Van Long Wetland: The Quiet Side of Ninh Binh

We set off on the motorbike expecting a gentle potter. A scenic loop. Maybe a coffee. Certainly nothing involving 18,000 steps, a fortune teller on wacky bacca, or Craig becoming the unofficial mascot of a boat full of Vietnamese pilgrims. The total day trip would end up taking thirteen hours—an innocent number until you realise how uneven rock steps, torrential rain, and ten tons of human enthusiasm fit into it.

Our first stop was Van Long, the largest wetland nature reserve in the Red River Delta. Not that it shouts about it. It just sits there quietly being stunning while everyone rushes off to louder attractions.

It was early, maybe 7am. Not a soul around. Just still water reflecting limestone peaks with suspiciously perfect clarity. Bamboo boats waited patiently. Goats clung to cliffs like they’d been issued with suction cups. Water buffalo grazed with the confidence of animals who are basically tanks.

We followed the road along the water, watching kingfishers, herons and egrets hunt for breakfast. Then a man appeared out of nowhere holding a huge rat he’d caught in a trap. I couldn’t tell if he was smiling because he’d caught the bugger or because lunch was sorted. 

It felt rural, quiet, more like the Ninh Binh I’d imagined before the cement factories and sulphur clouds.

Bread, Kindness and a Road to Nowhere (or So We Thought)

We followed a brand new road. Craig says new roads always mean something interesting is coming, and he was right.

A woman pedalled past selling coconut bread. Craig slammed on the brakes and executed a U-turn so sharp it nearly took out a goat. We bought breakfast and ate it on the spot, much to the confusion of the bread lady. Why do they eat bread with nothing on it?

A local man shouted us over and placed two chairs so we could sit and eat on his patch of land. Vietnamese hospitality is undefeated.

At the end of the road, a massive electric pylon was being built. We took a left. That’s when the scenery went from “nice” to “are we in a painting?”

Karst Country: Where Geography Gives Up

The karst landscape hit us like a surprise party. 

These aren’t normal mountains. They don’t form ranges or follow logic. They just appear—giant limestone towers rising straight out of flat rice fields like someone dropped them there absentmindedly.

Peak after peak after peak.

A man drove past with a pig in a cage strapped to the back of his bike. The pig was squealing as though it was trying to give directions. 

In the distance, a pagoda perched atop a peak. How they built it up there is anyone’s guess. Probably monks with better knees than mine or maybe hired from Greece. 

All the way, I kept asking Craig, “What is that smell? It’s lovely but earthy.” Turns out the area is surrounded by Aquilaria trees, the source of agarwood oud.

Tam Chuc: Vietnam Builds Big

Then we spotted a huge pagoda complex by a lake and turned in for a quick look. It was enormous, beautiful, and still under construction. Behind it, in a hidden valley, workers were constructing what looked like the main Buddha temple. The whole area is part of the Tam Chuc complex, clearly aiming to become something very big indeed.

It was by far one of the best locations for a pagoda we’d ever seen.

Ten minutes later we passed a brand new cable car. Not running. No tourists. The guard waved us through anyway. At this point, we still thought we were having a gentle day out. Clearly, we were both wrong.

The Yen River: Boats, Coffee and Mystic Meg’s Cousin

We arrived at the Yen River and it looked like a Vietnamese boat race: tin boats everywhere, orange life jackets, controlled chaos.

Unlike Tam Coc, where boats glide politely past tourists and someone keeps score, this was entirely at our own pace—or rather, at the pace set by thousands of Vietnamese pilgrims. One is curated, predictable, and Instagram-ready. The other is chaotic, immersive, and entirely unpredictable. By the end, I understood why Craig had become the unofficial mascot of the boat.

We stopped for coffee and were immediately joined by half a dozen locals and a fortune teller smoking something that definitely wasn’t herbal tea. He offered us a cup. I declined. I like my hallucinations to arrive naturally.

A busload of pilgrims arrived, and in one smooth movement, he whipped on his mystic hat and became businesslike again. A woman sat down for her reading. Business is business.

The International Ticket Office (Because Of Course There Is One)

We tried to buy tickets at the first boat station. Shooed away. Tried another. Shooed away again, but this time with a helpful point toward the “international ticket office.” 

Instead of the local price, we were required to rent the entire boat. Festival season—within eight weeks of the Chinese New Year, when thousands of pilgrims visit Perfume Pagoda—was in full swing. One boat. Us. Chaos.

The Boat Ride: Rain, Butterflies and Craig’s Personality Shift

Our rower was called Nim. She didn’t speak English, but she didn’t need to. She communicated perfectly through gestures, stern looks, and one very clear instruction as we got off: “2 ower. 2 ower.”

The river was calm. The mountains dramatic. The weather… damp. Actually, properly pissing down. 

Craig spent most of the journey trying to decide how many people you can get in a boat before it capsizes.

We drifted along the Yến River between rice fields and limestone peaks, surrounded by Vietnamese pilgrims who were absolutely buzzing—not the peaceful spiritual journey we’d imagined, more like a very wet school trip with religious enthusiasm.

As the only westerners, we became the entertainment. “Xin chao!” from every direction. Craig, who normally avoids human interaction like it’s contagious, suddenly transformed—smiling, waving, chatting, even entertaining the kids. I wonder if Mystic Meg’s herbal tea had something to do with it.

We heard gibbons somewhere in the jungle but never saw them. Butterflies lined the riverbank like confetti. 

Parking was chaos. Boats packed tightly together; normally you climb over three to get out, but during pilgrimage season it was more like a dozen. Nim guided the boat through slowly, narrowly missing our fingers and knees as we edged in.

The Climb: 18,000 Steps according to Apple Watch. 

At the base, food stalls lined the path. And then, casually, a whole roasted porcupine appeared, sitting there like it had lost an argument with a flamethrower. Vietnam does not ease you in gently.

Then came the steps. Not normal step uneven rock steps carved straight into the mountain. Some shallow, some knee-high, some sloping just enough to keep things interesting when wet. 

Pilgrims walked. So we walked. 

The route was lined with stalls selling chestnuts, sweets, agarwood, and souvenirs. Smells, earthy, heady, and unmistakably fragrant hung in the air.

Sounds on the walk were dominated by the cackle of the traders. Some even had microphones. Craig, in one of his classic lines, muttered, “It’s like Totters’ Traders—any minute Del Boy and Trigger will appear.”

A spiritual high street, equal parts devotion and retail therapy. 

We kept asking how far. Craig went quiet, which is how I knew he was starting to worry about my knee. My weak link had started to swell. 

We never gave up. Somewhere halfway up, I wondered if stubbornness could earn spiritual points or just a permanently angry knee. Every step was a test of persistence and stubbornness.

The cave itself dates back to 1686, discovered by a monk, and forms part of the Huong Son complex. By the time you arrive, you’ve earned whatever spiritual points are on offer. 

At the top? No view. Just cloud and drizzle. Of course.

The Panic Descent and the Return to Nim

Then we realised we had about fifteen minutes before the boat was due to leave. Not a chance.

We started down as quickly as we could, which on uneven, wet rock steps is less “brisk descent” and more “controlled falling with dignity hanging by a thread.” 

Every step needed thinking about. Some were too high, others sloped just enough to feel like a trap. Somewhere halfway down, I briefly wondered if surviving this descent counted for spiritual merit.

We made it back to Nim, soaked, exhausted, and with more than a few bruised egos. Thankfully, she waited. Her best mate hopped in for a lift back. 

Mobile Karaoke

The Ride Home: Beauty, Bum Pain, and Local Legend

The perfume pagoda and boat journey took five and a half hours from start to finish. Incredible scenery, incredible chaos, and incredibly sore bums.

Back in Tam Coc, we went straight out for food—no shower, just carb therapy. Craig, half deaf from the motorbike hum and cold, shouted at a troublesome couple in the restaurant:

“For God’s sake, just chuff your pipe and chomp your pork!”

Half the restaurant heard him. I couldn’t do anything but laugh. Loudly. The staff tried not to. The couple pretended they hadn’t heard. Craig sat there, blissfully unaware he’d just delivered the line of the day.

By the time we got to our chicken in spicy Korean sauce, we’d survived boats, steps, porcupines, and mystic fortune tellers and Craig had secured his place in local legend.