Death and destruction haunt its history but Stephen Bailey finds Polish resilience is fortified by prayer and vodka when he explores one of the country’s oldest cities.

Incense seems to be seeping through the walls, filling the baroque church with distinct sweetness.

Angels and cherubs gaze down, eyes lost in a dream. Hundreds of individualised sculptures cover the walls, while Roman pillars swirl and climb like giant curls of ice cream extending to the intricate domed ceilings.

I can hear singing – slow, female voices that pierce the cold air with poignancy – and footsteps, heading towards the queue that waits silently outside the confessional.

It feels like I’m in one of Europe’s great cathedrals. With such elegance and grandeur, this should be one of Europe’s great cathedrals.

But this is just how they make parish churches in Poznan, west Poland.

Given its unfortunate history, perhaps it isn’t surprising that they’ve always invested in homages to God. There can’t be many cities that can match Poznan for getting unlucky.

In many Polish cities, the tourism office tries to avoid evoking war and history. They tend to look forward, rather than lament the past.

In Poznan I’ve picked up three walking guides. None of them makes for pleasant reading.

My history lesson starts in the ninth century, when the first Polish rulers built the nation’s first city on an island in the Warta River.

Engravings in the golden chapel mark out their important names, like Mieszko I and his son Boleslaw Chrobry.

Statues stand over tombs inside the 10th-century cathe-dral, guarding them with swords and spears.

They had predicted an invasion but the on-site museum has lost count of how many times the river flooded and destroyed parts of both city and cathedral.

Even after a brutal invasion by the Czechs, the people just kept rebuilding.

Inside the museum I wander past hundreds of church statues, each partly broken and not quite complete. Angels have lost wings and noses, while decay has ripped through the legs of saints.

There are several rooms, each more spooky than the last, which culminate in the Madonna carrying a decapitated baby.

Gloomy portraits of town leaders hang in other rooms, their expressions suggesting there never really was a prosperous time in Poznan’s history. Maybe the city was founded on bad luck?

The oldest exhibit in the museum is a sword that supposedly dates back to the Garden of Gethsemane and the arrest of Christ. Apparently, an apostle used this rusty piece of metal to cut off the ear of a high priest’s servant.

Back outside, I’ve arrived at Ostowek Street, a mishmash of faded colour that stands isolated beside the river.

Since the 13th century, these once-pretty streets formed Srodka, which the government allowed to have its own town status before it was incorporated into Poznan.

A 16th-century Gothic church remains, although the thick, wooden door says no to intruders. Outside the curves of an old monastery, a man swigs vodka from a poorly concealed bottle.

Rusty padlocks cover a bridge, many engraved with the names of couples who believe in good luck.

Some just have one name, as if their owners wanted to secure themselves to the town: Srodka had survived invasion for seven centuries before it was destroyed by the Nazis.

From the wounded to the cheerful as a green and white tram saunters past, bell ringing with an optimistic chime.

I follow the tracks, past umpteen other churches dating from various centuries, and onwards to another way of coping with fate: vodka.

Blue, yellow, orange, green, white. On the charming city square, each building has its own shade. Some colours fade, others have been recently painted, all look resplendent in the late afternoon sun.

Elsewhere, a grey cloud seems to perpetually hang over the buildings but the square feels more like a fairy tale, a medieval world of cobblestone and smiles, dominated by a graceful city hall packed full of more broken sculptures.

The museum’s oldest exhibit is a sword that supposedly dates back to the Garden of Gethsemane and the arrest of Christ

I walk around five or six times, finding delight at every angle. I keep picking a narrow building from across the square, but by the time I reach it, another enchanting shade has attracted my attention.

It’s hard to pick one when they all have the same sign: vodka 4zl. That’s less than €1, so I wasn’t expecting a glass bigger than my hand.

“Polish people love vodka,” the waitress explains as I inspect the glass with a look of fear.

“Morning, afternoon, night – there is always good time for vodka.”

Vodka seems to be another of the city’s coping strategies. Rather than celebrate the marvels of the town square, my walking guide recalls numerous historic events: plagues, wars, floods, destruction, executions, the Holocaust.

Now I’m in another baroque church, evocative decoration flowing from the ceilings. Swathes of gold and silver twinkle, marble twists past monumental oil paintings, but the pews would barely seat 200.

All over Poznan I find evocative yet unassuming beauty.

Sweet fumes come from an enchanting bakery, slowly wafting down the stone streets. A class of schoolchildren silently gawp at a church interior. Two young women dance to the radio as they boil beetroot dumplings.

Down every street there is something that catches the eye, something simple and graceful, something that seems worthy of promoting.

Then I turn the corner and there is something indelibly exquisite: a castle from the 1400s, a 16th- century university building or yet another baroque church that has survived for more than 500 years.

At night, the squares become even more endearing, build-ings softly illuminated, cafe windows revealing log fires and raucous laughter.

An improvised theatre group performs for free beneath the city hall. Church bells flutter on the wind, a harmonic chorus hanging above locals huddled in thick fur coats.

In the modern age of destinations promoting themselves with boasts and superlatives, there is a refreshing humility to Poznan.

Tourism hasn’t developed like in Krakow and Wroclaw, where drunken stag parties and hand-in-hand couples fill the squares at weekends.

Poznan is easily as pretty as those other Polish cities, yet the streets hold surprises rather than promises and the tales further enhance its charm.

The residents’ determination and resolve are quite admirable but it’s their fierce dedication to aesthetics that is most impressive, because no matter how many times it’s been invaded, Poznan has always tried to wow visitors.