You’d be hard-pressed to catch a sunset pint on Vietnam’s east-facing coast,
but East West’s beachside location is a desirable alternative, allowing for stellar
views of the candy floss clouds as they catch the last of the golden hour light
from the west.

After dark, the open-air space allows for ample viewing of the first twinkle of stars
in the twilight, and the light of the Son Tra peninsula’s Lady Buddha statue,
which comes aglow at night.

It’s like the perfect place for craft beer hipsters and their gorgeous Instagram partners.

More to the point, it’s the perfect place to sit and watch the world go by
with a delicious pint of just-poured ale.

The Far East IPA

During our three weeks in Da Nang, constantly hot, sticky and looking for somewhere
to cool down whilst also coincidentally staying in an apartment just metres away
from the brewery, we managed to sample our fair share of their goods.

But let’s talk about the main event. The showstopper. The pièce de résistance:

The Far East IPA.

We absolutely could not get enough of the stuff. Even on those days we slipped
into the venue under the guise of “oh we’ll just have one, won’t we?” we ended
up walking (stumbling) out, clutching four-packs of Far East IPA to our chests.

It’s a potent brew with an ABV of 6.7%, but it’s sweet, fruity and dangerously moreish.
The abundant maltiness can be seen before it’s tasted, in the thick, off-white head
that takes on the amber-orange hue of the body.

If it’s a beer that absorbs light when you look through the glass, like a black hole
gobbling up the rays of the sun, it’s a beer with my name on it — and that’s exactly
what we got in the Far East IPA.

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All of this amber goodness enjoyed against the soft light of a balmy Da Nang evening.
It’s enough to keep anyone coming back.

My only grudge with this wonderful venue would have to be the food.
It’s an extensive menu that’s certainly on the pricier side for Vietnam,
and when served, it leaves much to be desired.

But hey, you can’t have it all, and what East West lacks in culinary expertise,
it absolutely makes up for in hoppy delight.

The Wildcard: The Summer Hefeweizen

Let’s take a moment to discuss the East West Brewing Summer Hefeweizen.

She’s juice, she’s zest, she’s the tropics in a glass.

I mean… how inviting is that

I am a huge advocate for beer that tastes like an ale and a sparkling citrus presse
had a baby — without that horrible metallic aftertaste that comes with some sours.

The hefeweizen really is all that, and more.

It comes in at a relatively low IBU of 20, but packs a punch with an ABV of 5.9%.
Just enough strength to balance out the sweetness.

East West Brewing has a great selection of high-quality beer that just kept us
coming back.

I was transfixed by the flashing lights, neon signs all written in the same iconic fonts and small cafes, still pulsing with life and serving coffee into the small hours of the morning. I’d never seen a city like it. Even past midnight, shattered from travel, I was itching to explore.

That would have to wait, though.

We landed late, delayed and exhausted, ready to collapse into a comfy bed. It was my first time in Vietnam, and while I’d done my research, nothing could’ve prepared me for actually living it.

After a quick trip from the airport, our taxi driver expertly zipping between more motorbikes than I knew existed on the face of the earth, we arrived at our hotel.

Fun fact: as of 2024, there were 77 million registered motorbikes on the streets of Vietnam. That’s one bike for over three-quarters of the population.

At least, we thought we’d arrived.

We were dropped outside an inconspicuous little building, paint peeling off the walls with no obvious sign of an entrance, just a Skinny Little Alleyway that I wasn’t entirely convinced my 20-kilogram backpack would fit through.

After a brief investigation, a consult with Google Maps, and a few stern words of tired frustration exchanged between Ramiro and me, it became clear that the inconspicuous little building with paint peeling off the walls was, in fact, not our hotel, and my 20 kilogram backpack would simply have to fit down aforementioned Skinny Little Alleyway.

So we squeezed through, our battered backpacks scraping the walls, and emerged into a sensory explosion of local Vietnamese culture.

It was like stepping into the Weasley’s enchanted tent in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

I was overwhelmed by the sounds and smells: locals throwing herbs into steaming bowls of phở, barefoot children splashing about in small puddles in the uneven paving, elderly people dozing in worn armchairs by their windows.

Reminder: it was past midnight. But everything was still just so… alive.

So, we began our traverse down the Skinny Little Alleyway. We were met with toothy grins and friendly nods. One group crowded around a table on blue plastic stools yelled ‘Welcome to Vietnam!,’ and collapsed into laughter when we replied ‘Cảm ơn!’ (Thanks in Vietnamese).

Then came the roar of an engine behind us.

I thought I was experiencing some kind of exhaustion-induced illusion because, as far as I could see, there was no way in or out of this Skinny Little Alleyway other than the Skinny Little way we came in.

Imagine my shock when I turned around to see a trio of motorbikes ploughing towards us.

“Well, how’s this going to work, then?” I asked Ramiro as we pressed our backpack-clad backs to the wall.

But sure enough, right before our very eyes, they zipped skilfully past, their handles barely a hair’s breadth from clipping us before zooming off into the night.

Dumbfounded, questions rattled around in my exhaustion-addled brain. How did those scooters even get in here? How do parents keep their kids safe from bikes when they’re playing in the street? Is it even legal to ride a motorbike down a pedestrian street like this?

I was perplexed, shaken, and ready to save the exploring until the next day.

Whilst the rest of our trek down the Skinny Little Alleyway was largely uninterrupted, I probably should have realised that this would be the start of things to come.

Sure enough, when we stepped out of our hotel the next morning, refreshed and ready to explore, the first thing we heard was the unrelenting honking of horns and the roar of engines tearing up and down the Skinny Little Alleyway.

We quickly realised that surviving the chaos of Ho Chi Minh City would require some careful maneuvering, an abundance of patience, and the serious ability to keep our wits about us.

We had a wonderful time exploring, and if you’re planning a trip, we’re sure you will too. Just keep our survival tips in mind when navigating the lawless labyrinth that is Saigon…

Survival Tip #1: make like Five and Keep on Movin’

And seriously, baby, take a good look around…

Crossing any road in Vietnam seems to be a tourist’s rite of passage.

Zebra crossings are purely decorative. If you wait at one, you’ll be waiting your whole damn life. No-one is stopping to let you cross.

If you cross with the green man, you’ll likely be walking to your death. Traffic light colours seem to be a suggestion rather than a rule.

Nope, you have to step into the road with the confidence of a primary school lollipop lady, hold out a hand to the oncoming traffic and just walk.

Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk and don’t stop until you reach the other side.

We learnt quickly that stopping or hesitating at any point could swiftly lead to our demise, as the motorbikes seem to multiply like the Lernaean Hydra: get past one, 5 more appear.

The more roads we crossed, the more we realised: the traffic will just flow around us. Hesitating in the middle of the road just confuses the drivers and increases the risk of accident.

Drivers anticipate your movements, so keep your wits about you and maintain a steady pace. You’ll be right as rain.

Survival Tip #2: Oh well, the pavements are safe, right? WRONG.

You’d think it, wouldn’t you? The slabs of concrete laid down specifically for the purpose of being walked on might create a safe haven for the weary, overwhelmed tourist.

Unfortunately not.

It’s common to see motorbikes mounting pavements. Some even drive straight towards you like they might run you off the path. They’re not. Most of the time they’re just looking for a parking spot or rejoining the road, but it can still feel a little confronting for those of us who have grown up in places where pedestrians have priority.

Often there’s no room for pedestrians on the pavement at all. Bikes park perpendicular across the pavements, leaving pedestrians no choice but to step back into the chaos of the road.

The chances of being hurt whilst walking tight to the pavement are slim, but it’s best to proceed with caution. Use the pavement wherever possible and just have a good awareness of what’s going on around you.

Survival Tip #3: Leave. The. Headphones. At. Home

Whilst Vietnamese is, of course, the most widely spoken language in Vietnam, I think the language of the motor vehicle horn comes a close second.

We lost count of the number of times a lone car has blared its horn with no visible reason why.

Of course, we don’t claim to know the ‘why’ behind every honk, beep and hoot, particularly not in a country where it’s such common practice, but we’d be lying if we said it didn’t perplex us now and again

Due to the lack of traffic control in the city, it seems that honking is a way for drivers to let people know they’re around or approaching, which comes in very handy as a pedestrian if you’re hidden around a sharp corner.

It was only after - foolishly - going for a solo walk with the Sonys on that I realised how much I actually depended on my sense of sound. The once-grating honking quickly turned into a comfort blanket I didn’t know I needed.

So, maybe put the headphones on to quiet the chaos, but for the love of God, avoid blasting the One Direction throwbacks (guilty) until you’re safely indoors.

Honestly, it just took a bit of getting used to. It was a matter of days before we became adept at pressing ourselves into the walls of our Skinny Little Alleyway, and crossing the roads truly became easier every time.

Sữa cafe is part of the Ong Vang charity project which in the past 7 years, has built 13 schools and provided food and clothing to impoverished communities in Hoi An. A portion of the profits from the cafe goes directly towards funding this effort.

After experiencing the peak of Vietnam’s coffee culture in the chaos of Ho Chi Minh City, where cafes on every corner serve their potent, sugary nectar until the early hours of the morning, a Vietnamese coffee tasting experience was high on our list as we continued our journey into the country’s central region.

Being the world’s second largest producer of coffee, I’m sure there are cafes all over the country that would provide a wonderful, comprehensive coffee making and tasting class. But the experience provided at Sữa cafe was truly unique, and learning about the cafe’s cause made our visit all the more special.

It was a hands-on, laughter-filled morning that left us trembling with the caffeine shakes.

We sampled four coffees during our experience. After spending our time in Saigon with egg-foam moustaches dancing on our top lips, I was convinced we’d walk away proclaiming the famed Vietnamese egg coffee our top choice.

But to my surprise, I fell head-over-heels for coconut coffee instead.

We stood at a blender, pulsing together the thick, sugary concoction of coconut milk, condensed milk and ice, before dumping it into a freshly brewed pot of robusta goodness. It was coffee and dessert rolled into one, and I knew from the first sip that I’d never be going back to normal coffee again.

As somewhat of a history buff, I appreciated the historical facts scattered throughout our coffee making experience. We learnt about the history of egg coffee, which was invented in 1940s Hanoi due to a milk shortage, and also about the production ethics of such a big coffee industry.

It was such an enriching session that we actually bought two of the Vietnamese phin drip filters to take with us on the rest of our journey.

They look like miniature cup-and-saucer sets: a small bowl with filter holes sits atop a small plate, also with filter holes. After putting the ground coffee inside the bowl, another metal filter sits on top. Water is poured over, and the lid is placed on top. Then, you wait. Seven minutes is the recommended time to allow all the coffee to drip through.

Another personal highlight for me (and I was devastated we didn’t have the opportunity to purchase one of these to go along with the phins) was using the pump-style hand whisks the Vietnamese use to froth their coffee.

Imagine those tiny coffee frothers you find in most Western households these days, but make it manual. I’ve searched high and low to buy one since, and I won’t rest until I do.

At the end of our session, we were taken over to a table scattered with scraps of fabric stretched over small wooden triangles. A deaf staff member guided us through the surprise activity: crafting traditional Vietnamese lanterns, much like the ones that famously drift along the Hoai river every evening.

I’m unsure what the differentiator was, but from the whole cohort who did the coffee tasting, it was just Ramiro and I who sat down to make the lanterns, which was a really nice, personal experience to have with the staff. It was also nice to have a little memento to take away from our absolute favourite day in Vietnam.

You know the drill of an overseas excursion: eyes drooping with exhaustion, skin itching for a shower, waiting with bated breath as the van pulled up outside hotel after hotel, just praying it would finally be your turn to get off.

We’d come from a day of exploring in the Thai jungle. We signed up for waterfall trekking, but I think the excursion we got was, in fact, waterfall bouldering, based on the precarious, questionable ‘paths’ we were navigating with nothing but a worn, tired bamboo stick for support.

Our teeth chattered as we huddled together beneath the icy blast of the van’s air conditioning, our clothes soaked through from our waterfall frolic and Chiang Mai’s rainy season downpours. Ramiro levelled a look at me:

“Food. Shower. Bed.” He gritted out, huffing a sigh of relief as the van finally arrived at our apartment.

Rain battered the pavement in heavy, loaded droplets that might bruise if you weren’t careful. Normally, I’d be quick on my feet, darting off to find shelter. But what would’ve been the point? We were soaked to the skin already.

The 7-Eleven just a few paces from our apartment glowed in a warm, inviting welcome. I could practically taste the ham-and-cheese toastie with my name written all over it.

So, clutching our belongings to our chests to shield them from the downpour, we squelched our way across the slippery pavement. We splashed through puddles and dodged the torrents that cascaded from the restaurant awnings. ‘You want waterfalls? We’ll give you waterfalls,’ they seemed to jeer.

But that was when we stopped.

Just outside a small, family-run restaurant, steam billowed from a large boiling pot. Chicken skewers sizzled atop a flame grill and periodically rotated by a young Thai woman with braces, who used her other hand and the majority of her attention to scroll her phone.

Suddenly, the need for a hot meal was overwhelming.

Seeking refuge under the awning of the small, Chiang Mai street food stand, I called out to Ramiro, who already had one leg inside the 7-Eleven, poised to pick out his snacks for the evening.

With an eye roll and yet another huff, he shuffled back over to me, taking care not to slip on the tiled floor outside the store.

“How do you fancy a nice, warm takeaway instead?” I asked (already knowing, of course, that I’d be getting my own way).

So we perused the menu: a veritable melee of soups, curries and other traditional Thai fare. But it was the Northern Thai staple that drew us in.

Khao Soi is a rich noodle soup with a curry-style broth, made with coconut milk. It’s simmered with chilli and other whole spices, and served with chopped pickles and shallots, but the thing that makes the dish truly iconic is the nest of deep fried egg noodles that sit atop the tender, fall-apart meat.

I remembered a nugget of wisdom from the taxi driver who brought us from the airport:

“If the restaurant doesn’t serve beef khao soi, their chef can’t cook. Chicken is easy. The beef takes generations to perfect.”

So imagine my disappointment when I asked for the beef and was met with a shake of the head: ‘Sold out, sold out.’

On any other day, I might have walked away.

But not that day.

That day had been a challenge. That day had tested me enough, and I wasn’t about to drag it out even further for the sake of my protein source.

So, against my better judgement, I settled for the chicken.

‘Inside! Inside! Rain!’ ushered an older lady from the restaurant, waving us over to a table, despite our dripping raincoats and the stinky, mud-caked trainers dangling from our hands.

Grateful for the respite, we collapsed into chairs near the door.

Truth be told, I was feeling desperately impatient.

I was expecting a ladle of soup slopped into a takeaway container and pressed into my hands so that I could be speedily on my way, but we were simply too far gone.

And so we waited.

Just as I readied myself to send Ramiro back to 7-Eleven to grab some intermediary snacks, a hefty bag full of thick, brown broth and boxed noodles landed with a clunk onto our table.

Then came our most challenging trek of the day: back to the apartment.

Just as we were about to turn the corner, a small voice rang through the thunder:

“Ma’am, Ma’am! Come back! I forgot to give you the chicken...”

I might’ve been annoyed, if I hadn’t turned around to see this sweet, little old woman, standing out in the rain, shaking a box of chicken at us.

It took a second to process. Then, laughing in exhausted disbelief, we dashed back through the rain to meet her..

Bowing with her hands clasped together, she apologised profusely for the mistake.

And so we plodded along, our belongings and our now-complete takeaway in a precarious balancing act in our weary arms, everything threatening to spill onto the floor at the slightest wrong move.

It felt like an eternity, but it didn’t take long before we were back in the comfort of our apartment. Breathing a sigh of relief, we allowed all of our belongings to crash to the floor. All, of course, except the golden nectar that was our chicken Khao Soi.

Rushing to the kitchen counter, we set the boxes down and got to work unpacking, our nimble fingers working quickly to untie the knots and elastic bands wrapped around the various takeaway bags.

It actually looked like a bit of a hot mess. Soft egg noodles were tangled together like fishing wire, swimming inside a big, curry-soup ocean, with a single chicken drumstick dumped on top of a thorny nest of fried noodles.

Still, I clutched my fork and got to work.

Peeling off my raincoat seemed like a profound waste of time as I slumped onto the sofa, the takeaway container warming my rain-wrinkled hands.

From the first bite of that chicken, I knew it had been simmering away for hours.

Ginger and cardamom danced together in a perfectly rehearsed waltz, led by the star of the show: lemongrass.

If Ramiro was talking to me, I certainly couldn’t hear him. Every fibre of my being was focussed on that plastic container of Khao Soi.

Exhaustion saved me from missing out on one of the greatest culinary experiences of my life.

https://www.google.com/maps/embed?pb=!1m18!1m12!1m3!1d3777.465820636252!2d98.99683347527922!3d18.77738286127919!2m3!1f0!2f0!3f0!3m2!1i1024!2i768!4f13.1!3m3!1m2!1s0x30da310062659f71%3A0x6a1dae0691b300d7!2z4LmA4LiV4Li14LmL4Lii4LinIOC4quC4seC5iOC4hyDguKHguLHguJnguYTguIHguYg!5e0!3m2!1sen!2sth!4v1750155857717!5m2!1sen!2sth

The place in question is called เตี๋ยว สั่ง มันไก่, which roughly translates to ‘Order Noodles, Chicken Fat.’

Crystal clear water that stretches as far and deep as the eye can see, in the shadow of jungle-covered mountain peaks and limestone cliff faces that make you feel like you’re in Jurassic Park.

Knowing our money has to go a long way, we’ve said ‘no’ to a lot since we started our trip. But when I found a trip out to Khao Sok national park that offered a floating bungalow atop the sapphire lake with food and activities included, all for just £60 each, I thought we’d be daft not to.

Kayaks outside the floating bungalows at Khao Sok National Park

It didn’t take long after embarking to realise that you really do get what you pay for.

Our experience felt like an organisational mess from start to finish.

Hordes of people were piled onto minivans, all being told different things about what to do with their luggage. Some arrived at their assigned minivans to find no seat for them, but when we did eventually set off, the drive was probably the smoothest part of the trip.

When we got to the ferry terminal, it became apparent that this was not the all-inclusive experience we thought it was.

Rather than making our way down the pier and straight onto the longboats, the aforementioned hordes of people (we’re talking between 60 and 80 of us) were instructed that they’d need to queue to purchase a National Park entry ticket and a pier cleaning levy.

What ensued was a continuation of the organisational chaos I previously mentioned. We were crammed into the small, open-air terminal in the pouring rain, all wondering how there wasn’t a smoother system in place. Looking around, ours were not the only disgruntled faces.

The overall vibe from the massive group was clear: most of us would’ve gladly paid a little more to have the fees included, avoiding the rain-soaked carnage. We weren’t off to a particularly good start.

After waiting in queues (twice) and finally paying our fees, we made it onto the longboats.

And that journey was an experience in itself.

We were pressed shoulder to shoulder with the other guests, all of us crammed together with our baggage piled high down the middle of the boat, so much so that I wondered at how we even stayed afloat amidst the downpour.

Now, I know that no one can control the weather and the torrential downpour could not be helped, but it truly was so heavy that it really compromised the safety of the trip. Ramiro actually looked at me and said, “This should’ve been cancelled.” But we were already in the middle of the lake, too far gone to change our minds.

At one point, the rain became so intense that we literally could not see the almighty, towering cliff faces just metres in front of us. How the driver got us there in one piece really is anyone’s guess.

This, coupled with the precarious rocking back and forth of the boat that had my stomach churning, really set the ‘profit before people’ tone for the rest of the trip.

@therelocationchronicles I guess what they say is true: you do get what you pay for x Click the link in our bio to read the full storayyyyyyy x #thailandtravel #khaosok#khaosoknationalpark #budgettravel #floatingbungalow #therelocationchronicles ♬ Summer - Wiliam Show

Our floating bungalow reality check

When we arrived at the bungalows, freezing, traumatised and soaked to the skin, the lunch spread was laid out ready for us, which would’ve been great had the canteen area not already been stuffed with people waiting to disembark from the previous day’s trip. Finding a seat in the crowded room was near impossible, and it became quickly apparent that there wasn’t enough space on the pontoon to accommodate the constant turnover of guests. Again: profit before people.

When we did eventually get seated, however, the food was warm, fresh and delicious. We were treated to a feast of various curries, tempura veggies and fresh tropical fruits like watermelon and pineapple. A small glimmer of hope amidst the chaos that maybe, when the storm had calmed down and the prior cohort had departed, things might get back on track.

Wishful thinking. Very, very wishful thinking.

The traverse to our little wooden bungalow was along a narrow, overwater walkway covered with artificial turf. Traversing the slippery, unstable path felt like an episode of Total Wipeout, the way the structure undulated with each step we took, and it also appeared that the plastic grass had been laid down to cover holes in the wooden floor beneath. A couple of slips nearly had us tumbling into the depths.

But we made it eventually, and were thrilled to enter the bungalow to find holes in both the floor and the ceiling.

“Well, why didn’t you say something?” I hear you ask. “How do you expect them to fix it if you don’t tell them the problem?”

Valid. But by this point, we were beyond done.

Looking back on the trip, I realise that we didn’t even have an actual interaction with a member of staff during the whole stay. I wouldn’t even have known who to approach. From start to finish, it had just been listening for our names to be called out or blindly following the crowd. So any hope of getting our issues rectified was slim.

And so, the countdown began. Not the days, not the hours, but the actual minutes until we could get the hell out of there. Even after spending a couple of hours frolicking around in the blue water, cruising along in our kayak and just taking in the gorgeous scenery, time seemed to move backwards.

The trip included three mini-excursions out to explore caves and hike in the National Park, all departing on the longboats we came in on. But it would have to be a cold, cold day in hell before I set foot in one of those rickety rafts again (unless it was to escape, of course).

And so we stayed behind, along with a few others, whilst the rest braved the weather to explore. Having the lake to ourselves, listening to the birds and watching the low-lying clouds drift between the mountain peaks was my favourite part of the trip. I could’ve floated in the endless depths forever, had I been given the chance, but my dreams were shattered when I heard the abrasive hum of the longboat motors returning in the distance.

Overall, we were left feeling disappointed.

It was clear that the trip had the potential to be something absolutely fantastic, and I do put a lot of our negative experience down to adverse weather conditions. But had the sun been shining and the water still, the organisational chaos would’ve remained and we still would never have encountered a single member of crew, so there’s only so far that we can scapegoat the weather.

Had we been a little bit younger, in our backpacking prime and with a bit more in common with the other guests (who were all about five years our junior), I think we could well have taken things in our stride. Even now, I can see the funny side of the whole experience, but this has been a big lesson in the fact that you really do get what you pay for in life, and if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

NB: The purpose of this writing is not to inspire or infer meaning. This is an experimental style that retells my dreams as I remember them and as they happen. For this reason, the publication of these pieces is highly sporadic and may lack cohesion to an irritating degree. This is not the home of beginning, middle and end stories. This is the home of tales that represent the mysterious complexity of the human subconscious. Enjoy them but please, for the sake of my sanity and your own, don’t overthink them.

I met her once, a very, very long time ago.

There’s an image, boxed up in the back of my mind, hiding out beneath a hazy layer that’s slowly beginning to dissipate. It shows us intoxicated. Mud splattered across our faces, struggling to stay on our feet as we boogied the night away, welly boots suctioned by the thick mud caking the rain-sodden field.

I hardly imagined our paths would cross again.

I shift in my seat, stealing awkward glances as tears fall down her cheeks. It’s too uncomfortable. Too personal. We laugh together, dance together. That’s the nature of our acquaintance. The nature of the hour we spent in each other’s company all those years ago, before I bumped into her in a tiny little watering hole in the middle of nowhere. We don’t share tears. Condolences. A shoulder to cry on.

A taut tightrope stretches between our gazes as our eyes lock, her end thick and heavy where it’s soaked up the unrelenting cascade of tears. In search of some slack–an ease to the tension–I turn my gaze to the drink in front of me. I idly swirl my straw in the syrupy liquid, stirring up a potent, clinical stench that tickles its way into my nostrils as beads of condensation gather and trickle down the side of the glass.

I take great interest in the decor lining the whitewashed walls and exposed wooden beams of the pub ceiling, too. My eyes dance over the thick cords of rope that choke the interfacing, and the faded, yellowing posters that are strewn haphazardly on the walls. It’s everything I love about classic pub interiors, actually. Everything I love about grabbing a quiet drink. Alone.

The loud ding of my phone slashes the tightrope in two, leaving me free falling through the tension. It’s a welcome free fall, though. Like being confident in the bungee cord that has me tied to the platform above. “It’s my little sister,” I tell the almost-stranger. “She’s here to pick me up.”

Leaving my drink to stagnate on the sticky table, I snatch up my coat and wrap it tightly around myself, bounding towards the door. My heart goes out to her. It really does. But I’m not her person, and she’s not mine. What she needs, I can’t give her, so I’m going on my way. How do you console a person you hardly know?

My hair whips at my face as I cross the threshold, and I squint against the bright, white sky, scanning the car park. Immediately, I spot my sister’s car. I throw open the door and slide easily into the seat, my woes of mere moments ago forgotten as a wide, cheesy grin lights up my face.

“Long time no see!” I laugh as I throw my arms around my little sister. She hugs me back, but her grip is loose around my body. It’s a halfhearted hug. Cold. Empty. My smile dims.

“Everything okay?” I ask, pulling back to look at her.

“Mhm,” she nods, with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and eyes that won’t reach mine.

Wordlessly, she puts the car into gear and pulls out of the carpark. I sit back in my seat, squirming nervously, unable to get my hands comfortable in my lap. The traffic is steady as we cruise along, but the silence is palpable. Not even the hum of the radio to cut through the atmosphere.

“So…” I begin, scratching around in the deep pits of my brain for something, anything, that might ease us into polite conversation. “...how have you been?”

Keeping her eyes on the road, her mouth stays shut. Not even a sideways glance to acknowledge that she heard me. A flicker of something dances on her lips, but it’s gone as quick as it arrived. Annoyance? Pity? Reading her never used to be this difficult.

I turn away and press my forehead against the cold glass of the window, watching as the houses zipping past blur under the foggy condensation of my breath. I don’t know where we’re going or why we’re going there, but I do know that I need this journey to be over.

We trundle on in silence, until the flick and ‘click, click, click’ of the indicator permeates the close atmosphere and the car rolls to a gentle halt

Confusion blankets my features as I look out of the window, my brows furrowing incredulously. I know this place very, very well. Like the back of my hand, in fact. The memories of flying down this hill on my bicycle are etched on my skin in the white craters of scars that dot my forehead and knees. We grew up around here, back when it was me and her against the world.

“What are we doing here?” I ask as she yanks her handbrake up and turns to face me. “Why didn’t we just go to yours?”

She remains wordless as she turns and holds my eye, but there’s that flicker again, and it’s not so hard to read this time. It’s a knowing look that dances somewhere on the line that separates smugness and pity. She scans my features slowly, ponderously, like every thought I’ve ever had and everything I’ve ever done is etched across my face. Then slowly, casually, like she’s got all the time in the world, she opens the door and steps out of the car. Exasperated, I follow.

The road is lined with terraced houses that graduate up the hill, crammed in so tightly they almost appear to be piled one on top of the other. Each pair share a patch of grass that gobbles up twin trails of grey paving stones, leading to individual front doors. She beelines for the one glossed in a deep forest green, patched with crevices where the paint has peeled and been painted over again. There’s no number on the door, just a weathered brass knocker and a hand-painted sign on a tired-looking piece of wood that reads ‘Welcome to Sandstone Avenue.’

I pull my coat tighter around me in an attempt to fight the chill as I follow her up the path, my short strides struggling to keep up with her long ones. She lifts the knocker and raps hard before folding her arms across her chest and hopping lightly from one foot to the other. She still feels the cold. Some things never change. I open my mouth to say as much, but she beats me to it.

“You’ll be sleeping here tonight,” she tells me, bluntly.

“What?” I reply, scrunching my face up in confusion. She eyes me for a moment before turning away and banging the knocker once more without replying.

“But.. you live five minutes away from here. You literally have a spare bedroom. Why can’t I just stay with you?”

She ignores me again.

After a third knock and no answer, she simply pushes the door open and heads inside. I hesitate before following her.

The door opens up into what is clearly supposed to be a living room, but it’s not like any living room I’ve ever seen before. The room is sliced in two by a glass cabinet like the kind you may find in a jeweller’s, only it’s utterly empty and tragically soulless. It sits around waist high and a cash register has been placed in the middle. The manual kind with the buttons that echo that of a typewriter and a display that resembles the screen of a calculator. On the far edge of the counter is an iridescent, glass bowl–a glass bowl that looks like it’s been sculpted after a child’s drawing of an alien space ship. A small circle inside a large, wide disc.

The chesterfield sofa pushed beneath the window looks like it had been a rich, forest green once. Once upon a time, it belonged in a library, nestled between mahogany bookshelves under the soft glow of an amber reading lamp, inviting its guests to pause for a moment. To relax amongst the soft cushions and luxurious leather as they lose themselves in a better world than this one.

Years of use and exposure to sunlight has seen to that, though. The once-supple yet sturdy cushions can’t carry weight like they used to, and the leather is creased with folds like the wrinkles of a great-grandmother.

“You’ll be sleeping here tonight,” Lara repeats, pulling me from my incredulous analysis of the room. “It’s an AirBnB, but I know the people that own it. They’re nice. You ought to get them a little gift or something to say thanks for having you.”

Watching her move is like observing a piece of the furniture. Without a care or a thought, she tosses her car keys into the bowl on the counter before shuffling her way behind it and leafing through some papers that are lying on the desk against the far wall. It seems she’s more familiar here than she is with me.

I get back to my noseying around. More glass cabinets are pressed flush against the left and right walls, taller than the divider in the middle of the room, floor to ceiling almost, and stuffed to the brim with a random assortment of trophies and trinkets. Expensive looking wine bottles lie on beds of purple and silver tulle alongside sachets of herbs and jars of raw honey of a variety of shapes and sizes like an anachronistic farm shop serving its artisanal fare. The cabinet next to it boasts rows and rows of strange looking statuettes, all decorated with a thick layer of fluffy, grey dust that dulls the glinting light of the laughing Buddha’s gemstone eyes and fills in the chips that are sprinkled across the ivory elephant’s pointy tusks. It’s a museum of someone’s mind, I can see. A rare glimpse into the life of a stranger, afforded to me by my own little sister, who can barely stand to look at me.

Heeding her advice, I gingerly open the door to the glass cabinet–the one containing the wine–and wrap my hand around a bottle of red. The cool glass of the bottle bites at my fingers, and I let the door close with a soft clatter that has her head snapping up to look at me. An uncomfortable chuckle bubbles its way through my lips and I give her a soft smile that’s meant to say yep… still the same, clumsy ol’ Weezy. Her choice to not return the smile tells me she didn’t get the message.

I open my mouth again to ask if we can talk, shout, cry, anything that will explain her attitude, cold and immovable like a snow-sprinkled rock face, when the front door clatters open again. Without hesitation, she throws herself around the counter and into the arms of a woman I’ve never seen before, who wraps her in a warm embrace.

A chocolate pixie cut frames the woman’s well-defined face, like arrows pointing to her high cheekbones and sharp jaw. Her lips are stained with a bright mauve that does nothing for her skintone, but she possesses an ethereal kind of beauty all the same. My sister releases her slender frame and they both turn to look at me, calculated and assessing.

My gaze flicks between the two, searching for clues. Who is she? How does she know my sister? Why am I here?

But they yield nothing.

The tightrope grows taught again, only this time it’s not a stranger pulling the other side, soaking the end with her unrelenting tears. It’s my own sister. This tension, this tightrope, it’s our coming together and our undoing. It’s the bridge between us, the only line of communication open that might help us to repair this fracture, this rift.

Only it’s not tears she’s using to soak the end. It’s petrol. And her friend is holding the match.

“Thank you for doing this,” she whispers to the lady, turning to face her again.

And just like that, the tightrope goes up in flames, singing, frying, scorching, burning my very soul from the inside out with the white-hot realisation that she’s given up on me. That she’s going to walk away from here and I’ll never see her again.

The lady gives her a warm smile and squeezes her shoulders. “Don’t mention it,” she replies. “It’s the least I could do.”

The lady turns to me now, and I can see that flicker again–the one I saw on Lara’s face when we were getting out of the car. Just two sides of the same coin. A coin I’ve tossed against my will that seems to be deciding my fate.

“May I show you to your room?”

This flash piece was based on the following page written in my dream diary from Tuesday 10th February.

“In a pub drinking alone at a bar. Suddenly I meet [redacted] (Parklife festival). There we talk and have a DMC where [redacted] reveals [redacted]. I say I need to leave and then [my sister] comes and picks me up and takes me to sandstone ave airbnb. I say ‘why can’t I just stay at yours?’ and she shrugs like she doesn’t want to argue but says she knows the people who own the airbnb. We go in and it’s basically [redacted]’s flat. There’s a shop at the start where I can buy snacks, flowers and ornaments. I go to buy something to say thank you for having me but then realise [the airbnb/shop owner]’s probably turning a profit so I don’t. I’m settling in then a woman and her son come in and cry when they see Lara, gushing and hugging together.”

NB: The very nature of dreams is that they are random, nonsensical snapshots of the subconscious. Where information has been redacted, it is likely personal information about people I know or have met in real life that I have been careful to avoid in the story itself.

Our week in Tulamben, however, showed us that we still have a lot of marine exploration to do.

I almost regret that we took our SSI Open Water Diver course in Tulamben, home to the USAT Liberty wreck, which has lain dormant at the bottom of the ocean since 1963, more than 21 years after it was torpedoed by the Japanese Navy.

Almost, but not quite.

Simply put, the Liberty is a sprawling underwater metropolis like nothing I’ve ever seen before. How can any dive we embark on in the future stand a chance at competing?

The rusted, skeletal remains of the ship have been overtaken by colonies of vibrant, intricate coral, home to an array of marine life, from nudibranchs to nemo himself.

Resting on a diagonal on the seafloor, the 120-metre-long body of the ship allows for scuba diving depths of anywhere from five to 30 metres. We were blessed with crystal clear visibility, calm water and hardly any other divers for our first dive of the week.

It would be unfair to proceed without recognising the fact that our experience would not have been the same without the wonderful team at Scuba Tribe Tulamben.

We were truly looked after from the moment we arrived until the moment we left. Our instructor for the week, Theo, was incredibly flexible with our lessons, rearranging our schedule on the days we weren’t feeling great and ensuring we were completely at ease with being in the water before progressing to deeper dives.

The Balinese staff at the resort were also incredible: some of the kindest, friendliest people we’ve encountered. From the dive master who accompanied us on our fun dive to the guys working in the restaurant, everyone we came across had a huge smile on their face and always asked how our dive was on any given day.

We were treated to some of the most delicious food we’ve had in Bali: all local, home-cooked fare, including a traditional Balinese barbecue on our second night, which was, without a doubt, the best meal we’ve had on the island.

All of this is not to mention the unbeatable value for money. We paid a grand total of A$1,428.59 (£689.15) for both of us. That covered the course (which included four dives, plus all pool skills), five nights of accommodation, all meals, and transport to and from our next and previous destinations.

For two travellers who are #OnABudg, it doesn’t get better than that.

I cannot sing Scuba Tribe Tulamben‘s praises highly enough, and I truly could rattle on for hours about how incredible our experience was. I hope with all of my heart that we have the opportunity to return there when we eventually take our Advanced Open Water Diver course.

But back to the diving.

One of the perks of diving in Tulamben is that the Liberty wreck dive site can be accessed right off the shore.

No sitting on a rocky boat in a wet stinger suit for hours on end or fighting the current just to get back on board. Just a five-minute walk (or a two-minute lift on the back of the Scuba Tribe truck, if you’re lucky) and you’re off.

The entry point is unsuspecting. To the untrained eye, it’s a long stretch of black pebble beach that wraps around the coastline in a tight hug to the Pura Tegeh temple, which sits at the end of its own mini-peninsula. Calm, feeble waves lap gently against the rolling rocks, a mirror image of the horizon reflected in the still water.

It’s the buzzing shoreline that gives away the secrets hidden beneath.

Divers scramble up the rocks, clutching their dive buddies in one hand and their fins in the other as they traverse their way to the short, wooden tables sporadically placed up and down the beach.

There’s the dull ‘clunk’ of empty gas cylinders amongst the chatter, and the wooden tables creak as divers perch atop them, either to alleviate their backs from their Buoyancy Control Devices (BCDs), or to don them, ready to enter the water.

Ramshackle stalls are abuzz with locals selling identical navy t-shirts with a print of the Liberty wreck and a bold, red ‘TULAMBEN’ scrawled in big letters, while dive resort staff busy themselves with helping their clientele in and out of their dive gear.

Getting into the water is no mean feat, particularly with a 20-kilogram gas cylinder on your back and nothing but flimsy dive shoes between your feet and the sharp pebbles below.

But, with Theo’s help, we made it to the water. Floating on our backs, we kicked out just far enough to make our descent. Mouthpieces in and fins ready, we hit that magic button on our BCDs and slowly drifted beneath the surface.

It’s like the world just switches off.

The only noise becomes the sound of your own breath. Everything is just blue. Blue, blue, blue everywhere you turn.

For a first-time diver, the ascending pillars of air bubbles being expelled by the other divers in mesmerising stalagmites are a sight to behold in themselves: the only clue that there’s any other human life nearby.

Approaching the Liberty, I had the distinct feeling that actually I’d quite like to live in the ocean forever and ever and ever. But we’re just intruders here, watching the fish and the rays meandering about their business, pecking grubs and algae off the coral, all doing their bit to keep the marine ecosystem pushing along whilst we stare on in awe.

The wreck itself is like the ocean’s answer to those grass walls you see cropping up in trendy hotels and restaurants. Just coral, coral and more coral as far as the eye can see. Hard coral, soft coral, brain coral, table coral. You name it, the Liberty has it sprawled across its walls somewhere.

If I wasn’t so mesmerised, I might feel like I was in some kind of nautical remake of The Last of Us, the way the coral had totally overtaken its host.

Nudibranchs wriggle amongst the coral colonies, their purples and turquoises iridescent in the filtered sunlight. Scorpionfish and lionfish hide in alcoves, priming their spines ready for their next strike. It’s a functioning society of diverse marine life, all on board the battered bones of the USAT Liberty wreck.

Kicking out behind us, we continued our circumnavigation of the ship, discovering new life forms everywhere we looked. It was hard to believe that the beautiful fire coral, bright red and branching from the side of the ship like a Japanese maple, was capable of inflicting such vicious burns on those who dare touch it.

Squeezing through a rusted, open square of metal, careful not to scrape anything for fear of hurting ourselves (or worse, the coral), we entered what was once the Liberty’s control room. The helm remains intact, free of coral colonisation and looking like a good scrub might have it fully functional again. It’s not quite like going back in time, but it certainly is surreal. How many conversations have happened in this very room? What must it have felt like, the last time this ship was asail, having just been torpedoed and worried for your life?

It’s easy to forget that you’re actually there to learn a skill, not just to observe, so the rude awakening from Theo was much appreciated when he tapped his wrist with two fingers: international diving language for ‘how much air do you have left?’

A quick check of our pressure gauges revealed that, unfortunately, living in the ocean forever and ever and ever would not be an option.

So we began our ascent. And with each metre floating upwards grew my devastation that I would never get to have this experience for the first time ever again. But how lucky we are that this happened right at the start of our journey. Now we know that we simply have to see the rest of the world in the context of what the ocean has to offer, and we simply can’t wait to make diving a priority as we move forward in our travels.

Who’d have thought that this small, unassuming town on the north-east coast of Bali would be home to one of the best dive sites in the world?

The festive nights out on the town with your friends, Christmas market trips for an overpriced yet delicious Bratwurst, and not to mention the tight budget when it comes to festive gift giving, for loved ones who you feel deserve more.

But when all you have is time, and all you lack is money, there’s only one logical place to channel all of your creative energy, and that’s into the humble Christmas hamper. A beautiful box bursting with time, effort and love—not to mention full to the brim with sweet treats and homemade delicacies.

This years’ hampers took some serious prep work. With tighter purse strings than usual, I certainly wasn’t in a position to spend hundreds of pounds on ingredients. No, this required a little more… tact. An onion tacked onto the grocery list here, a cinnamon stick from the back of the cupboard there.

But, sure enough, with enough planning, preparation and good luck at the charity shops, I’ve managed to rustle up some bougie baskets for my family and friends to enjoy, though not without a few bumps in the road.

#8 - Pistachio Almond Nougat

If you held a gun to my head and told me to make this again, I’d probably just tell you to shoot me.

I should’ve known when I read ‘candy thermometer’ that I was out of my depth, because what the hell is one of those when it’s at home?

There was a lot of ‘boil this mixture to precisely 137 degrees’ and some ‘start mixing this when your first mixture has been boiling for 2.47 minutes’ that I’m simply just not meticulous enough for. And whilst the finished product wasn’t a total flop, it was still just a little too imperfect for me to even include as a gift.

What should’ve been a nice, firm bar of nougat turned into a sticky, sloppy mess reminiscent of a weird, nutty marshmallow fluff. Not what I was going for. Delicious all the same.

If you’re a more organised person than I, and happen to own a candy thermometer, you can find the recipe for this sticky little treat here.

#7 - Initial Tree Hangings

Felt crafts? Walk in the park.

I’ve been a girl guide. I can sew. I know my way around a hot glue gun. This will be a doddle, right?

Wrong.

I vastly underestimated the amount of fiddling, re-threading, and pulling infinite hot glue strings that would be involved in this process. Moreover, I wasn’t expecting to walk away from the crafting table with a permanent squint and prawn-shaped back.

And the disfigured body truly wasn’t worth the end result. By the time I’d finished, the decorations looked like a 5-year-old Rainbow, not a girl guide, threw them together during a half hour session with their brown owl.

I can’t point you in the direction of instructions for these bad boys because I made them with nothing but some thrifted felt and a vision, but if anyone fancies a haphazard tutorial, do let me know.

#6 - Homemade curry powder

Another ‘off-the-top-of-my-head’ hamper inclusion was my homemade curry powder. Whilst toasty, aromatic and delicious, this is another one I couldn’t replicate, even with the cold metal of a revolver pressed against my pounding temple.

It’s a ‘measure with feeling’ kinda recipe, you know?

A few extra coriander seeds here, a sprinkle of turmeric there. Just me and the curry powder gods, guiding my hand.

The end product came out delicious and aromatic, though it ranks on the lower end of the list for the simple reason that I couldn’t make enough of it. Bottles on bottles of whole spices like cumin seeds, star anise and cinnamon were toasted, and it looked like mountains of spices when in the pan. But into the coffee grinder, blitzed until fine and powdery, and I was left with a meagre amount of curry powder that might season a couple of portions at best.

10/10 for deliciousness. 2/10 for effort/payoff ratio.

#5 - Mulled wine jelly

A delightful Christmassy treat that deserves a spot on any festive charcuterie board.

It’s a simple, two-ingredient fare that came together in under half an hour. A simple supermarket mulled wine and some jam sugar, reduced down to a thick, syrupy goop.

For extra festive jazz, I sprinkled in some edible glitter, which really elevated the look. It kinda looked like someone dropped a Lush bath bomb in my saucepan, and it smelled just as delicious.

The one drawback from this recipe was the simple fact that it just didn’t thicken the way I wanted it to. What should’ve been a solid, spoonable condiment was instead more of a gloopy, spreadable syrup. Delicious, but not the consistency you’re after for jelly.

#4 - Boozy mincemeat

Lace up your boots because this is about to knock your bloody socks off.

I’ve never been a huge lover of a mince pie, but I was utterly thrilled at the end of my boozy mincemeat production to have a whole jar-and-a-half leftover to use for my own festive treats.

The dried fruits are juicy, punchy and sweet, offset with crunchy almonds and the potent, nectar-y aroma of navy rum for the all-important kick.

The only, only gripe I have with this particular recipe is purely cosmetic: the beef suet (used for texture and preserving) gave the finished product a really cloudy finish that didn’t look too beautiful once it was all jarred up.

#3 - Pickled red onions

Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they’re a bloody gorgeous pop of colour in a festive hamper.

Pickled goods in general can be quite a divisive topic, but the beauty of the humble pickled red onion truly is second to none. A shade of pink that even Dulux can’t replicate. This, alongside their ease of production, earns them a well-deserved podium spot in this Christmas hamper run-down.

Just a few sliced onions, a salty, sugary, vinegary brine, and you’re off and running. I made mine even more special by boiling a few whole spices in with the brine: star anise, a cinnamon stick, coriander seeds, whole peppercorns. A jar of festive pickles, if you will.

The leftovers were promptly devoured in some outrageously filthy cheddar sourdough toasties—just one of a million appropriate ways in which to use your acidic alliums.

#2 - Crispy chilli oil

There’s something criminal about the fact it’s taken me until now to discover the beauty of crispy chilli oil, but I can say for sure that there’s certainly no going back.

It’s a bit of a fiddly process, running shallots over a mandolin until your fingers are reduced to little nubs, getting attacked by a pan of oil spitting its greasy venom at you. But the payoff far, far, far outweighs the work. The leftover jar from the huge batch I made magically disappeared after just a few days, so I’m looking forward to making another, bigger batch

I followed the recipe from @louiseskitchengarden1 on Instagram, and really appreciated her advice to keep the flavours simple and plain so that the oil can be used on a wider variety of dishes. Just make sure your shallots and garlic are truly crispy to decrease risk of botulism.

#1 - Festive negronis

I know, I know. Negronis are very much an acquired taste. But who could resist the boozy bev when infused with all the good Christmassy stuff, like cinnamon, cloves and cardamom?

My favourite thing about these negronis was the maturing process: the longer you leave it, the stronger that festive flavour gets. So I left all of my toasted aromatics, along with a couple of dehydrated orange wheels, soaking in my gin for over a week before I finally mixed the cocktails together and got them bottled up.

The end result truly was Christmas in a bottle. I popped a soaked cinnamon stick and half an orange wheel into each bottle for aesthetic purposes, and the leftover tipple is still sitting in the fridge waiting to be devoured. Here’s to depth of flavour.

So, all in all, unemployed festive hamper making was a success. I escaped with no burns, all my fingers in tact and barely a dip in the emergency funds, whilst my friends and family receive thoughtful gifts made with love, effort and festive cheer. A win-win, I would say.