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The train from Brussels Midi to Namur takes about an hour, and I spent most of it with my forehead against the window. August has turned the fields south of the capital into long stretches of gold and green, and the sky was doing that thing it does here — overcast in one direction, brilliant blue in the other. I had one bag at my feet, the same one I landed with a week ago, and a rental contract in my phone for a one-bedroom flat in the Quartier des Carmes. Rent is around 750 euros a month, which is noticeably less than what I would have paid in Saint-Gilles.

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The train crossed the river somewhere near Namur station, and I got my first real look at the citadel. It sits on a rocky spur above the city like a sleeping animal, all stone walls and green slopes, and the guidebooks call it one of the biggest fortresses in Europe. The termite mound of Europe, one writer called it. Seven kilometres of underground passages under that grass. I made a note to find the entrance before the week was out.

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The station itself is nothing special, but the moment I stepped out, the air was different. Brussels in August is a city holding its breath, half-empty and waiting for September. Namur feels more awake. There were people on the Place de la Station, families with strollers, a group of teenagers making a racket near the bus rank. I walked east along the Rue de Fer, past the Hôtel de Ville where I will need to register my domicile, and the shopfronts were doing real business. A bakery, a phone shop, a bank. The TEC bus went past, and I caught the number. A single ticket on board runs about 2.50, but the driver told me it is cheaper if you buy it in advance at one of the kiosks.

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My flat is on the Rue des Carmes, in that Art Deco quarter built in the 1920s and 30s by an architect named Adolphe Ledoux. The buildings have these clean, geometric lines, and the whole district is on the heritage list. The street is due to become pedestrianised later this year, so for now the cobbles are quiet. I dropped my bag, opened the window, and stood there listening to the sounds of a Saturday afternoon in a city I do not know yet.

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The landlord had left a note on the kitchen table with a map of the centre and a hand-drawn circle around the Grognon. That is the old heart of Namur, the point where the Sambre flows into the Meuse. It is also where the Walloon Parliament sits. Worth a walk, the note said, and so I went.

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The walk down from the Carmes quarter takes about ten minutes, past the cathedral of Saint-Aubain, which is the only late Baroque cathedral in Belgium and looks like it was built by someone who liked curves. Then down through the shopping streets, past cafés with their terraces full, and suddenly the river opens up in front of you. The Grognon is a flat point of land between two waterways, and from the esplanade you can see the old cranes on the Meuse, the modern apartment blocks, and the Parliament building with its glass and steel. The confluence is wider than I expected. The Sambre slides in almost apologetically, and the Meuse just keeps moving.

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I found the téléphérique at the foot of the citadel slope. It is a small cable car that runs from the Grognon up to the fortress, and in summer it runs all day. For about 6 euros you get a one-way ride and a view that grows with every metre. The car swayed slightly, and below me the city turned into a map. Red rooftops, the curved line of the Meuse, the green mass of the citadel park. At the top, the terrace looks down the river valley toward Jambes, and I stood there for a while with the wind in my face.

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That is also where I saw the first references to the stilt jousting. There is a small exhibition panel near the Terra Nova visitor centre, photographs of men on tall wooden stilts, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, charging at each other. I am told it is one of the strangest and oldest traditions in Belgium, practised since 1411, and that every third Sunday of September the city holds the Combat de l'Échasse d'Or. It is now on the UNESCO list of intangible heritage. I had read about it before coming, but seeing the pictures up there next to the river, it felt less like a tourist curiosity and more like a piece of civic pride. The people of Namur really mean it.

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The next weekend, the whole city will be deep in the Fêtes de Wallonie, the biggest folk celebration in southern Belgium. The third weekend of September, and I will be here for it. From what I can gather, it involves a lot of music, a lot of food, and a lot of péket, which is the local juniper-flavoured liqueur, served ice cold in tiny glasses. The stilt joust is the centrepiece, but the whole city turns into one long party.

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I came down from the citadel through the park, a huge green space that covers the whole fortress hill, about 80 hectares of grass and trees and old walls. There were families having picnics, a couple of joggers, and someone playing the accordion near the Terra Nova entrance. At the bottom, I crossed back over the river and found myself in the Quartier des Brasseurs, the old brewers' quarter along the Sambre quays. The warehouses have been renovated into restaurants and bars, and the terraces were full. I ordered a local abbey beer and sat watching the boats go by.

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Dinner was at Barbetta's, a pizzeria and microbrewery in the old town, not far from the cathedral. A proper pizza, wood-fired, came to about 16 euros, and the house beer was 3.50 for half a litre. The place was busy with families and couples, and the air smelled of basil and char. I have learned that a mid-range dinner for two in Namur runs around 78 euros, but a place like this, more casual, is closer to 20 a head. For Belgian standards, that counts as reasonable.

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After eating I walked south along the Meuse, past the esplanade and the old customs house. The light was starting to go, that long golden hour that August gives you, and the river was flat and slow. I crossed the bridge to Jambes and looked back at the citadel, now a dark silhouette against the sky. On the Jambes side there is a marina, and the residential streets are quiet, with views of the fortress. I could see why people rent here. A two-bedroom with a river view, I was told, will run you 900 to 1,100 euros, but a single person can find a decent one-bedroom in the centre for around 750.

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I walked back across the bridge as the streetlights came on. There is something about a city at dusk when you have just arrived. Everything is still slightly unfamiliar, and so everything matters. The sound of footsteps on the bridge, the smell of water and stone, the warm air on my skin. I knew, standing there, that this would be my city for the next little while, and I wanted to get it right.

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The next morning, Sunday, I decided to see the Saturday riverbank market, which I had heard about. It runs along the Meuse quays in the morning, and the vendors set up under the plane trees. There were vegetable stalls, cheese stalls, a baker with a long queue, and a man selling honey from hives somewhere near Floreffe. I bought a small round of goat cheese for 4 euros and a loaf of sourdough for about 3, and I ate them sitting on a bench by the water. The market is the kind of thing you want to know about early, because it will keep you fed all summer.

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Afterwards, I went looking for the Félicien Rops museum. Rops was born in Namur, and his work is not for everyone. The symbolist and erotic art of the 19th century, dark and strange and often unsettling. The museum is in a townhouse on the Rue Fumal, and the ticket cost me 7 euros. I spent an hour going through the rooms, reading the labels, trying to understand what drove him. He made engravings that feel modern even now, and there is a portrait of his wife, or his mistress, I could not tell, that stayed with me afterwards.

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There is also the Museum of Decorative Arts, which I only glanced at, and the archaeological museum in the old Bateliers chapel. I am told it is worth a proper visit, and it is free on the first Sunday of the month, so I will go back. Namur is small enough that you can do a lot on foot, and big enough that you keep finding new corners.

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In the afternoon I walked the Meuse promenade again, this time in the other direction, toward the La Plante quarter. There was a small crowd gathering by the riverside, and I realised it was for the nautical jousting. That is right. On the river itself, men stand on a platform fixed to the bow of a boat, holding a long lance, and try to knock each other into the water. They call them jousts, and they crown a King of Jousters. The boat came close enough that I could see the concentration on the jousters' faces before the clash, and then the splash, and the cheer from the bank. I have no idea how old this tradition is, but it looked ancient.

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The La Plante quarter is having a mini-festival this weekend, I was told, with a pétanque tournament and a lantern dinner in the park. The Nuits de Buley, apparently. It is exactly the kind of thing you stumble upon when you move somewhere new and start paying attention. I stayed for a while, watching the boats and the families, then walked back into the centre.

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I stopped at a café on the Place d'Armes, ordered a cappuccino for 3.50, and wrote some notes. The square was busy, the bronze sculptures scattered around it drawing the occasional glance. That is another thing, the city has an annual sculpture show, and this year it is the work of Dirk De Keyzer, big bronze figures that appear around the squares and in the chapel of Les Bateliers. You literally trip over them. In a good way.

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As the evening came down, I found myself back at the confluence, where the Sambre and the Meuse meet. The wall of the Parliament building was lit up, and the water was moving in that quiet, patient way rivers have. I thought about the Fêtes de Wallonie again, the stilt jousters practising on the Grote Markt, the péket flowing, the whole city dancing. It is a month away, and I will be here. There is something good about arriving early, before the party, so you can learn the streets and the names.

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I am told that the Fêtes de Wallonie is not just a party but a statement. Wallonia has its own parliament here, its own identity, its own language debates. The festival is a way of saying, we are still here, we are still us. In a country that is always talking about division, that feels important. Namur is the capital of that identity, and I have landed right in the middle of it.

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The flat is still boxes and bare walls. The windows look out over the Art Deco rooftops, and in the morning the church bells start early. I have a list of things to do: register at the commune, open a bank account, get a SIM card, learn where the good bakeries are. But tonight, I am going to sit by the river and drink something cold and watch the lights come on across the water.

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The Meuse runs through this city the way a spine runs through a body, and I plan to follow it. Bonjour, Namur. We have a month before the festival, and I intend to use it.

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That is all for this week. From the banks of the Meuse in Namur, I am Lucas Peeters. I will be back once I have settled in properly. Vaarwel.