Kulen Elephant Sanctuary

Monday began, as all important days should, with coffee and unrealistic expectations.

Craig needed caffeine.

I needed to contain myself.

Because today was elephant day.

The Kulen Elephant Sanctuary sits just outside Siem Reap, tucked into forest that feels deliberately calm, as if even the trees know to lower their voices. These are retired Angkor elephants — no rides, no tricks, no chains. Just mud baths, bamboo snacks, and the radical luxury of being left alone.

For the elephants — well, I’ve always had a thing for elephants. Always will. If I could pick a dream job, it would be working at a sanctuary, spending my days with wrinkly giants who communicate in rumbles and side‑eye. So really, this visit was less “tourist activity” and more “testing the water for my future career change.”

I adored them. Properly, unashamedly adored them.

Every slow blink, every low rumble, every lazy curl of trunk felt like a privilege. I barely registered a word the guide said — he could’ve been reciting Shakespeare or reading out a pizza menu — because the elephants demanded full attention.

Watching them reclaim their freedom felt right. Rare, even. Like putting money into something that genuinely matters instead of another fridge magnet or a regrettable pair of linen trousers.

One elephant stood in the water, repeatedly splashing herself with trunkfuls of water like a diva at a spa who’s spotted someone she hates. Another leaned against a tree, scratching her side with such visible satisfaction, a perfect elephant smile that I briefly considered doing the same.  

Their eyelashes were frankly obscene — longer than Craig’s patience — and their slow, deliberate movements made the rest of the world feel hysterical and unnecessary.

Feeding time was pure slapstick. I offered bananas and sugar cane like a nervous shop assistant on their first shift, while the elephants hoovered them up faster than Craig downs a beer on a hot day. One trunk even frisked my pockets, absolutely convinced I was hiding contraband fruit.

For me, it was magic.

For Craig, he wasn’t fussed while I was having a spiritual moment with a six-ton mud-covered pensioner.  He thought it was “a bit of a rip‑off.” Although later he did say it was better than he expected. 

This is where we differ. He sees cost. I see wonder. We’ve made it work for forty years.

Back at the Hotel (Still Smug About Siem Reap)

We loved Siem Reap so much we extended our stay by two more days.

No debate. No spreadsheets. Just vibes.

Honestly, this place is brilliant.

Then Came the Bus Station Hunt

Ah yes. The bus station.

Craig, being proudly old‑fashioned, insisted we “find it properly.” By which he meant: no apps, no hotel help, no taxi, no common sense — just two middle‑aged humans wandering Siem Reap like lost pilgrims with trust issues.

Two blistering hours later we’d achieved precisely naff all.

My tits were sweating like they’d signed up for a triathlon.

Craig was swearing at tuk‑tuk drivers under his breath, glaring at Google Maps and every other friggin app he’d opened and occasionally — subtly — at me.

The only thing we successfully located was a brand‑new level of marital tension.

Back at the hotel?

I sorted in two minutes.

Same price.

Free pick‑up.

Zero drama.

Naturally.

Words were had.

Not the loud kind — the dagger‑eyed kind. The kind that say “no one’s backing down, but sod arguing, let’s just get on with life.” Forty years in and we’ve mastered the art of the silent truce.

As a grand peace offering, Craig booked us a penthouse suite in Phnom Penh. I am not getting my hopes up at £8 per night.

Knowing Craig, “penthouse” will translate to top floor, above a karaoke bar in the red‑light district, with bed bugs that wink, a fan that squeezes like crazy and a thrilling view of someone else’s laundry flapping in defeat.

Evening Shenanigans

That night we treated ourselves to a properly posh‑nosh dinner — the kind where the plates are large, the portions are artistic, and you leave feeling both full and slightly judged.

Afterwards we grabbed a few beers and settled into some elite people‑watching.

The ladyboys were fabulous — glamorous, hilarious, and infinitely more entertaining than anything currently streaming on Netflix.

On the walk back we took the main street instead of our usual route.

Educational, that was. Bars lined with girls offering “extra services” with smiles that suggested confidence, sales training, and absolutely no shame whatsoever.

Cambodia never fails to surprise.

Tomorrow

Rest day. Feet up. Pool time.

Maybe a beer or splash out and have a gin.

Next time you hear from me, we’ll be checking out and heading to Phnom Penh — to discover exactly what Craig has accidentally booked us into.