Getting to Hue: Taxi, Rain, and Frustration

Getting to Hue should have been simple. It is, after all, only two hours from Da Nang, a city with an airport, a beach, and a traffic system that appears to have been designed by a committee of horn‑happy optimists. But Da Nang has a curious effect on transport. The moment you want to leave, everything except taxis vanishes, as if the buses have all gone off to a conference.

Two hours. Twenty-two pounds. And worth every penny, because it rained the entire way. This was the sort of rain that makes you wonder if you should start gathering animals in pairs.  By the time we arrived I felt fully soaked, lightly traumatised and ready to be served with rice.

Our hotel was down an alley. The sort where you immediately wonder if you’ve wandered into someone’s back garden by mistake.

Hue Weather Woes: Two Weeks of Heavy Rain

And then it rained.

Not polite rain. Not “grab a brolly” rain. This was relentless, sideways, morale destroying rain. For three days straight.

And this was on top of the rain in Hoi An and Da Nang. By this point, we had clocked up nearly two solid weeks of it. Everything felt damp. Clothes, shoes, mood.

We were effectively confined to the room, only venturing out when absolutely necessary, which mostly involved getting fed and immediately drenched again. I felt like a damp dumpling someone had dropped on the floor and decided to serve anyway.

Birthday Wobbles in the Rain

Unfortunately, this coincided perfectly with my birthday.

Nothing says “celebrate yourself” like sitting in a dim room, a haircut you hate, rain hammering on tin roofs, and the quiet realisation that your mum is not there to make the day feel special. I missed her. I missed my sister. And Craig, bless him, has never been one for birthday fuss, so the whole thing felt flat – no warmth, no little surprise just the offer of a sympathetic look that said, “I love you, but I don’t do birthdays, what’s the point, so get over it”

Between the weather, the headache and the haircut, I had a proper wobble, on my own of course, I just wanted to be home.

During those three days of relentless rain, we did make occasional dashes outside, mainly for food and the vague hope of fresh air.

On one such expedition, I wore my one-pound plastic mac, rustling like a supermarket rotisserie chicken. It clung to my legs so aggressively I had to waddle like a penguin just to move forward.

A young lad was fire breathing in the street, despite the conditions. I swerved so quickly I nearly dislocated something. One gust of wind and I’d have been shrink wrapped.

Dinner at Madam Thu became a highlight in an otherwise soggy stretch. The woman opposite ordered pork wrapped around a lemongrass stick, clearly intended to be dismantled and rolled into fresh spring rolls. She did not dismantle it. She attacked it like Henry the Eighth. She looked delighted. I was mesmerised.

At some point, somewhere between being damp and completely soaked, we were offered marijuana and cocaine. I am still not sure what about us suggested we needed either. Possibly the penguin walk. Or our dripping, slightly pissed off faces.

Back in our alley, the local laundrette attempted a rebrand. Every time we passed, the young lad inside would leap out and hand us a pizza menu. Not laundry. Pizza. He was clearly hedging his bets.

Day Four: Rain Eases and the Imperial City

By day four, the rain finally eased. I ventured out again, still slightly suspicious of the sky but no longer emotionally defeated. Hue, it turned out, had been there all along, just hidden behind a wall of water.

We headed to the market, which was bustling with life as always.

Egg Delivery

Then to the Imperial City, once home to the Nguyen Dynasty. It is a vast complex of palaces, temples and courtyards, all lacquered wood, gold detailing and watchful dragons. Red pillars the size of tree trunks. Dark, echoing halls with painted ceilings. Ornate gates leading into quieter and quieter spaces.

The sort of place that makes you instinctively slow down, as if everything deserves a bit more respect.

Vietnamese visitors arrived in full traditional dress for photographs, looking as though they had stepped out of a historical drama. I stood nearby looking like a slightly damp bin liner.

Struggling to Get a Motorbike and Staying Local

We tried to organise a motorbike so we could head out towards the hills near the Laos border, but it quickly became one of those circular conversations involving licences, restrictions and polite refusals. At one point we had a bike, then we didn’t, then we were sent elsewhere, and by the time a scooter finally appeared, the enthusiasm had gone.

So we stayed local.

And actually, it was lovely. Not dramatic or jaw-dropping. Just gentle and real.

Hue Countryside and Perfume River Adventures

The weather improved in fits and starts. The plastic macs were finally retired, although the local insect population stepped in to fill the sensory gap. The locusts were making noises that suggested they were either mating or auditioning for a horror film.

We visited the royal tombs, each one completely different. Some grand, with lakes and pavilions. Others mossy and quiet, with stone guardians standing around like they were waiting for a bus. Craig said they reminded him of Rivington Pike. I imagine the emperors would be thrilled.

We followed the Perfume River, which is neither perfumed nor in a hurry, but is undeniably scenic. It is wide and unhurried, with women washing clothes along the banks and boats drifting past as if time is optional.

Near Thanh Lam Lagoon we rode along a narrow strip of land, with fishing villages on one side and mass graves on the other. Vietnam does not really do gentle transitions.

We crossed bridges, doubled back, got mildly lost and found ourselves in places that never make it into guidebooks. Just before sunset, a woman walked her cattle through a graveyard and proudly showed us a calf that was three days old. She was warm and chatty in that effortless way that makes you feel instantly welcome.

The next day we bumbled out to Hawaii Beach. It was pleasant, but had a slightly faded, past its prime feel. The sea was rough and restless. Further along, we found a quieter stretch near a lighthouse, though the litter took the shine off it.

Down another lane, and a small fishing village appeared and it somehow reminded me of Lofoten. Boats being repaired. Nets drying. Chickens strutting across oily ground like they owned the place.

And somewhere along the way, Craig unveiled his latest party trick. He has adapted his usual “eh?” into a full Vietnamese tonal performance. Every time he says it, it rises and falls like he’s ordering noodles, asking for directions and negotiating a treaty all at once. The locals look momentarily intrigued, then confused, then amused. Much like me.

City of Ghosts: Tombs, Mass Graves, and Memorials

Back inland, we reached the City of Ghosts, a vast sprawl of elaborate family tombs. Some are enormous, almost miniature palaces.

Huế is a city built on beauty, but it rests on an ocean of graves. The imperial tombs rise like stone kingdoms, vast enough to swallow villages, yet they are only one layer. Beneath the rice fields and along the riverbanks lie the mass graves of 1968, pits so deep and wide they seem to drain the light from the air.

You move through Huế with the quiet sense that the dead may outnumber the living, that every road and hillside is holding its breath.

And yet, life carries on in a very practical way. There is a noticeable trend of people building their own memorials while still very much alive, investing in elaborate tombs long before they are needed.

It felt slightly baffling. Why spend so much on a grave you are not yet using, while living in a very modest house? It was like buying a Rolls Royce for your future skeleton while currently getting about in a wheelbarrow.

The surrounding countryside softened everything. Paddy fields stretched out in neat green grids. Water buffalo lounged in muddy pools. We passed what looked like an abandoned airfield and fenced off areas that Craig suspected might still contain unexploded bombs.

At one point, we rode past a duck farm we named Char Su. An elderly man, easily eighty, hopped onto his bike with no effort at all. I got on mine and made a noise.

Election Day in Hue: Beer and Karaoke

On Sunday morning we were woken by music that sounded like it had escaped from a Cold War newsreel. Brass bands. Stirring choirs. The kind of soundtrack that suggests tractors, progress and national destiny.

Then came the announcements. Someone told us it was election day.

That explained the music. It did not immediately explain the rest.

By lunchtime, tables appeared outside houses, covered in food. Groups gathered, raising glasses of beer with impressive commitment. Then the karaoke began.

Not gentle background singing. Full volume, microphone in hand, emotionally invested karaoke, each singer staring into the distance as if working through something significant.

Eventually, it clicked.

Vote in the morning. Eat at lunchtime. Sing all afternoon.

Democracy, Vietnamese style.

Try imagining that in the UK. A street full of people singing for the Prime Minister. Absolutely not happening unless it’s bonfire night.

Final Sunset Over Perfume River

We ended our time in Hue watching the sun set over the Perfume River, the Imperial City glowing softly in the evening light. After days of rain, low moods, and minor disasters, it felt like Hue had finally stopped trying to drown us. And after everything, I was glad we’d stayed long enough to see it soften. Even if I did spend half the week walking like a penguin.