A Slow Start in Bangkok

Bangkok doesn’t ease you in. It throws you straight into the deep end, hands you a lukewarm towel, and suggests you’ll get used to it eventually. Day two felt like our first proper attempt at understanding the city — not conquering it, not planning it, just letting it happen and hoping for the best.

We actually slept reasonably well… if you ignore Craig waking up in the middle of the night to demolish the leftover packets of sweets like a man possessed. Nothing says romantic getaway quite like the frantic rustling of wrappers at 3am. Somewhere between a raccoon and a small-time burglar.

Breakfast was served in the open air by the pool — very “tropical retreat” if you ignored the pigeons eyeing your toast. I stuck to yogurt and fruit. Craig went straight for the Thai soup, which he was enjoying immensely until he fished out a slimy mushroom and a lump of chicken cartilage. That took the shine off his enthusiasm for a whole… ooh, ten seconds.

The coffee was so thick and dense it could’ve been used to grout tiles. The kind of brew that makes you pause and reflect on your life choices. One sip and I knew exactly what it would do to my insides, so I slid mine across to Craig, who happily inhaled several gallons as he always does. I switched to black tea and preserved my dignity.

Back in the room, we attempted the noble art of living out of a suitcase. It did not come naturally. Jet lag had us moving like two people who’d been unplugged and rebooted incorrectly. After five minutes of faffing, we chucked everything back into the case and declared, “Tomorrow. Tomorrow we’ll be organised people.” It could happen.

By 9am we were standing on top of Phra Pin Kloa Bridge, looking back at our hotel and trying to work out where exactly we were. Bangkok was already awake, loud, and smelling faintly of noodles and exhaust fumes. From there, the day unfolded in that wonderfully Bangkok way — part spiritual, part sweaty, part what on earth is that smell?

We ducked into a museum first, partly out of genuine curiosity and partly because it had air-conditioning. Inside was a glorious jumble of ancient artefacts, royal memorabilia, and displays that appeared not to have been updated since the 1980s….but we didn’t bother.  We just looked at the ancient Buddha display because all the Thai’s were heading that way. It had that earnest, slightly dusty charm of a place doing its best and not worrying too much about trends.

From there we wandered through a cluster of small Wats — each one subtly different, each one ticking along to its own quiet rhythm. Golden Buddhas tucked into corners. Incense drifting through the air. Dogs asleep in the shade like they’d simply melted there. We passed monks’ quarters where saffron robes hung out to dry, bright flags against whitewashed walls. A few monks shuffled past us, smiling politely, arms full of offerings… or mobile phones… or both.

The heat was already building — that Bangkok heat that wraps around you like a damp towel and refuses to let go — but the Wats offered pockets of stillness. Cracked-tile courtyards. Bells chiming softly in the breeze. Elderly women arranging flowers with the precision of surgeons. Everywhere we turned, someone was lighting incense, bowing, praying, or quietly getting on with their day.

We skirted the outside of the Grand Palace and Wat Pho, swept along by crowds dressed almost entirely in black. Thailand is deep in mourning following the death of Queen Sirikit on 25 October, and the atmosphere was solemn but gentle. Long queues snaked around the palace walls as people waited patiently to pay their respects. Families carrying flowers. Teenagers in immaculate black shirts. Elderly men leaning on canes, determined to be part of the moment. It was humbling, beautiful, and a reminder that travel isn’t just about sights — it’s about witnessing moments that matter. A country united in grief, yet still full of warmth and dignity.

By the time we looped back towards the river, we’d clocked up a respectable number of steps, absorbed a thousand tiny details, and sweated out at least half our body weight. Bangkok at its best: chaotic, spiritual, heartfelt, and just slightly overwhelming.

Lunch was at a tiny local café, which we named ‘The Grand Palace Cafe’ — one chicken dish, rice, and the grand total of £3.50. Bargain. Delicious. The kind of place you only find when you’re fleeing somewhere else — and struck gold. A little family‑run spot with plastic chairs, cold drinks, and food that tasted like someone’s grandma had made it with love and a bit of attitude. Two dishes and a couple of beers for £3.50. Absolute bargain. Absolute bliss.

The afternoon was spent by the pool — reading, dozing, and briefly losing consciousness in that deeply committed way that only heat and jet lag can achieve. We woke later to sunset creeping in, ordered a couple of shandies, and sat watching the light soften over the river. Civilised. Almost grown-up.

Craig decided this was the perfect moment to read to me. Not poetry. Not a book. The menu.

He carefully selected the most appalling options — pork cartilage, lard, chicken feet — reading each one out slowly and with obvious delight, insisting I’d have to try them. His plan, apparently, was to watch my face collapse in real time and then enjoy the moment I threw up.

He’s sick.

As evening settled in, we wandered down to Khao San Road — that legendary strip every backpacker eventually washes up on. We’d been here about 25 years ago and back then it felt brilliant: chaotic but joyful, full of travellers, cheap beer, and possibility.

Now… not so much.

It’s louder, sleazier, dirtier. Neon everywhere. Music blaring from competing bars. The air thick with booze, sweat, and regret. It felt less like a gathering of curious souls and more like a conveyor belt of very drunk people making very questionable decisions. Music blasting from every direction, questionable smells, stalls selling fried insects, and bars competing to see who could deafen you first. We lasted ten minutes before giving each other the universal married‑couple look that means, “We’ve made a terrible mistake.” Time moves on. Khao San Road, apparently, does not improve with age.

We didn’t linger.

Instead, we ducked down one of the busy side alleys, found somewhere far more appealing, and settled in for dinner and a few drinks. Street noise, plastic chairs, food flying out of the kitchen, cold beer arriving just in time. Much better. Bangkok, once again, redeemed itself quietly and without fuss.

We sat there watching scooters squeeze through impossible gaps, cats weaving between tables, and locals chatting like it was the most ordinary evening in the world. It was the perfect antidote to Khao San’s chaos — simple, warm, and exactly the kind of moment we travel for.

It was a gentle day, but an important one — the kind that quietly resets you. No big sights ticked off, no grand plans executed, just the slow realisation that Bangkok isn’t something you do. It’s something you drift through: one Wat, one cheap meal, one sweaty wander, one sunset shandy at a time.

And tomorrow, we’ll drift a little further.