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A walk through the streets of Kathmandu leaves one with two major problems. Firstly - complete sensory overload and secondly - the certainty of getting lost: not because its spidery maze of narrow alleyways is not navigable - but because detours are unavoidable!

But walk you must. It is the only way you can stumble upon the subtle curiosities that sum up this exotically mysterious and tradition encrusted capital and the only way you can experience the unexpected delights and the fascinating encounters it has to offer. Walking will show you a city that you cannot see through the tinted windows of a tour bus or read about in the columns of the Lonely Planet guidebook. A city no postcard can ever do justice. A city where ten pairs of eyes are just not enough…

Within twenty seconds of leaving your hotel you are enveloped by a giddy intoxication - a stew pot of magical sights and an orchestra of exotic sounds. Add taste, touch and smell - and your senses are left reeling.

All five of my senses were brutally (yet magnificently) attacked in a walk from Thamel - the tourist centre of Kathmandu to Durbar Square - the cultural city centre virtually dripping in temples and tradition.

I leave my hotel and the encroaching modernity of Thamel's tourist mecca in the early morning. Shadows are shortening over the narrow cobbled pathways as I pass ambitious entrepreneurs gathering around the temple steps and on street corners to set out their produce - in vivid patterns of colour and design. Tomatoes and ginger, sweet bananas and raspberries in newspaper cones. Apples piled high in rusty scales and hundreds of other types of fruit and vegetables unrecognisable to the Western eye. Hunch-backed street sweepers go about their work with resignation - clearing the debris that Kathmandu's cows and mangy dogs have managed to miss. A stray dog stirs and a flock of pigeons swoop over the fast filling street. Women fuss around temples and shrines; one hand seeping away the dust with brooms made from bundles of unhusked rice, their other hand holding up their saris so that they do not fall down. New offerings of rice and flowers are left for the Gods and early morning prayers are chanted - the women's breath turning to mist in the chill of the early morning.

As the heat begins to beat down, the whirlwind of chaos and commotion that is Kathmandu begins to unfold. Slowly at first and then unrelentlessly.

Beggars in bandages, trident wielding holy men with bright red, drugged eyes, pollution faded Buddhist prayer flags fluttering in the breeze, saffron clad monks, piles of pomegranates, incense sellers, popcorn sellers, garlands of marigolds and women washing their long black hair at communal water points - all swirls of colour against a backdrop of temples and open fronted shops.

I meander through the narrow streets - so narrow that you can touch the walls on both sides by stretching out your arms. The alleyways open up into exotic and bewildering bazaars steaming with activity. I find myself in Ason Tol, one such bazaar, where the Annapurna Temple presides over a motley collection of spice and grain merchants sitting cross-legged or on haunches among hessian bags of red, orange and brown spices.

In the small crowded square that makes up this legendary bazaar I rub shoulders with a potpourri of personalities and cultures - from hippies, Hindu's and heretics to guidebook toting tourists. A group of men, wearing traditional topi hats, sit in the corner shadows of the square deeply engrossed in a game of chess, a little boy screeches through the square running frantically after an old bicycle rim as it weaves through the crowd and housewives haggle incessantly over the price of goods for sale here. I see a Hindu woman who has, after a quick count, got twenty-four earrings in her two ear lobes. In the West she would be sneered at as a rebel. In this magical Hindu kingdom however - she is a symbol of beauty and tradition. Porters with inhuman loads chug through the bazaar, sweat dripping from their faces, calluses hardening their hands … but, in true Nepalese style, they have a smile on their faces. And then there are the beggars - children whose eyes speak volumes and adults whose wrinkled skin speaks even more loudly of the hardships they have had to endure in Nepal's harsh economy.

I weave through the bustle feeling like I have been stung with a cattle prod - struggling to handle the explosion of my senses. Yet around me people go about their daily lives with effortless resilience, their simple lives celebrated without complaint. Life here seems to beat to a different drum and where I bump into anything and everything … the locals seem to glide from one side of Ason Tol to the other with an air of grace and unflappable calmness - all but obsolete in today's whirlwind world.

I take one of the spider web-like alleys leading from the square. Traffic is held up and a jam of taxi's, motorbikes, tempos (three wheeled taxi's), rickshaws and pedestrians fills the road. I squeeze past to investigate the cause of this melee and find none other than a common cow lying in the middle of the road, chewing the cud.

Cows have the run of this Hindu kingdom. Festivals honour them, passers-by touch them to receive blessings, fruit and vegetable sellers chuck their best produce onto the road in front of their feet to increase sales for the day and some even pick up their steaming dung to keep it. "Very very bad to kill", says the young Nepalese rickshaw driver next to me - staring at me as I in turn stare in amazement at the scene in front of me. In an unmistakable gesture, he runs his finger across his throat: "You kill cow, you die!" And so it is. The killing of a cow in Nepal is considered as extremely serious crime and is punishable by anything from up to twenty years in prison to, as the rickshaw driver mentioned, death. I sit down on the pavement, as most others had done, and let my already flagging legs rest. Twenty minutes pass, the jam grows considerably bigger and the cow still shows no sign of moving an inch. The people in the queue, used to such incidents, use the time to rest their loads, catch up on local gossip or even take a quick nap in their rickshaws or taxi's.

Passing the cow I find myself in an entire alleyway dedicated to dentists. Shop windows overflow with an amazing array of plaster casts of dentures - their shapes and sizes apparently luring potential customers to use the specific dentist. Doors to the surgeries are left open and all who walk past can watch as the dentist carries out his procedures as well as casually chat to him as he performs them.

Giving a dental check-up a miss, I turn the corner and stroll up a road consisting solely of shops selling saris - the display revealing a rainbow of coloured fabrics. Women mingle and talk furiously, the choosing of fabric for the garment being a social occasion in itself. In between these shops are countless beauty parlours promising miracles interspersed by butchers, whose daily stock lies on old pieces of wood - blood dripping from them and flies buzzing around them.

An overriding feature of all of Kathmandu - and one which is abundantly evident on the walk from Thamel to Durbar Square - is the pure number of shrines, temples and other religious icons and monuments. From towering pagodas embellished with exquisite woodcarvings to simple rocks recognised as holy, I literally tripped over them as I make my way through the city. Every nook and cranny is smeared in red tika (the red powder that is evidence of religious blessing). Unlike many other counties however, and probably because there are just so many of them, these sites are rarely restored and more often than not are covered in decades of dust or, as I witnessed, washing! Saris of crimson red and fiery orange drape over the holy figures of Ganesh and Vishnu and banana peels and other rotting vegetables lie at the base of a beautiful Shiva statue.

I carry on walking past bicycle shops with groups of men outside sitting on their haunches fixing punctures - oily spare parts and tools spread everywhere. I pass trees littered with kites, lost to their owners forever and I pass photo opportunities as endless as an ocean.

All of this colour and excitement is surrounded by lush green valley walls, with snow-capped peaks towering over them.

The soundtrack to this explosion of colour and movement is an orchestra of shouting, whistling, hooting and mooing. The whirr of embroidery machines can be heard alongside the sound of rickshaw drivers canvassing for business. "Fifty rupees … only fifty rupees to Durbar Square … OK, special price for you … forty rupees".

The haunting and hypnotic sound of Buddhist chanting can be heard from CD shops and monasteries alike - broken by the tolling of bells a thousand years old. In the smaller alleyways I hear the sound of leather sandals as they shuffle on the cobbled streets. In the bigger and busier roads, the cacophony of traffic invades my eardrums. Rickshaw bells tinkle furiously. Motorcycles with clamorous horns and taxi's that hoot impatiently as they try to avoid other taxis, potholes and pedestrians, in turn, harry them. Added to this precarious equation are the overcrowded three-wheeled tempos, which sound like giant lawnmowers and sprout nasty black fumes that force women passing by to hold up their sari's in order to cover their faces. Simultaneously I am begged, by persistent salesmen, to change foreign currency, buy hashish and tiger balm, have a Thai massage (special price, just for you) and take a rickshaw ride. As I walk the streets I very quickly learn to turn a deaf ear to the plea's of "Didi, didi, didi" (sister, sister, sister)

The mystery that takes hold of your whole body as you explore the streets of Kathmandu is heightened by the strange and pleasing smells wafting from homes and restaurants. Walking past the labyrinth of intriguing shops I smell the aroma of sweet incense and spices. Closer to the Vishnumati River, however, my nose is attacked by the brutal smells of rotting food and rubbish that stray dogs, pigs and water buffalos feed on - and evidence that Kathmandu is in dire need of a new sewer system.

On my stroll towards Durbar Square I am lured, by outrageous and different smells, into local restaurants and confronted with an assortment of menus so vast it boggles my mind. Considering the sacred position of the cow in Nepal, it is the unfortunate water buffalo, instead, that is destined for the dinner table. "Buff" is a favourite ingredient in all dishes in the Nepalese capital and is one of the main ingredients in momo's - a traditional Tibetan delicacy consisting of steamed dough balls filled with either minced buff or vegetables and devoured by locals and tourists alike. Cooked in huge pressure cookers one can see for miles when a plate of momo's is served - huge envelopes of steam escaping when the lids of the cookers are lifted. Other specialities that can be found in the kitchens of Kathmandu are dal bhaat (the rice with thick lentil soup that is the staple of the population) and hundreds of tasty curries and relishes guaranteed to spice up any meal. All this is washed down with rakshi - a homemade alcohol distilled from rice.

As evening slowly engulfs Kathmandu I find myself in the fabled Durbar Square - a small piece of magic in the heart of the city centre. Shadows are creeping on the paving stones and the myriads of temples are shimmering in warm shades of red. I need to absorb it all and, above all, rest my fast buckling legs - so I climb the stairs of the Narayan Temple and sit and watch, almost hypnotised, the happenings below me.

Sitting at this crossroads of an ancient trading route, I feel the day's heat melt and watch as the afternoon rush winds down, colours soften and people relax. Two little boys, shaking with giggles, drag each other around in a cardboard box, a monkey runs along a temple wall and a holy man waves a blessing just before he vanishes into the darkness of an alleyway.

The air is heavy with tinkling bells and the smell of incense and marigolds. The temples, every shape and size imaginable, are carved like lace and surrounded by buildings with rooftops that have grass sprouting from them. Laid on the grass a sprinkling of washing flaps in the breeze among satellite dishes and potted plants. A random ensemble of men and women dressed in festival costumes parade through the square banging cymbals and drums - yet another festival occurring in a country where there are more festivals than days in a year. I am entranced … yet the local's barely seem to notice.

As darkness encroaches, the homeless vendors wrap themselves up tightly in shawls and lie down on the temple steps. Shop owners pull down the metal shutters to their shops, candlelight begins to flicker in windowpanes and melodious chatter and laughter takes hold of the evening air. Music slowly starts to seep from the numerous bars scattered around the city.

Its time to head back and I climb down the steps and into a colourful rickshaw for a fantastically bumpy ride back to my hotel.

There is, however, one last sense that I haven't covered yet. It is that of touch. And it is this sense that is most brutally captivated - the part of your body that is touched: your heart.

In Kathmandu the magic swirls in the dust and the music in the wind. There is beauty and bounty here I have never seen or experienced anywhere else … it is an experience that no words can do justice, no photographs accurately capture. The only thing that lasts is memory. The memory of being captivated and taken hold of by an explosion of colour and happy people - that feeling of being a four year old in a sweet shop with a bottomless pocketful of money. It's a good feeling.