes. Stalls sold jars of honey from nearby Opprebais, jenever infused with local berries, and pralines embossed with the town’s crest. Brass bands paraded through the streets, and dancers twirled in costumes of green and gold.
Sylvie, perched on a wooden bench before the fountain, felt a tremor of anticipation. She clutched a final letter—no, a summons—from Thomas, penned on Sicilian parchment:
“Mon étoile, I board the sleeper tonight. The almond trees bloom tomorrow. If you will meet me at dawn on the Pont de la Sière, I shall cross every mile to stand beside you. Bring only your courage.”
Before the sun rose, she threaded through the empty stalls to the Pont de la Sière—the little footbridge near the old horse mill. The canal reflected the first roseate hues of day. Her heart pounded so fiercely she feared it might shatter the glassy surface.
Footsteps sounded on the wooden planks. Sylvie turned. There stood Thomas, coat dusted with dew, violin case slung over his shoulder. His eyes—dark storm clouds—were bright with wonder.
“Sylvie,” he breathed, “you came.”
She smiled, tears brimmed. “I promised.”
He set down the violin, took both her hands in his. “I nearly lost the path home,” he said, voice trembling. “But every night, I heard your words in my dreams.”
She pressed her forehead to his. “Then you found your way.”
At that moment the canal stirred, as though acknowledging their reunion. A barge rolled past, its captain tipping his hat. From across the water, the bells of Saint-Gertrude rang the hour: seven o’clock on the dot.
Thomas lifted her hand to his lips. “Our story,” he whispered, “shall be sung as long as this canal flows.”
Sylvie looked out over the water, where ripples glinted like scattered stars. “And learned,” she added softly, “by those with the wisdom to listen.”
Together, they walked back toward the awakening town—two figures bound by history, tradition, and the unbreakable current of love. In Braine-le-Comte, where every stone remembered a tale and every wind carried a whisper, their own story took root, destined to become one more echo to be carried down the canal through endless tomorrows.
Summer in Braine-le-Comte arrived as a gilded promise. The wheat fields beyond Opprebais rippled beneath a cerulean sky; the canal’s waterbirds nested on floating rafts of reed. Each morning, Sylvie awoke to the coo of doves atop the slate roof of her family’s 18th-century townhouse on Rue de la Comtesse. Thomas slipped from the guestroom, violin in hand, to greet the day with a solo along the lock at Pont de la Sière—his bow tracing new melodies in harmony with the murmuring water.
They spent long afternoons exploring hidden corners of the town: the forgotten brasserie turned artist’s atelier off Rue de la Station; the overgrown chemin de halage behind the former malt-kiln where Thomas sketched sketches of abandoned machinery in charcoal; the secret stairwell spiraling beneath the Collegiate Church, rumored to link to medieval crypts. In these quiet adventures, Sylvie’s laughter mingled with the hiss of the canal breeze; Thomas’s eyes glowed with wonder at each fragment of history she unveiled.
Yet beneath the idyll lay a tremor of unease. Thomas’s return to Sicily had been borne of family duty; though his cousin recovered, letters arrived now bearing news of other obligations: invitations to perform in Brussels and Liège, requests from cultural festivals as far afield as Ghent. With each fresh envelope he opened, Sylvie felt the familiar tide of anxiety pull at her heart, questioning whether his path would once more diverge from hers.
One evening, as the sun burned low behind the church spires, Thomas brought Sylvie to the Place du Marché. Lanterns were strung overhead for the upcoming Fête de la St-Jean, and heaps of wildflowers—oxeye daisies, poppies—lined the cobblestones. A small brass band practiced a nostalgic quadrille; a troupe of young dancers taught steps to curious passersby. Pairs moved in measured circles, laughter bright as a ringing bell.
Thomas halted in the center of the square, turning to Sylvie with the earnest gravity she had grown to cherish. “I’ve been invited to Brussels, to perform at the Bozar next month,” he said softly. “And in September, the Festival Interceltique in Namur wants me for a solo recital.”
Her pulse fluttered. “That’s wonderful—”
“But,” he continued, his voice catching, “I haven’t told them I’ll accept. Because…” He reached into his coat and produced a folded scrap of music paper. On it, in his precise script, was a new composition: a duet for violin and flute, titled “Canal of Two Hearts”.
Sylvie’s breath caught as Thomas unfolded the score. “I… I wrote this for you,” he said, eyes shining. “I want us to record it together—in Brussels, in Ghent, wherever. But I don’t want to go without you.”
Tears sprung unbidden. She pressed her hand over the title, feeling the weight of intention in every inked note. “Oh, Thomas,” she whispered, “I—I will play it. But your career—”
“Is ours,” he insisted. He placed one finger on the treble clef. “Every stage I step onto, I want you by my side. Our music will carry Braine-le-Comte’s stories beyond these walls—and it will carry us.”
All around them, dancers spun beneath lantern light, but for Sylvie and Thomas, the square was still. She laid her cheek against his violin case and closed her eyes, hearing already the duet’s first bars—two voices weaving as one. “Yes,” she said. “We’ll journey together.”
September brought the amber glow of harvest. The Fête de la Moisson filled the town: villagers in linen tunics carried sheaves of barley to the Place d’Armes; children chased each other with ribbon-adorned scythes. The brass band once again paraded through the streets, this time to a stirring march composed by Thomas, whose sheet music fluttered in the crisp breeze.
Sylvie—dressed in a simple dress of cream and hazel—stood beside the carriage platform in front of the Maison Communale. A crowd of farmers, bakers, teachers, and priests gathered to hear Thomas debut his new duet, accompanied by Camille Dubois, flautist from the Brussels Conservatory. As the first notes sounded, the crowd hushed, ears attuned to the intertwining of strings and wind: a conversation of love and remembrance, of steadfast devotion, of futures built upon shared roots.
When the final chord faded, a ripple of applause swelled into thunderous acclaim. Thomas bowed to Sylvie, who stepped forward to embrace him. Around them, the townspeople cheered, showering them with cornflowers and wheat stalks—a blessing for new beginnings.
That evening, after lanterns were dimmed and dancers lay down in the grass, Sylvie and Thomas climbed the quai beside the canal. Under a crescent moon, their reflections danced upon the water’s surface. He drew her close, lips brushing her temple.
“Braine-le-Comte gave us our story,” he murmured, “but soon we set sail for Brussels, Ghent, Antwerp—wherever music calls. Will you come with me, Sylvie Marchand?”
She lifted her face to his, heart brimming with both longing and certainty. “Yes,” she said. “We will carry the canal in our song, and I will be with you, always.”
From the station’s platform far below, a distant whistle sounded—like an echo of all journeys yet to come. Hand in hand, they watched it fade into the night, ready to write the next chapter of their shared voyage.
If you want to read other stories from Belgium click here.
If you want to read stories from other places click here.
For more information check these posts:
- Touring Canals in Belgium
- Crossing Belgium SW to NE – part 1
- The Four Lifts on the Canal du Centre
- Exploring Brussels Canal: Living on the water
- 1 Day In Bruges, Belgium
- The Unexpected Gift Of Belgium
- 3 Days in Belgium // A Belgium Itinerary for First-Timers
- Brussels’ Grand Canal Plan
- Four Lifts on the Canal du Centre, Belgium
- So Inclined – Belgium’s lift technology
- Le Canal des Ardennes – both gentle and demanding
- An enchanted boating adventure on the Canal du Midi ~ Part 1
- Life in the Slow Lane: Boating the Canal du Midi
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