Our final day in Bangkok arrived quietly, slipping in without fuss — exactly the way a city like this likes to say goodbye. No grand finale, no frantic sightseeing, no temples with timed entry slots. We’d done most of it before anyway, back when you could still see the floor. And Craig, especially, was determined to avoid anything organised. He prefers mingling with locals, wandering without purpose, and standing over random objects asking, What do you reckon that was for?

The vague plan — if it deserved the name — was to take a long‑tail boat through the smaller canals. Sadly, those are now blocked off, presumably to stop people like us drifting past washing lines and feeling morally superior. So we reverted to our usual system: spin the bottle and walk in whatever direction fate fancied.

The first thing we wandered into was a street full of homeless people.  Their home, a shelter made of cardboard or anything to provide a little privacy when they needed solitude. In front of their home, people sat on thin mats selling whatever they could — clothes, bits of metal, objects whose original purpose had long since retired. Craig was in absolute heaven, crouching down, pointing, offering theories with great authority. Could be a tool. Could be religious. Could be part of a blender. I nodded wisely, contributing nothing.

A little further on, the street changed personality entirely and became devoted to one thing only: enormous Buddha statues and monks’ supplies. Golden figures lined the pavement like they were waiting for a bus. The fasting Buddha stopped me, as it always does — all ribs and restraint, serene and unsettling in equal measure. 

Just after Buddha Alley, we stumbled across an old teak house — beautifully ornate, carved within an inch of its life, and offering tea and cakes in a charming Thai‑meets‑English sort of way. It felt less like a café and more like a house that had politely refused to move on with the rest of the city.  Craig knows my weak spot (cake), and immediately became adamant that I should “have a little something.” The lady behind the counter lit up when she thought we’d both be having tea and cake. Bless her optimism. Craig is many things, but a “tea and cake” man he is not.

We perused the selection and chose the green one — pistachio, we guessed. We sat down elegantly, like two people about to enjoy a refined afternoon treat. My first bite.

A mouthful of dust and chocolate sponge with the flavour profile of damp seaweed. Somehow both stale and aggressive. I smiled bravely, nodding as if it were perfectly acceptable. 

It was awful.

Then, because I refuse to suffer alone, I insisted Craig share. 

He took a generous bite and did not hold back, producing a string of nouns that all began with “what the f—”. The lady beamed. I swallowed hard and finished my tea.

Lunch was at our favourite little café, Grand Palace Cafe— our third visit, which officially makes us regulars in our own minds. Same plastic chairs. Same gentle chaos. Same quiet satisfaction of knowing exactly what to order without pointing. I asked Craig, “How’s your rice?” He gave me a strange look and ignored me. I asked again. He burst out laughing. He thought I’d said, “How’s your arse?”

After lunch, we stumbled — almost by accident — into Wat Suthat. One minute you’re dodging traffic and street sellers, the next you’re standing inside something vast and calm, red pillars rising like giants and murals quietly getting on with being beautiful. It doesn’t shout for attention. Which somehow makes it even better.

By now my feet had formally resigned. So we wobbled back to the river, caught a boat to ICONSIAM, and made a beeline for Skechers. Arch Fit sandals. Immediate, almost emotional relief. We’d tried to find them in the UK, but buying sandals in winter is like asking for sunscreen in December — people look at you as if you’ve misunderstood time itself. Bangkok, however, understands urgency.

On the ground floor, and because the day still wasn’t finished with us — we spotted a huge sausage dog. Not a balloon. Not a mascot. A stall was proudly displaying what can only be described as a 30-foot dachshund called Summer, stretched out like it had simply given up. It was excellent.

Summer was asleep, but not convincingly so. Her chest gently rose and fell. One ear twitched. There was something faintly unsettling about a dog that large appearing so peaceful, like a benign sea creature washed up in a shopping mall. Apparently it’s a hot craze from Korea, which explains nothing but feels like enough of an answer.

Outside ICONSIAM, our timing was perfect. The daily fountain and light show erupted just as we stepped out — water jets leaping and twisting in over‑enthusiastic choreography, lights flashing as if auditioning for someone important. Shoppers stopped. Phones came out. Children stared. It was gloriously unnecessary and completely captivating.

From fountains and giant sleeping sausage dog, we stepped straight onto the 6:05 river ferry — a public boat, slightly battered, faintly damp, costing about 75p. No cocktails. No jazz soundtrack. Just plastic seats, a few locals heading home, and two very pleased pensioners who’d accidentally booked the best cruise in Bangkok.

As the boat pulled away, the sky began doing that thing where Bangkok suddenly decides to show off. The river slowed, the air cooled, and everything turned gold, then orange, then something softer and harder to name. Wat Arun appeared ahead of us, glowing as if lit from within, catching the sunset like it had planned the whole thing. Nearby, dinner cruises hovered, stacked with people paying serious money to sip warm prosecco. We drifted past for pocket change, quietly smug. 

No commentary. No music. Just the thrum of the engine, the slap of water against the hull, and the city easing itself into evening. For 75p, it was flawless. Easily the best sunset of the trip so far — and certainly the cheapest.

Back at the hotel we had dinner and a beer, then reluctantly accepted that tomorrow we fly to Cambodia. Bags needed packing. Brains needed switching off.

The hotel deserves a final mention. Location: a solid 10 out of 10. The staff, service and food have been genuinely excellent. The room itself is spotless, but the building is tired, like a once-handsome man refusing to moisturise. Our key card has failed every single day. Each time, reception are mortified, reprogramming it with great ceremony. Sometimes it works. Mostly it doesn’t. Apparently the owner knows. Apparently the owner is tight.

I believe it’s snowing at home. Proper snow. The kind that shuts down motorways and conversation. Sadly — tragically — it was still a very pleasant 32 degrees here.

Bangkok, as ever, knew exactly what it was doing.