Leaving Bangkok early always feels slightly brutal, even when you’re ready to go. Breakfast thankfully started at a humane hour, so we fuelled up before climbing into our pre-ordered taxi — which arrived half an hour early, just to keep the morning lively.

The journey to Don Mueang took about an hour through rush-hour traffic, that familiar Bangkok blend of horns, scooters and faith. We’d checked in online the night before but still had to hand over our bags. They passed through the X-ray, we were waved on, and for a brief moment felt like seasoned travellers who knew what they were doing.

Naturally, that didn’t last.

A panicked voice echoed behind us and we were summoned back to the scanner. Craig had left his camera battery in his backpack. Ten minutes of silent judging later, we were released, the X-ray man’s glare suggesting he had seen this exact mistake far too often and was tired of forgiving it. He felt it in his soul.

On the plane, the cabin already smelt like toilets before anyone had sat down. Promising. Surrounded by Russians. Craig gave me a full tutorial on photo and video formats. 

I listened. 

I didn’t listen.

Siem Reap, Cambodia greeted us quietly. The airport was calm, almost subdued, apart from the same group of Russians blocking the entire walkway like a badly organised protest. At the visa desk, Craig managed to get all his paperwork tangled up in his trousers, which is always reassuring when border officials are involved. Watching him flap while the police kindly helped him was pure comedy gold especially as he continued to shout at me, if though it was my fault.

Outside, we collected our bags and negotiated a taxi. The driver offered us half the Grab price, which we accepted immediately. He was a lovely man but sadly couldn’t drive. At one point he handed Craig his phone and asked him to direct him. We laughed all the way into town — a chaotic, cheerful introduction to Cambodia. For us, a perfect Cambodian welcome.

Our hotel? Located just off Concrete Drain Lane. When Craig read it out, we nearly wet ourselves.

The airport exit felt more like leaving a hotel lobby, and the hour‑long drive was bliss – gentle and unexpectedly beautiful — quiet roads, green countryside, and none of the frantic noise we’d left behind. It was calmer than we expected, slower, softer. More our pace.

Walking into the Indochine Sanctuary Boutique Hotel felt like stepping into a different rhythm entirely. All the reception staff bowed together and greeted us with such warmth it caught us off guard. Heartwarming doesn’t cover it. Our passports disappeared, ginger tea appeared, along with plantain chips, beetroot crisps and cold lemon towels — which instantly made everything feel manageable again.

A young lad showed us to our room. Spacious, calm, and our names spelled out on the bed as if we were someone important. £21 a night for both of us, including breakfast. Ridiculous value and exactly why we travel this way.

If this is what getting older looks like, then hand me my Concrete Drain Lane address — I’m staying a while.

We headed out just to get our bearing. A short walk to Pub Street and a quick half to end the day. Which, predictably, became another half. And another. We wobbled home in high spirits, via every dirt alley we could find, and were in bed by 8pm. Absolutely scandalous.

But lying there, full, tired and slightly amused by the day, it hit me — this is the good bit. 

This feels like living.