Leaving Nha Trang: Tickets, Timing and a Heroic Receptionist

Leaving Nha Trang wasn’t supposed to be complicated 

The lovely reception staff at Aaron Boutique had already helped us dodge the night bus, nine hours of lurching through the dark with no scenery and even less sleep, by booking us onto a seven hour daytime train instead. Perfect. Civilised. £11 each. Done.

Except… not quite done.

A couple of hours later, our digital tickets arrived for the wrong day. Not ideal. The poor lad on reception then spent hours trying to fix it, and when he finally succeeded, he tiptoed up to our room in the middle of the night with freshly printed tickets. He even gave me a half‑five. I’m choosing to believe this was a gesture of affection rather than a wake‑up call.

Dedication is alive and well in Nha Trang. 

Packing for an Eight Hour Vietnamese Train Journey

Eight hours on a train requires a picnic, obviously. Craig took this as a personal challenge and we returned from the shop carrying what can only be described as a small harvest:

• Approximately 10kg of apples
• Several bananas
• A loaf of bread
• Chicken
• Cheese
• Crisps
• Muffins
• Biscuits
• Tangerines 

I don’t know why he didn’t just bring the trolley with him.

The picnic weighed more than our luggage. If the train had stalled anywhere north of Nha Trang, we could have sustained the carriage for several days. Vitamin C deficiency would not have been our downfall.

The Station and the Curious Calm of Craig

We ordered a Grab taxi to the station. This is noteworthy because Craig traditionally prefers transport arranged via hand signals, negotiation and mild distrust. The app economy has not historically been his spiritual home.

Yet he stood there, relaxed whilst I ordered. Then we tootled down the alley, watching the little car icon move towards us on the screen. No suspicion. No tactical positioning near the pavement edge.

Is he slowly converting to the Grab app?

Forty years together and I never expected to see this kind of personal growth.

The Train Itself

The Nha Trang to Quảng Ngãi route is long, scenic, and very much not high‑speed. Our window was a bit steamed up and streaked with the ghosts of previous passengers, so photography was limited to “impressionist smudge.” But the view still delivered.

The Train Sauna Experience

The only thing missing from this journey was functioning air‑conditioning. With the sun beaming through the window and the carriage sealed like a Tupperware box, I was slowly poaching. Craig, of course, remained cool both physically and emotionally, as if he’d been carved from marble and lightly misted.

Meanwhile, I was sticking to the seat like a human Post‑it note.

Nha Trang to Quảng Ngãi Train: What the Journey Is Really Like

The 13:45 rolled out of Nha Trang without drama.

And then the scenery began.

Leaving the city, the train glides past one last curated stretch of beach before the world turns practical. Concrete houses stack themselves like Tetris pieces. Laundry flaps on balconies. The sea disappears behind development, then flashes back into view as if playing peekaboo with the carriage.

North of the city, the railway runs between mountain and sea, a narrow strip where Vietnam seems squeezed sideways. To the right, the South China Sea glitters metallic blue. To the left, dry hills rise abruptly, scrubby and sun-bleached.

Occasionally the track curves and you see the carriages ahead snaking along the shoreline. Then the sea slips away and the train ducks inland.

The Food Cart Olympics

The food cart wandered up and down the aisle with the stamina of an Olympian. First snacks. Then drinks. Then bánh mì. Then, out of nowhere, the Vietnamese equivalent of Sunday dinner: rice, noodles, beef, all served on a melamine plate that looked like it had seen some things.

If that was not enough, there appeared to be dessert. Possibly karaoke.

We politely declined and worked our way through bananas, muffins, bread, cheese and crisps.

Everything except the apples.

Even we have limits.

The Glamour Fades — Into Something Better

Rice paddies spread out in flooded grids, reflecting the sky like broken mirrors. Small concrete houses, painted mint, lemon, occasionally lilac, sit alone in fields. Farmers in conical hats move with a slow rhythm that suggests time is optional.

The train rattles over narrow bridges spanning brown rivers that wander toward the sea you have just left behind.

There’s something hypnotic about this stretch. It feels less like sightseeing and more like being allowed to observe.You are not directing this journey. You are being carried through it.

At tiny stations, life presses right up against the tracks. Women sell fruit in plastic bags. Men crouch on low stools. Scooters buzz past the platform edge, indifferent to railway timetables. Children stare at the train as if it is both entirely normal and faintly miraculous.

As you near Quảng Ngãi, the landscape widens again. The fields stretch out. The sky lifts. Tourism gloss disappears entirely. What is left is agricultural, workmanlike and quietly beautiful.

The sea is still nearby. You can feel it, but it no longer performs.

By the time the train slows into Quảng Ngãi station, the light has shifted. Either way, you step off feeling like you have travelled through something real, not curated, not polished, just lived in and quietly extraordinary.

I suspect we could have managed with fewer apples.

The Hotel That Wasn’t a Hotel

We arrived feeling quietly triumphant. The journey had been long but beautiful. We felt seasoned. Competent. Almost professional travellers. 

After an eight‑hour train journey we finally arrived at our “hotel” at 10am. Within five minutes it was clear we had not booked a hotel at all but rather a venue designed for massage services and late‑night activities. The windows were boarded up as if the management feared a zombie uprising. The balcony was a rusty strip of metal whose main purpose seemed to be holding up the hotel sign. One bedside cabinet was hanging off the wall like it was trying to escape, while another was thoughtfully stocked with condoms and what looked suspiciously like someone’s suspenders. A bathtub sat proudly in the middle of the room, centre stage, and just to complete the surreal set‑up there was a random sauna, because why not.

The comedy of errors continued at two in the morning when Craig suddenly said, “I feel wet.” We turned on the light and discovered water running down the wall from the floor above, hitting the headboard and bouncing directly onto Craig’s face like some budget water feature. 

We both had the same feeling: something was not right and it was only going to get worse. 

From Indoor Waterfall to Riverside Calm in Hoi An

That was it, as soon as the sun rose, we packed up, ordered a taxi, and left. The driver took us straight to Hoi An, a two‑hour journey that cost £44. Accommodation was briefly a nightmare because the hotel we had reserved was full, but thankfully we discovered this while still in the taxi and could secure an alternative.

It turned out to be a lovely little homestay right next to the river. The windows opened. Nothing dripped. No one appeared to be conducting business after midnight.

After ten kilos of apples and one indoor waterfall, normal felt like five-star luxury.