https://ourbumble.com/siem-reap-brunch-riel-and-noodle-dreams/Kampot is one of those places that understands timing. It performs best after dark.

After the mud, mosquitoes and borderline feral living of our time on Koh Rong Sanloem, Kampot felt suspiciously civilised.

By night, it’s gorgeous — lanterns glowing, the riverfront humming, the Bokor mountain silhouette posing like it’s auditioning for a postcard. There’s even a lights-and-music display that feels like someone in the council discovered a new button and absolutely ran with it. Food and beer are cheap, cheerful, and everywhere. Nighttime Kampot knows exactly who it wants to be.

Daytime Kampot is less convincing.

Once the sun comes up, the magic retreats. The expats emerge, the streets go quiet, and the whole town feels faintly exposed, like it’s waiting to be told what happens next. It is, however, impressively clean for Cambodia — almost suspiciously so — and there’s a lotus pond that looks like it belongs on a mindfulness app. The museum was closed because the clerk was at brunch, which somehow feels entirely on brand.  Life around the town was life but to us, it was fascinating.

Some places distract you.

Others leave you with nowhere to hide.

It reminded me slightly of our first few days in Siem Reap — the kind of place that takes a moment before it reveals itself.

A Little Kampot History (The Fun Version)

Kampot might look like a sleepy riverside town now, but it’s had a busy past. Back in the day, it was Cambodia’s main port — the place where everything came and went. If you wanted pepper, fish sauce, or a Frenchman with a clipboard, Kampot was your spot.

Then the French arrived in the 19th century and did what the French do best: built pretty buildings, drank wine, and declared everything “theirs.” They also turned Kampot into the pepper capital of the universe. Kampot pepper became so famous that chefs around the world still get misty-eyed about it. Honestly, the pepper has a bigger reputation than most of the expats here.

Before that, it was a trading post where Khmer, Chinese, and Vietnamese merchants swapped goods, gossip, and probably a few insults. Over time it grew into a provincial capital, complete with shophouses, colonial leftovers, and a riverfront that now looks its best at sunset — like it knows it’s being photographed.

So yes, Kampot may feel quiet during the day, but it’s a town that’s been busy for centuries. Ports, pepper, colonisers, traders — it’s seen it all. These days it mostly sees backpackers on scooters and expats drinking iced lattes, but that’s history for you. It evolves.

The Moment the Light Betrayed Us

The real shock of the day wasn’t the town.

It was us.

After two weeks living in wooden shacks with lighting best described as romantic if you’re blind, we checked into a bright room. And that’s when it happened. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and realised we’d crossed the line from adventurous travellers to two people recently rescued from a bog.

My nasal hair had staged a coup. Craig’s ears were sprouting like spring onions. We didn’t need a shower — we needed professional intervention.

Oh to young and cute

Laundry: The Breaking Point

Then came the laundry.

Two weeks of damp, sweaty, monsoon-infused clothing that smelled so bad we kept asking each other, “Is that you or me?” We bundled the whole lot into a bag, handed it to reception, and wished them luck.

But my knickers… oh, my poor knickers.

I couldn’t hand them in. They were personal. Sacred. Loyal companions. And yet, after Babybong’s mud-water assault, my beautiful white Marks & Spencer favourites were now a tragic shade of Cambodian River Brown.

I stood over the sink for half an hour, scrubbing like a woman possessed. Nothing shifted. Not even a whisper of white remained.

Reader, I cried. Properly cried. Over underwear. £4 a pair and four weeks later they were ruined — and all I could hear was my mother’s voice:

“Make sure you’ve got clean knickers on, just in case you get knocked down.”

As if the paramedics are going to pause mid-CPR to judge my gusset.

Travel changes you — sometimes spiritually, sometimes emotionally, and sometimes by destroying your best kek’s.

Nightlife: Kampot’s Accidental Comedy Show

Nights in Kampot are genuinely lovely. We wandered along the riverside watching locals do their keep-fit routines, although rhythm doesn’t appear to be hereditary. It’s like watching a Zumba class where everyone’s listening to a different song.

One of my favourite Cambodian quirks is the women who turn up in full silk pyjamas and a woolly hat like it’s the most normal outfit in the world. I reckon about a quarter of the nation does it. Sometimes they appear in groups, gliding along together like a bedtime flash-mob, and you suddenly feel the urge to tidy the night market.

There are more stalls at night too — perfect for a slow wander and a game of I Spy or What the Heck Is That? One man was frying orange and purple balls, and we stood there for a full fifteen minutes trying to guess what on earth they were. He smiled at us the entire time, like he knew the punchline.

They were potatoes.

We’d spent a quarter of an hour analysing spuds like rare meteorites.

Craig, meanwhile, became transfixed by a man making churros and felt compelled to buy an entire bag, complete with chocolate dip and carnation dip. The price? Twenty pence. An absolute bargain, even if the aftermath left us both feeling quietly regretful.

Evenings in Kampot are a joy — chatting with Aussies, playing pool, dancing, soaking up the easy happiness. I love the atmosphere. Craig loves the prices. Everyone wins.

The Hotel of Excellent Sleep and Possible Murder

Our hotel is wonderful. Clean, bright, peaceful. Mostly because we appear to be the only guests in the entire building. Great for sleep. No footsteps. No doors slamming. No late-night karaoke. Just silence.

There’s a fine line between tranquil retreat and the opening scene of a documentary about two missing British tourists, and this place is edging it. Every time we walk through the empty lobby, I half expect a tumbleweed to roll past reception.

Still, the bed is comfy, the air-con works, and if we do mysteriously disappear, at least we’ll have been well-rested.

And then Kampot did what it does best.

It went quiet.

The Quiet Bit You Don’t Expect

Cambodia has given me space to think about my writing — why I do it, how it’s changed, and who it was ever really for.

When I first started, it wasn’t for an audience at all. It was for Mum. She’d been diagnosed with dementia, and I promised I’d write her small journals so she could follow our travels. Back then, the writing was pared back to the essentials. Gentle. Literal. Almost humourless. Jokes confused her, and confusion upset her, so I learned to write plainly. Everything was on paper so she could read it at her weekly reading class.

That was the brief: clarity, kindness, no cleverness.

Gradually, friends and family asked for copies. Copies became emails. Emails became a website. Our audience grew by accident.

Dad became a reader too, and the caution stayed. I was never quite sure what he’d approve of. I always felt him there in the background — quietly reading, quietly judging — even when he never said a word.

At school, I hated English. Writing well meant standing up and being seen. That was enough to make me walk away from it, even though — somewhere underneath the fear — I knew I loved writing.

After Mum died, I began writing my biography. Not for anyone else, but to try and understand my own life and what had shaped me. I didn’t have the easiest childhood, and every time I tried to write about it honestly, humour appeared.

It didn’t soften the truth.

It was how I could tell it.

Somewhere along the way, that voice — the one that holds sadness and silliness in the same sentence — stopped feeling like a coping mechanism and started feeling like mine.

And now, finally, I write for myself.

Let the fun begin…shall we dance Craig?