We ended up back in down town Ninh Binh and ‘The courtyard’ restaurant which offered local mountain goat (not dog) which we were keen to try. We sat down to a couple of craft beers and goat two ways;
*traditional- De Tai Chanh which is thinly sliced goat seasoned with fried garlic and shallots and local herbs and blanched in lime juice and served with a range of green leaves and shrimp paste. To eat you roll up the goat in the leaves, dip in the paste and consume, really tasty,
*contemporary- Goat burger, probably doesn’t need a description, but also tasty.

Shattered and needing a beer we headed out that evening to that beer garden full of drunken men talking loudly for a ice cold bevy, some local food and some overly hospitable attention from the local drunks!
Beers in hand we tried to use google translate on the menu- the ‘fried dandruff with melon’ didn’t sound appealing but the recommended ‘beef noodles’ and ‘fried chicken legs with chilli’ sounded safe.... *note to google- chicken leg and chicken feet aren’t the same thing. However if you do need to eat chicken feet then fried with chillies is the best option.
The proprietor seeing we were ok with unusual food then recommended apricot egg leaves with leafy leaves and leaves (according to google) which ended up being tasty leaf and batter pancake, great with beer and chilli sauce and the complimentary tasting of rice wine, 30% ABV, (aka moonshine) that was being served to the locals in large plastic jugs.

By Pete
21-23/03/2019
Halong Bay is a must see, bucket list item, allegedly.
The bus picked us up at 8.00am for the 2.5hour transfer to our ***star 3day 2night Halong Bay experience. It was shear pandemonium at the port as boat after boat disgorged last nights passengers and swallowed up the next nights all of whom were trying to find luggage, bus transfers, friends etc. Our boat the Seasun (one of them anyway) was perfectly adequate, as was our birth, as was the lunch that was served shortly after departure (Halong was never going to be about the food, or beer).

Day three - transfer back to the cruise boat, via dingy, Cat Ba Island, day boat, etc and while Belinda undertook the last of our Halong experiences, how to roll fresh spring rolls, I chose to skip it for the views.
We arrived back in Hanoi at about 5.30 where a corner selling bia hoi and delicious beef noodles and pork ribs was waiting.


In fact Halong bay is incredibly stunning and I feel really worth visiting but just experience the bay and the local life within it not the ‘experiences’. If we had our time again we would try to avoid the cruises and try and do it on your own, not even sure that this is possible but on the way back we noticed a home stay at an actual local fish farm, with guests so they got there somehow.

We had read about a restaurant near the west lake that had preserved its ration era ambiance called Trade Shop #37 so we thought we should check it out that evening, it was nice and the decor cool but... street food still gets my vote. On the way back to the hotel we passed another lively street corner with several venders selling bia hoi and food.. Dinner when we return from Halong bay sorted.
....Three days later it didn’t disappoint the food was great and the intersection endlessly entertaining.

At about 5.00am we arrived at the border and as it didn’t open until 7.00am, we had time to sleep without rolling. The actual border crossing was “ok”. We did get a fair bit of trouble with our apec card which we expected. Airports see these cards all the time.... upland border crossings....not so much. They spent what felt like an eternity inspecting the card, looking at both sides, sniffing it (It didn’t smell like a diplomat). We both got anxious our bus was going to leave, it was about 8.00am and the prospect of hitchhiking wasn’t that appealing!!! They finally understood the card and let us through to rejoin our waiting bus.
After the border crossing many locals got off so we grabbed a couple of the unbroken, upper row seats- much better. This was fortunate as that day we wound our way down through the back roads of the central highlands, the scenery was spectacular. I’ve never seen so many free range ducks, if there is duck on the menu - I’m ordering it!

Despite the ‘no food horror stories’ the bus did stop for lunch of either noodle soups or rice dishes, all rather tasty. I think lying down and not moving we just weren’t hungry, so we finished with our bag full of snacks still.


We arrived into busy, bustling Hanoi around 6.30pm, only half an hour late. So 24.5 hours with the chance to sleep, spectacular views and a tasty lunch actually wasn’t all that bad. The ‘bus trip from hell’ bloggers need to harden up.

Laos is the most the most heavily bombed country in history, and it wasn’t even ‘officially’ involved in the Vietnam war. It happened to have the best access route between North and South Vietnam so the righteous westerners ‘saving the world from communism’ bombed the crap out of it. Because Laos was not part of the ‘war’ there were no rules on what or where bombs could be dropped so everything was a target including villages and anywhere there was a road route.
President Kennedy is filmed, out rightly denying any American involvement in the bombing of Lao, yet in the next clip they film the briefing of the bombers before they take off, then say their prays asking God to look after them and bring their men back safely!! WTF!!??? How about the hundreds of thousands of innocent people your about to kill? What hypocrites. (Sorry I will get off my soap box now).

However the numbers are staggering:

• 2.5 million tons of munitions dropped which is more than all bombs dropped on Europe during WWII and equals-
  

*A plane load of bombs unloaded every 8 minutes 24 hours a day for 9 years or
*7 bombs for every man women and child who lived in Laos

• It is estimated that there were approximately 80 million UXO in Laos. Over the last 20 years they have managed to clear about 65 a day- that is 500 thousand cleared to date- ie now there is only 79.5 million left. On these figures clearing will take another 7000 plus years to clear.
  
• Almost everyday one person dies or is injured from an UXO, that is 300 a year and if the above is correct there are 2,100,000 people still to be injured
  

We had planned on undertaking a three day trekking, biking and kayaking trip. With the continuous burning and smoke we really were undecided what to do. It was a hard decision and toyed back and forth every day but in the end we opted out. Firstly not sure what part of the forest was being burned, but the smoke was impossible for photos and the smoke was making it hard to breathe. We decided that northern Vietnam would be better!


With heavy heart we left the lovely Laos to make our onward journey to Vietnam.

Rice paddies shimmered vividly green outside our window until a towering billboard intruded, plastered with a politician’s enthusiastic thumbs-up and oversized grin. Somehow, his cheerful political promise jarred harshly with the gentle, rural calm.
​Stepping off in Chiang Saen felt like stepping backstage; clearly, this town wasn’t crafted for tourists. No bright, welcoming signs, neat lockers, or carefully printed timetables here. Instead, we entered a bustling riverside scene, lively with local trade and chatter. Spotting a small police station, Pete nudged me gently.
“Think they’d mind holding our packs?” he asked with a hopeful shrug.Two officers exchanged startled glances as we approached but soon broke into broad, slightly bemused smiles. We handed over our backpacks with gratitude and a small gift of chocolate biscuits and fresh oranges, drawing surprised chuckles all round. The officers seemed delighted by the gesture.

Of course, we had to tick off the requisite Golden Triangle snapshot, so we flagged down a tuk tuk. Our driver chuckled good-naturedly, joining our laughter as we posed shamelessly for a cheesy “Look! We’re here!” photo. Afterwards, the Opium Museum drew us into the darker chapters of this region’s past, sobering us with faded displays detailing how this infamous trade once defined life along these borders.

We wedged ourselves onto the narrow wooden benches, my knees pressed awkwardly against someone’s enormous stash of colourful yarn. As the vehicle bounced along winding riverside roads, conversations flowed warmly around us, market gossip mingling with laughter and the sharing of snacks. Occasionally, friendly faces leaned forward, asking kindly if we needed more space. My grin in response must have looked comical, considering my head brushed continuously against the metal roof.
​That “one-hour” ride stretched delightfully into ninety minutes, punctuated by scenic river glimpses, frequent stops, and an infectious camaraderie amongst our fellow passengers. Despite the awkward seating arrangement and the roof’s determined assault on my 1.8-metre frame, the journey became an unexpected highlight, offering an authenticity no luxury tour bus ever could.
I practically tumbled out of the songthaew onto Chiang Khong’s dusty roadside, knees creaking from an hour and a half of contortions. Late-afternoon sun gleamed off the Mekong, painting the river a burnished gold, like a quiet promise of adventures just downstream.
​Chiang Khong may not be the stuff of glossy brochures, but it’s got one thing going for it: a front-row seat to the slow boat shuffle. Perched on the banks of the Mekong, it’s backpacker central, a sleepy launchpad where gap-year adventurers gather en-masse to tick off the two-day river journey to Luang Prabang. That was our plan too… until we discovered that our preferred “premium, small-group” slow boat wouldn’t leave until Wednesday. And it was Sunday. Sure, we could’ve jammed ourselves in with a hundred sunburnt twenty-somethings on Monday’s floating frat party, but instead, we played our first official ‘seniors luxury card.’ A couple of extra days in this dusty little border town sounded infinitely more appealing than surrendering our eardrums to a Bluetooth speaker blasting Deep House at 9 a.m. 

We booked ourselves into The Hub Pub & Funky Box, a convivial hostel run by the irrepressible Eve and God who buzzed about with boundless enthusiasm and a seemingly endless supply of quirky anecdotes. Mornings began idyllically with a leisurely stroll along the riverbanks.  Zelda the hostel’s ever-patient canine concierge, would trot beside us, wagging her tail politely as if reminding us to hurry up and reach the noodle stall. We’d perch on chairs that wobbled alarmingly close to collapse, slurping noodles while the morning mist curled lazily off the river like a stage curtain lifting on another Southeast Asian day. 
​By the second morning, guilt (or maybe just peer pressure) got the better of us, and a ragtag group of hostel-dwellers decided it was time to earn our beers. We naively set off on what had been promised as a straightforward ten-kilometre walk to a waterfall. In hindsight, the word walk was doing a lot of heavy lifting. Ten minutes in, it became clear this was less gentle stroll and more jungle-themed episode of Survivor. We scrambled gracelessly over slippery rocks, flailed inelegantly through thigh-deep streams, and emitted panicked squeals each time a vine attempted to wrestle us to the ground. 

By Pete
07-09/03/2019
The bus from Chiang Mai to Chiang Rai was a jolting, three-and-a-half-hour endurance test. Each pothole eliciting muttered apologies from Pete as his elbow jabbed my ribs yet again. Through the grime-coated windows, we watched Thai road crews bravely hacking away at crumbling patches of asphalt, their “safety flip-flops” offering little protection against the hot tar or their picks. Beyond them drought-parched hills unfolded endlessly, fading into a hazy mirage.

Nearly thirty years had passed since Pete and I last journeyed through this region. Back then, our adventure had been rugged, three unforgettable days hiking through the Golden Triangle. We’d rafted down muddy rivers, trekked winding mountain paths, and even swayed atop elephants through lush jungle. At night, gathered around smoky fires, we’d shared stories with villagers using wild gestures and references to soccer, a language understood universally. I vividly recalled one teenage boy, flushed with excitement, having trekked 20 kilometres just to catch a  match on the village’s sole television. He’d recounted every play passionately, eyes wide with pride and joy.
​Standing in Chiang Rai today, we felt hesitant to recreate those treasured memories. The tourist trails were undoubtedly smoother now, with Wi-Fi and “eco-tour” branding, but we suspected they’d lost some of their original magic. Instead, we decided to explore the city’s contemporary soul, starting with its trio of famous temples.

Outside, Chiang Rai’s streets unfolded their daily rhythms. We browsed through bustling local markets, savouring street snacks, spicy sausages, sweet mango slices dusted with chilli and stopping occasionally in quaint cafés that promised cool respite from the heat. Near the old City Hall, we stumbled upon a tiny museum filled with grainy black-and-white photographs, reminders of a simpler time when Chiang Rai was little more than a rough-hewn trading outpost on Thailand’s northern frontier.
​As evening fell, the city sprang to life. The Night Bazaar lit up in fluorescent splendour, stalls overflowing with sizzling dishes, bargain souvenirs, and enthusiastic vendors hawking everything from knock-off DVDs to neon flip-flops. An exuberant (if slightly off-key) drag show drew cheers from an amused audience, performers strutting confidently, tossing playful glances and exuberant kicks into their routines.

Before continuing our journey, we detoured to a little slice of luxury. A sumptuous villa tucked away in the Chiang Mai Highlands Resort. You’d expect a velvet rope and a snooty doorman except the “staff” were our old friends, greeting us with wide grins and mischievous twinkles in their eyes.
​The villa was a delightful escape, airy and spacious, and surrounded by a large terrace perfect for lazy afternoons spent chatting and relaxing. We soon settled into a comfortable routine, enjoying gin and tonics and chilled wine. Each morning, or closer to midday, Tracy conjured plates of smoked salmon and perfectly scrambled eggs, delightful. Between terrace naps, the pool offered a tempting respite. Tracy insisted the water was cloudy, prompting teasing from Pete and me, as to us, it appeared perfectly clear under the bright Thai sun

Leaving Bangkok for the start of our journey was surreal.

Leaving Bangkok, the grand departure for our year-long odyssey, felt strangely anticlimactic. Thirty years ago, embarking on our first European escapade, we’d waved goodbye amid tear-stained handkerchiefs, enthusiastic hugs, and a cheer squad of family and friends shouting encouragement. This time, our send-off had all the ceremony of a casual visit to the wet market, albeit with significantly heavier bags.
The previous weeks had been a whirlwind, yet departure morning unfolded with suspicious calm. After handing our car keys to Nigel, we slipped onto a shuttle boat, the motor purring across the Chao Phraya. Pete flagged a tuk tuk, grinning. “If we’re leaving Bangkok, we may as well do it properly,” he said, as we wedged ourselves among bulging backpacks and were flung into traffic, a chorus of honks and exhaust

We arrived absurdly early at Hua Lamphong and I exhaled, grateful for the timeless charm of a proper terminus. Airports promise sleek, antiseptic efficiency; train stations breathe history. They invite you to slow, watch, and savour. Even the clocks seemed to tick more kindly here. Hua Lamphong embodied all that, grand enough to inspire, intimate enough to feel human, its shabby elegance bustling gently rather than rushing.
​Around us, suited commuters arrowed toward platforms. Families navigated the tide, gripping children, while backpackers sprawled like sun-warmed cats, filling time before their next leap. You couldn’t buy a cold beer, but you could buy a bowl of spicy noodle soup that bubbled at track-side stalls, steam rising into the humid evening. Further along, improbably, apprentice barbers offered free haircuts to anyone brave enough.

At precisely seven o’clock came the call to board our overnight train to Chiang Mai. Rumour had it Thai Railways had acquired shiny new sleepers; alas, ours was not among them. We climbed into a vintage understudy, the carriage that had been waiting patiently in the wings for several decades. “Retro-chic,” I said, hopefully, lowering onto a gently sighing seat.
At 7:35 p.m. the train lurched forward, wheels clacking a steady percussion along worn tracks. A stewardess appeared, crisp uniform and a smile that could have sold real estate, offering small plastic cups of neon-orange juice, “complimentary,” she assured us, a promise likely itemised by morning.
Watching Bangkok slide past was pure theatre. Mercury vapour lamps turned late-night markets into dream sets. Under flickering fluorescents on bamboo poles, locals slurped noodles while Pete and I finished the last of the party snacks, raised a furtive paper cup of fizz to the voyage ahead, and watched the neon haze soften into the dark hush of rural Thailand.
I woke to pale, milky-blue light seeping through the curtain. Bamboo trunks stood like sentinels, leaves shimmering in first light. As dawn unfurled across hills and pocket villages, that familiar surge of wonder rose, the dividend that makes a night in a rolling sleeper worth every rattle and squeak. Soon the scenery tidied itself into manicured fairways and gated moo-baans: certain signs that Chiang Mai was near.
We had barely stepped onto the platform when John materialised, windmilling his arms above a sea of backpack-toting travellers. Just like that, the first chapter was complete: one train ride behind us, and, pleasingly, an indeterminate number still to come.

I had no idea that packing for a year-long, plane-free odyssey could feel like prepping for the Olympics—except with fewer sequins and more socks. Every item sparked a debate—would it be worth lugging across borders? My backpack loomed ominously, empty but already heavy with expectation. After a trial run on safari in South Africa, I’d discovered that top-loading backpacks devour essentials like toothbrushes, never to be seen again. Determined to retain some dignity, I upgraded to one that zipped open like a suitcase—then quickly exchanged it for a taller model because, well, genetics had gifted me generously in height.
The wardrobe strategy was tactical survivalism meets fashion pragmatism: a reversible dress for occasional elegance, board shorts doubling as gym gear, merino tops that magically resisted odours, and layers stacked like tiers of wedding cake. My makeup kit shrank dramatically, now squeezed into a pencil-case-sized pouch holding foundation, mascara, and lipstick—just enough to ensure I didn’t emerge from a bush looking entirely feral when we wandered into civilization for dinner.
Toiletries were crammed into a lunch-box alongside phone chargers, the iPad, and our beloved portable coffee grinder, an item Pete declared “essential” with unwavering conviction. As photographers, we juggled the additional weight of cameras, lenses, a tripod, and a tiny point-and-shoot reserved strictly for “happy snaps.”
Amid this whirlwind, a wise friend quipped, “Don’t worry about changing clothes; just change cities.” The advice felt wonderfully Zen—until I found myself at midnight, staring at three pairs of socks, deeply unsure if that was brave minimalism or reckless optimism.
Finally, I knelt beside the stuffed backpack, wrestling its zipper closed with a desperate sit-and-bounce manoeuvre, hoping it wouldn’t explode dramatically mid-journey. Because tomorrow morning—ready or not—we’d step into the unknown.