Arriving in Nha Trang: A £4.50 Bus through Fog

Our hotel booked us onto the 8:30 Futa bus — £4.50 each for four hours of fog, rain, and blind optimism.

To be fair, the company deserves a medal for efficiency. Stations are sensibly exiled to the outskirts, free shuttles glide you in and out, tickets are collected without drama. It’s transport run by grown-ups.

The scenery, however, was less “coastal Vietnam” and more “meteorological experiment.” Clouds rolled in. Rain blessed us. Visibility shrank to “dense fog with occasional cliff.” When the mist briefly lifted, the hills and sheer drops were spectacular enough to make you forgive the previous two hours of staring into nothingness.

The sleeper bus itself was a sight. Looking down the aisle, it resembled a mass hospital evacuation: passengers sprawled, mouths open, limbs dangling like broken marionettes.

We arrived nine miles outside Nha Trang, endured a shuttle whose drivers appeared personally offended by our existence, and checked into a boutique hotel boasting a giant round bed and a sky pool perched above us, a little luxury that was very much needed.

A Dash of History (Because Nha Trang Has Earned It)

Modern Nha Trang may feel like a beach resort with a neon addiction, but it has been busy for centuries.

Back in the 3rd century it formed part of the Champa kingdom, known as Kauthara. The Cham people built the Po Nagar Towers between the 7th and 12th centuries, dedicating them to the goddess Yan Po Nagar. She must have been exceptionally patient.

In 1653, the Nguyen rulers folded the region into southern Vietnam. By the late 19th century the French arrived, bringing baguettes, bureaucracy, and the Pasteur Institute in 1895 to study tropical diseases. Nothing says “future holiday resort” like a laboratory full of mosquitoes.

We wandered to the Cathedral, visited Long Son Pagoda, stumbled across a very odd coral pagoda and tootled around town. Russians everywhere — easily half the tourists. Lunch was pho at a place that makes its own rice noodles, served bubbling in a marble pot where you add ingredients yourself. Delicious, and mildly hazardous if you lack chopstick discipline.

But the real story was waiting outside the city.

The Bike Ride: When It Turned Cinematic

Each time I think this trip can’t get better, it does.

We cruised along Nha Trang beach and then veered out toward the villages, into places where men fished, women shelled cockles, and a boy played contentedly with a slug while his grandmother spied on me from behind a curtain stamped “USA Army.”

Beyond the coast, the land widened.

The mountains rose like a spine of mini volcanoes, clouds drifting shadows across their backs. Paddy fields so green they looked fake, as if someone had overdone the saturation. Water buffalo stood knee-deep in flooded fields, unmoved by our presence. Near Ninh Hưng, a baby buffalo tottered uncertainly behind its mother, all knobbly knees and determination.

Further inland the horizon flattened into salt flats alive with birds. The engine hummed. The road emptied.

And at some point, I stopped narrating.

I just sat there on the back of the bike.

It genuinely felt like riding through a film set. Every sense overloaded at once, woodsmoke drifting from unseen kitchens, wet earth and river air, diesel and dust; the steady vibration beneath me; distant voices carried on the wind. The colours felt heightened, almost unreal.

At our age, you expect life to plateau politely.

Instead, here we were – still climbing.

Buffalo, Woodsmoke, and Almost Crying

There are moments when something is so unexpectedly beautiful it catches you off guard. I remember sitting there thinking I could almost cry — not from sadness, but from the sheer weight of it. The colour, the air, the movement, the luck of being exactly there at exactly that time.

I knew, even as it was happening, that this was one of those memories that would settle somewhere permanent.

One day we’ll be home, making tea in an ordinary kitchen, and I’ll think back to that stretch of road — the mountains, the paddies, the hum of the engine — and say quietly, “That was something special.”

Lunch was fruit in a tiny village, shared with giggling children who proudly produced their English schoolbooks for inspection. We nodded solemnly over grammar exercises as if conducting an academic audit.

Later, in a small roadside café, which, judging by the lace curtains and family photos, was really just someone’s front room, we stopped for coffee. The woman in the corner gave Craig what can only be described as the glad eye, the sort of look that suggested she had already mentally rearranged her furniture to make space for him. Craig, in the manner of a man suddenly fascinated by the sugar bowl, pretended not to notice. 

Back on the road and then came one of his “let’s just go down here” moments, which usually signals mild trespassing and occasional regret. Instead, we found a small Cham ruin guarded by monks, hushed and hidden and blissfully absent of tour buses. Spellbinding.

Craig vs. The Schoolchildren

Only when we rode back toward Nha Trang and climbed the steps of the Po Nagar Towers did the volume return.

A busload of schoolchildren arrived. 

Craig went from sighing at the timing to becoming the day’s unexpected hero. 

One moment he was the mildly grumpy Englishman, the next he was leading a hundred schoolchildren in a frenzy of laughter. The teacher had been trying, with all the success of a man teaching cats to salute, to get them to do thumbs up for a photo. Then Craig, with a conspiratorial “watch this,” stood behind him, waved his arms, and pulled faces that would have startled livestock. The children roared, copied him instantly, and suddenly the photo was a triumph. In five minutes flat, Craig had gone from reluctant tourist to cultural ambassador—complete with high-fives and photo requests. By the end, he was indisputably the coolest adult at the ruins, though admittedly the competition was mostly teachers with clipboards.The ruins were impressive.

But the ride — that quiet, cinematic stretch of countryside — was unforgettable.

Nha Trang After Dark: Neon and Naval Quantities of Vodka

When the sun dips, Nha Trang flips a switch.

Restaurants glow. Cafés spill onto pavements. Massage parlours multiply with suspicious enthusiasm. Supermarkets display liquor aisles stocked as if preparing for a modest naval invasion.

And we had had a few treats one night an Italian and then another night a Greek meal both tasty and amazing. 

And yet — surprisingly tame. More glow than rowdy. More sparkle than chaos.

It’s a seaside resort that knows exactly what it is.

Somewhere Between Kingfishers and Karaoke

By day, Nha Trang gave us fog, cliffs, temples, baby buffalo, kingfishers, and the best ride yet.

By night, it handed us neon and vodka shelves.

But what I’ll carry home isn’t the neon or even the ruins.

It’s that stretch of road, wind in my face, thinking: this is why we came.

And knowing — absolutely knowing — that it was something special. Even if Craig insists the real highlight was the coffee lady’s glad eye.