Gouda: We tried the cheese and we saw that it was Goud

Gouda, the Netherlands

One of my mum's great loves that she has passed on to me is that of cheese. Whether creamy or crumbly, mild or salty, I enjoy a great range. My favourites are made from goat or ewe milk, and the ones I shy away from are the stinky oozy cheeses like Brie. Several years ago, I presented a hand selected cheese basket for my mum's birthday, and in it was a Gouda. Seeing this as a town on a map made my heart skip with joy. We were going to the birthplace of a food that I've been eating since a child. 

Steeped in history, Gouda's Waag still stands on the main square. The Waag was used as a cheese weighing house, but now contains only a restaurant as weighing by hand is not a thing anymore. 

Opposite the weighing house, in the middle of the square stands the stadhuis. With colourful geometric shutters and stepped brickwork, it is conventionally Dutch. 

Celebrating their famous produce, cheese waxes hang above several streets, making Gouda appear subliminally in your thoughts like a broken jukebox repeating the same lyric. 

At a recommended cheese shop we admired the walls of round wax, coloured to reflect the flavours inside. Black was the most aged Gouda, green contained pesto, and there were multitudes of other varieties beyond that. We ate a Yannick's worth of free samples and decided to purchase the original Gouda, as the simple unspoilt taste was a marvel to the tastebuds. We enjoyed it alone as well as on sandwiches. 

After a refreshing drink at a pub, we asked the waiter what his favourite cheese was. Taking time to think about it, he said that it depended on the weather. Aged Gouda is best for rainy days. 

Another specialty created in the town was stroopwafel: two thin biscuit-like waffles sandwiched together with thick caramel. At the height of stroopwafel production, one hundred bakeries could be found in Gouda making the treats. As they became more widespread and were produced industrially, the bakeries slowly disappeared and now only four remain (one of which we happened across). Different sizes are made, but the most common is slightly larger than a mug's circumference. This is so they can be placed over a hot beverage, allowing the steam to soften the caramel. These are delicious. We happily munched our stroopwafels in the sun as locals rocked up on their bicycles, carrying off packets of the confection. 

We were joined by an affectionate three-legged cat that we nicknamed 'Hoppi'. He was revelling in the sunshine too (as well as scratches behind the ears). 

Apparently old Dutch ice skates make a great souvenir! Funny, because to me they just look like someone's rubbish. 

Though in thinking that, galleries in the Netherlands did display paintings with ice skating scenes. This Hendrick Avercamp piece from around 1620 shows an array of people, from beggars to fisherman working holes in the ice to common folk skating to noble ladies with velvet masks shielding their delicate faces from the chill. 

Walking back to the car, it began to rain (this was a reoccurring theme). Yannick and I huddled under our small umbrella while Fabienne hurried along with only a rain jacket shielding her. Amusingly, two local Gouderians passing in the opposite direction jovially called Yannick out for his lack of chivalry, gesturing to the umbrella and Fabienne. Though they said everything in Dutch, we knew what they meant from their tone of voice and gesticulations. Citing his staunch support for women's rights, Yannick carried on down the road unperturbed. 

Our campground was infested with cycling English schoolboys and rabbits. It was amusing to hear sudden shouts of "over here, Cormoran!" and "not that way, James!" in posh accents while we were eating our dinner (they seemed to be obsessed with playing frisbee, and we had a theory that they had come from the UK on a frisbee tournament trip). 

In the twilight, ducks nibbled at my toes thinking they were pieces of bread, and bunnies munched the grass at the edges of our field. An ageing Jack Russell by the name of Simba wheezed in their direction, but they were much too quick for him.