Stories of the cheese market

The Gouda Cheese Market isn't just about cheese; it's also about the people and animals that bring it to life. On this page, you can read the stories of the market. From the cheese girls and boys to the cheesemongers and the horse that transports the cheeses, everyone has their own role and story.

Discover who they are, what they do, and what the Gouda Cheese Market means to them. Together, they represent the faces and stories that make this centuries-old tradition so special.

I am a cheese girl at the Gouda Cheese Market

On Thursday morning I put on my outfit: my lace cap, my dress and my apron. Of course, the wooden clogs can’t be missing. When I walk onto the Market Square and see the town hall, I immediately feel the excitement of the day. The first visitors are already wandering around, still a little unsure, but when they see me, a smile appears right away. I walk among the cheeses, chat with people and I’m there for the visitors. All morning I help with the cheese guessing and the games at the Children’s Cheese Market. Now and then I come by with little pieces of cheese to taste, because of course that’s part of it. The cameras click all morning long. I pose with families, couples, groups of friends and sometimes whole coachloads at once. In the background you see the cheeses, the town hall and the Weigh House. At the end of the morning I feel my feet, but satisfied I know: all those people take a piece of the Gouda Cheese Market home with them.

I am a cheese boy at the Gouda Cheese Market

My Thursday morning starts early, when the city is still quiet. The Market Square is empty, but we are already on the move. Together with the other cheese boys we set everything up; pallets full of cheeses are put in place. One of us stands next to the cart, another sits on it. At a signal from the farmer and the trader we pick up the cheeses to have them weighed in the Weigh House. Big wheels, firm in the hand, about twelve kilos each. Then the pace picks up. The cheeses move in a tight rhythm from hand to hand. Throwing, catching, stacking. And on. At the Weigh House we unload the cart and stack the cheeses, ready to be weighed, exactly as it used to be done. Then we load up again and it starts all over. Round after round. Sometimes someone asks for a photo and I pause for a moment, a cheese in my hands. Just for a moment, because the next round is already waiting.

At the end of the morning I’m tired, but proud. Because without us it stays at watching. With us, the cheese comes to life.

I am a cheese farmer at the Gouda Cheese Market

For me, the cheese market begins in the polder: the cows, the grass, the milk, the cheese dairy. When I head to the city on Thursday morning with my cheeses, I bring all that work and pride with me. On the Market Square I stand by my cheeses. I look them over once more: the color, the rind, the shape. Then the cheese trader comes over. We know each other, we crack a joke, but we both know it’s about business now. The price has to be right—for both of us. Then the handclap bargaining begins. My hand strikes his and the price goes up and down. The crowd forms a circle around us; they can feel it too: this is serious. On this square, trading happens the way it has for generations. When we finally shake hands firmly and the deal is done, I feel the history of Gouda echoing in that single clap.

I am a cheese farmer’s wife at the Gouda Cheese Market

On Thursday morning, I am ready to show the beginning of the cheese-making story. Under my yellow tent, everything is prepared: a tub, a milk churn filled with milk, a press, and knives for cutting and stirring. As the first visitors come closer, my day begins. I show what you add to the milk and how it starts to curdle. First liquid, then thicker. Then I cut the mass, and the curds go into the mold, under the press. Questions come naturally. Photos too. I like noticing that people start to look at cheese differently afterwards. Not just a yellow wheel, but something that takes work and patience. And then the moment is over. Life on the market continues, but for me, the waiting has just begun. The brining and the aging happen later, at home. That’s where the cheese gets its plastic coating—and most importantly, time. Time you don’t see in a photo. Time you cannot rush. Just waiting, until it’s right.

I am a cheese trader at the Gouda Cheese Market

When I walk onto the Market Square on Thursday morning, I look straight at the cheeses. Rows of golden-yellow wheels. I walk along the lots, inspect them and sometimes taste a small piece. I taste with my eyes, my nose and my hands. And only then with my mouth. I stop at a cheese farmer. We talk briefly. Then it goes fast. Handclap. Rhythm. Amounts flying back and forth until we both know: this is the price. Around us stands the crowd, phones in the air, eyes wide. They want to capture the moment, but we have to make the deal. When the deal is done, I’m not finished. Then the next part begins. The cheeses go with me, to my cheese warehouse. There they get time. Rest. Air. I turn them, I watch, I wait. Until they are exactly right.

I am the weighmaster at the Gouda Cheese Market

On Thursday morning I stand in the Weigh House, by the big scale. Everything around me is alive: voices on the Market Square, footsteps on the floor, the sliding of cheeses. But in here it’s different. Here, only balance matters. The cheese boys bring the wheels inside. I place the cheese on the scale and take my weights. Old weights, as it should be. I slide them on one by one. Not too fast. Until it’s exactly right. Pure precision. People watch. I hear them whisper, but I stay with my work. I keep working in silence. One mistake and it’s wrong. With the weight I record, the trader knows what he has to pay the farmer. And then, between rounds, I sometimes get something special on my scale. Not cheese. A giggling child, a father trying to act tough, a whole family that wants to “have a go too.” Then the Weigh House suddenly feels light, despite the weight. I set them down, I look, I weigh. A photo, some laughter. But as soon as the next cheese comes in, it’s over. Then my hand goes back to the weights. My eyes to the scale. My head to precision. Because in the Weigh House, one thing is sacred: it must be right.

I am the horse of the Gouda Cheese Market

My Thursday morning starts in the stable, when my driver comes to get me. I feel the brush over my coat and hear the jingle of the harness. A moment later the cart is fastened behind me. I sniff the smell of cheese. Market day.On the Market Square I walk calmly between the people. I feel the reins and hear my driver’s familiar command. Stand. Go on. Left. Right. I know the work. The cheese boys load the cart. At the Weigh House it comes off again. Then back on. I feel the weight change and keep my rhythm. At the end of the morning I’m warm and a little tired. The harness comes off. I get straw and some feed. And then I can go out to the meadow. My work is done.

I am the speaker at the Gouda Cheese Market

The buzz of voices, the smell of cheese, microphone in hand. The market is humming with anticipation. A typical Thursday morning in summer. I look around, see the cheeses, the people, the town hall. With the push of a button, my voice echoes across the square.

I welcome the visitors, introduce special guests, and guide the opening of the Cheese Market. Together, we count down to ten o’clock—then the bell rings! I explain what’s happening, answer questions, cue the music. And if my voice is up to it, I even join in for a song. I see faces light up when they hear their name or win a prize. No one misses a thing; everyone belongs. Sometimes I ask a question on behalf of the visitors, or I host short interview with the farmers and cheese traders. I draw attention to what matters: the market, the tradition, the people. And when the market empties out, I know: today, everything and everyone in Gouda had their moment in the spotlight. That gives me energy for the whole week.