A warm welcome

Touching down in Da Nang International Airport, we were met by a wave of heat and an enthusiastic wave from Vũ, our guide. Asking where we were from, he jokingly stated that he only knew English cities and towns if they were in the Premier League. My partner – an avid soccer fan – felt immediately at home.

Having discerned that we were hungry (and eager to try some local joints), Vũ directed our driver to a nearby banh mi stall enroute to our hotel (banh mi is a Vietnamese-style baguette packed with meat, vegetables and sauces). With Vũ as our translator, he explained all the typical ingredients on offer to us: chả lụa (Vietnamese sausage), coriander, cucumber, pickled daikon, ham, red chili, mayonnaise, pâté. We opted for all of them – and it was delicious, even if it packed a more of a punch than I was expecting (much to the others’ amusement).

After a short drive in our own air-conditioned minibus along the winding Son Tra Peninsula, we pulled up at the extremely glamorous InterContinental Da Nang – our home for the next few nights. Greeted with cups of cold jasmine tea and damp rolled towels, we took in the breathtaking views of the secluded bay below from the art-deco front desk terrace perched high up in the hillside.

Having been fascinated with dragonflies since I was a child – one of my favorite books was even rather bluntly called ‘Dragonfly’ – I was amazed (and curious) to see so many in flight just beyond the open-air front desk. When I remarked that I’d never seen so many in one place before, Vũ explained that there’s a Vietnamese belief that dragonflies are a telltale sign of the weather. If they fly high, like up here with us now, it will be sunny, he said. If they fly low, it will rain. Fortunately, the dragonflies flew high for the entirety of our trip.

Exchanging WhatsApp numbers after ensuring we had everything we needed, Vũ told us he’d see us soon. “If you have any questions or want anything at all, then just message me,” he said. “No problem.”

After his departure, we spent the evening settling into our room (and exploring the resort more thoroughly, naturally). We took a dip in the Long Bar’s outdoor rooftop pool, overlooking palm trees and ocean waves, and I noticed a few stray dragonflies zip through the air. We walked along the beach at sunset, watching as night descended and tiny white crabs came out to play. Brushing the sand from our feet, we stepped into the unique funicular designed to resemble a Vietnamese boat, transporting guests to and from the hotel’s four levels. From the lowest level “Sea” to the highest (and aptly named) “Heaven” with its Club Lounge (I’d recommend the afternoon tea with the hibiscus brew), spacious terrace suites (including our own), and Citron restaurant (hands down, the best breakfast buffet I’ve ever seen). It even had its own banh mi stall. Enough said.

Fisherman’s friends

The following evening, after a day of relaxation, we met up with Vũ to explore Hoi An. By boat.

I’ve always felt at home by the sea. Perhaps it comes from spending every summer of my childhood along the Welsh coast. And while the setting of Hoi An, a coastal Vietnamese city known for its Old Town aglow with countless colorful lanterns, is very different (and warmer), I strangely felt at home. Everyone we encountered was welcoming and friendly; we couldn’t help but feel at ease. Even when we stood at the edge of a fishing boat, casting nets and trying not to throw our very amateur selves in with them.

Vũ had taken us to meet the captain about ten minutes beforehand, along with his helmsman, helping us aboard their traditional wooden fishing boat as they smiled and shook our hands in welcome. Pulling away from the shore, we passed rivers flanked by reeds and navigated by bamboo boat as we headed towards the South China Sea. There was nobody about, bar a few local fishermen at work, whom we were soon to meet.

As I stood with my legs apart and my arms outstretched, the wet braided rope of the net laced between my fingers, I tried to copy the movements I had been shown mere moments before by an elderly local fisherman who demonstrated the technique of cast net fishing with far more finesse and skill than I did. He didn’t speak any English, but smiled and demonstrated the movement again, gesturing for me to try. Tossing the net out into the sea, I was pleased to hear a round of clapping break out behind me (my partner’s first attempt had been met with a consoling “never mind” by Vũ and the captain). We kept practicing, with cheerful shouts of encouragement from the others, until our teacher waved goodbye and went back to work on his smaller boat.

Continuing our journey, our guide explained that we were going to meet another local fisherman and learn another fishing technique. Gliding along, there were small things I noticed – the quiet, the cool breeze, the smooth feel of the wooden planks beneath my feet (we’d taken our shoes off, as instructed).

He pulled up alongside us in his narrow wooden fishing boat, his loyal companion (a friendly Phu Quoc Ridgeback) sat beside him. He helped us aboard and we waved farewell to Vũ and the others (for now).

Taking us across the water and towards a bamboo structure perched in the sea, he helped us to climb onto it, demonstrating how to pull up the fishing nets beneath the surface by using our bare hands and feet to spin a wooden wheel-like structure – left hand, right foot, right hand, left foot. Repeat. We took it in turns, winding up the nets to see if he’d caught any fish. As he explained that it gets harder the higher the net gets, I was secretly grateful I’d opted to go first (my partner, a little less so). After much encouragement, a fully raised net now hung in the air across the expanse before us. The young fisherman smiled and gave us both a high five for our efforts. Very strong, he said, before he got us back in the boat, handing us a basket to collect the fish in, which turned out to be a handful of sardines and anchovies.

Later, Vũ explained to us that nowadays many local fishermen have a second job due to the decrease of fish in the area. “Plans are in place for fish farms,” he said. “But this is why tourism is so important for us; we want travelers to fall in love with Vietnam by showing them our home through authentic experiences like this.”

Returning to our boat, we discovered a table had been set up for us – a red-white checkered tablecloth dotted with candles and chopsticks. We were offered glasses of water and Coca-Cola before we dined on a delicious five-course meal prepared by the captain himself. Spring rolls, chicken and pepper skewers, giant tiger prawns, mackerel with lemongrass and fried rice wrapped in banana leaf, and a plate of the freshest mango I’ve ever tasted. Three sauces accompanied our meal: chilli paste, fish sauce, and freshly squeezed lime juice seasoned with pepper and salt. When I remarked to my partner that the latter was my new favorite condiment, the captain appeared at my side a few moments later with a second batch he’d prepared just for me after overhearing my comment. This small, thoughtful gesture made me smile.

As we sat watching the sunset, our feet bare and our stomachs full, splashes of saltwater drying on our clothes as we chatted and joked with the crew, I couldn’t help but think this was the casual magic I’d been seeking.

The trail less trodden

The following morning, we woke early; we were off to explore My Son, a cluster of Shaiva Hindu temples sprawled within a ring of mountains. Once the religious and political capital of the Champa Kingdom, which was established across Indochina until the 17th century, now a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Passing paddy fields and traveling through the outer villages encircling Hoi An, with Vũ pointing out his family home and where he went to school, we watched as the landscape gradually changed into forests and mountains.

Heading away from the crowd making their way up the quickest and most popular route, Vũ took us in the opposite direction. Following a narrow trail, a winding path completely deserted, it felt as if we had the whole place to ourselves. We passed ponds with floating waterlilies and hovering dragonflies, walking beneath the trees and over small bridges.

As we explored, Vũ explained about the historic significance of My Son and the near disappearance of Champa culture in Vietnam. We learnt that some of the temples were now ruins due to bombing that occurred during the Vietnam War and he explained how French archaeologists had tried to conserve and restore some of them, but that some of the exact building materials and methods remain unknown. You can tell what is original and what is not, he said, pointing at the moss creeping between the cracks of red brick that formed one of the ruins. There is moisture in the restored areas, but not in the original, which remains preserved, so you’ll only find moss and grass in between the newer parts.

Leading us to tiered temples tucked between the trees, we wandered inside the small ‘tower temples’, entering dark cool interiors with only a shred of natural light. Designed to represent Mount Meru, the mythical sacred home of Hindu gods, these fired brick temples had been constructed with stone pillars and decorated with sandstone bas-reliefs. We took our time, savoring the peaceful solitude they offered, before stepping back into the late morning sunlight.

Outside, Vũ knelt beside another temple, pointing at the ground. Specifically, the small fan-like leaves and purple flowers that covered the space. Touch it, he said. Touch the leaves. I hesitantly reached out with one finger, not entirely sure what to expect. As soon as my hand made contact with the leaf, it instantly folded in on itself only to reopen a few minutes later. My partner crouched beside me, copying my movements, as did Vũ, tapping the leaves with childlike glee. Perhaps we would have seemed strange to the few passersby we saw. But, sitting in the sunlight surrounded by forests and mountains, watching as plants (which I later learned was Mimosa pudica, or “humble plant”) moved as if by magic between abandoned temples, I was too focused on the little things to notice.

This is only the beginning

There were other moments of ‘casual magic’ on my luxury trip to Vietnam. Sips of fresh dragon fruit, courtyards lit by red silk lanterns, blue skies and starlit nights. With the expert guidance of Vũ and the recommendations and access provided by our luxury Travel Experts, my Black Tomato research trip to Vietnam enabled me to embrace the little things (and unforgettable experiences) that truly make a trip sing.

My time in Vietnam was brief, depressingly so, but it only made me want to go back – and soon. After all, there is still much more magic to find.