With a potent mix of cheese and herrings in his stomach, Stephen Bailey wanders the cobbled streets of former capital Delft and finds it much more charming than Amsterdam.

The ideal souvenir?The ideal souvenir?

Rubbing slender hands together, the fishmonger admires his slippery produce. Three old men stand by the counter, rocking their heads back in unison as another cold herring goes down the trap. This isn’t some cultivated-looking sushi. It’s a whole silver fish, head sprinkled with onions, devoured in two single gulps.

My face reveals me as a first-timer and the fishmonger offers a stale bread roll to dampen the taste. I refuse. If I’m in the old Dutch capital, I must follow all the Dutch traditions.

According to folklore, the Netherlands is built on herring bones. Dutch sailors gained their maritime upper hand thanks to the high protein and omega fatty acid content of their herring diet.

One of the old men gives me tactical advice with vivid gesticulations. The head must go all the way back and I soon learn why. Cold herring is surprisingly tasty, but accidentally sloshing a fish head against inner cheeks isn’t advisable on a hung-over morning. Stumbling around the corner I wash away the slimy remnants with a syrupy waffle.

It gives me energy as I return to my Dutch mode of transport. Locals weave nimbly, carefully selecting a route through the crowds and peddling with minimal effort. I dodge like a tanker, brakes screeching, the wheels ploughing a rebellious path regardless of opposition. Locals don’t laugh at me on my bike. They cover their eyes and step away without hiding their fear.

Delft is a pedestrianised city, built around a network of canals that have long been redundant. The old buildings still lean over the water, memories of when goods were delivered by boat and pulled up through the large windows.

Only two boats remain and one of those is used to recover rusted bicycles which have been unwitting victims of teenage pranks.

“Your bike won’t get stolen in Delft,” a respectable-looking lady tells me.

“But even I used to dump unlocked bikes in the canal when I was drunk.”

Each Delft street has a quiet charm. Cobblestones don’t assist my amateurish cycling, cute bridges come from a time when beauty was important to engineering, and the waterways ensure that every photo looks undeniably Dutch.

At first glance the streets have a uniformity that makes them easy to overlook. But with peddle power they can be easily explored.

Cold herring is surprisingly tasty, but accidentally sloshing a fish head against inner cheeks isn’t advisable on a hung-over morning

Random sights whizz past: 16th century Gothic architecture, a wedding dress made from tampons and hung in an old phone box, the gormless statue face of some 14th-century nun named Gertrude.

But then I go too far. When Delft became the first capital of the Netherlands in 1581, everything was encased within the large, outer canals. The city centre has retained its old European enchantment and it’s easy to imagine a bygone era.

But the outskirts are hideous. Beyond the canals is a haphazard concoction of buildings, each demanding attention like an overlooked middle child. Dutch architects seem oblivious to how a building might fit in its surroundings. For example, Delft’s old railway station looks perfect for steam train re-enactments. But its new replacement has come from space, a giant orange saucer plonked on the tracks and shouting above 18th-century stone canal houses.

These architectural rejects are not part of any image I have of Dutch traditions. So I return to the centrepiece, a city square that fulfils many tourist ambitions. A towering church spire dominates one end, a regal city hall impresses at the other, and a succession of overpriced cafes sell stale beer.

Outside one shop I find a giant wooden clog and pose appropriately. Another suggests that second-hand wooden ice skates are the perfect souvenir. And in bright yellow letters the words ‘cheese’ and ‘more’ entice me.

Smoked, young, old, flavoured, sheep, goat... the shop offers six different free-tasting tables and, with a coachload of Chinese tourists in the shop, the staff don’t notice me complete three separate loops of cheesy goodness.

It was a bad idea. The church’s spiral staircase is so narrow that it can take only a single row of people and rises almost 100 metres above the town. And an Italian tour group must ascend through relentless fumes stemming from the potent mix of cheese and fish in my stomach.

From above, the uniformity of the city centre impresses once more, as slanting red tile roofs lead the eye on a merry dance. This 15th century New Church sits on important bones. It’s the burial place of the Dutch royal family.

The tradition started when William of Orange was assassinated in 1584. Two bullet holes are clearly visible in the wall of the old monastery he was hiding in. They look a little large for bullets.

“The holes used to be tiny,” says a local friend. “But everyone in Delft has put their fingers in that wall.”

Now a museum, the old monastery is filled with oil paintings of camp-looking men in puffed out cravats and bad moustaches. They tell of how the Dutch gained independence from Spain in the so-called 80-year war.

It also explains how William’s murderer was tortured, an ordeal that included smearing his wounds in honey and getting a goat to lick it off.

Beside the museum, a 13th-century church tower leans uncontrollably, wobbling its immense frame over the canal. There’s a simple elegance to the interior, stained glass and wooden beams suggesting piety over grandeur.

Yet inside the Old Church I’m able to walk on Delft history. Most of the floor is made up of tombstones, the names of occupiers worn down by more than 500 years of footprints. Four hundred of Delft’s greatest sons and daughters are buried here, including the painter Johannes Vermeer and the aforementioned Gertrude.

The tombstones talk of a magical time, when Delft really was the centre of Holland and one of Europe’s richest cities. But capital city status was moved to Amsterdam and Delft’s most valuable export was soon upstaged by cheaper Chinese imports.

Delft offers side-street taverns filled with random memorabilia and sophisticated Belgium beer menus. Hidden doorways open onto live jazz music and strangers meet at over long wooden bars

The Delfts Blauw workshop remains, but the eye-catching blue and white pottery was quickly superseded by cheaper porcelain from Asia in the 18th century.

However, I think this decline was a good thing for the tourist. Amsterdam also has its history, canals, cheese and enchanting architecture. But it also has innumerable rowdy bachelor groups and a crass seediness.

As well as the tradition, Delft offers side-street taverns filled with random memorabilia and sophisticated Belgium-beer menus. Hidden doorways open onto live jazz music where strangers meet over long wooden bars.

While Amsterdam draws the crowds, Delft offers an understated glimpse of Dutch tradition. But for tomorrow’s hung-over breakfast, I’ll be avoiding the cold herring.

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