How a village with no city rights ended up inventing a parliament that nobody can dominate.
A walk past the best known places in The Hague, each stop carrying the strangest detail it has to offer.
Ten people who ran this city, argued with it, painted it or made fun of it, and two who arrived here as children given away as gifts.
A fishing village that never belonged to itself, a grand hotel that burned down and rose again within a year, and the beach where a prince came ashore to become a king.
A bed for a guilder, boiled meat in winter, and a nightclub much later.
Behind this church stands a grave monument to a philosopher whose bones have been lost for almost three centuries.
The nickname was an insult. Thirty years on, people from The Hague get married here and keep the photographs on the mantelpiece.
One of the most digitised countries in the world votes with a wooden booth and a pencil, and it chose to go back on purpose.
Five years of occupation left The Hague with holes in its map and in its streets.
A woman who stood out on the Wagenstraat and became a sculpture.
For more than one hundred and seventy years the Dutch parliament debated in a stadholder's ballroom, and any party with two thirds of a percent still gets a seat.
A quarter that was once the Jewish neighbourhood, fell into decline, and has run under Chinese gates since 2009.
A party leader toppled a prime minister from his own party at four in the morning, and the Dutch have been naming that night after him ever since.
A camera shop on the Wagenstraat that barely survived the war and started again.
Under this glass roof men found each other at a time when the law was against them.
A doctor read the constitution closely, found no mention of men, and asked for the vote. Parliament's answer was to add the word.
The name is nineteenth-century romanticism. For centuries this building was known as the Lottery Hall.
He learned his trade on this quay, married his master's daughter, and gave the Dutch language a phrase for a household in happy chaos.
A hunting lodge that grew into a parliament by accident, now wrapped in scaffolding for a rebuild that will run past 2028.
A gift from the citizens of Amsterdam that has stood still for years because of one panel on its side.
The third Tuesday in September, named after the birthday of a prince who had to flee the country.
In 1784 the States of Holland banned the colour orange, on pain of death if need be.
Expelled by his own community at twenty-three, he ground lenses for a living and wrote the book that still unsettles people.
Contemporaries mocked this house as the Sugar Palace, and its most famous painting once changed hands for two guilders thirty.
The constitution of 1848 gave parliament real power, then handed the vote to about one adult man in ten and made everybody else wait.
Inn, wine cellar, caretaker's house and seat of the prime minister. After seven centuries, it took a fire officer to empty the building.
A militia hall from 1636 on the Hofvijver, holding the grimmest souvenir in the city.
A city gate that served as a prison for centuries, with comfort for those who could pay and a cellar for those who could not.
A convent, then the busiest market in town, and now the square where the bands play.
He ran the diplomacy of the young Dutch Republic for three decades, and the Republic beheaded him on the Binnenhof at seventy-one.