Rolling Through the Night: From Nha Trang to Da Nang
I've always believed there are two ways to see a country.

You can fly over it.

Or you can travel through it.

I'll choose the second every time.

Late that evening, I climbed aboard another Vietnamese sleeper bus, leaving Nha Trang behind and heading north to Da Nang.

The tropical heat still hung in the air like a warm, damp blanket as we queued beside the coach.

Then came the first rule.

Shoes off.

Everyone slipped their footwear into little plastic bags handed out by the driver before boarding.

Within minutes the bus was spotless, apart from the faint aroma of twenty pairs of socks and a citrus air freshener fighting a losing battle.

My berth was upstairs.

At just under six feet tall, I quickly realised the designer probably hadn't imagined anyone my size using it.

I folded myself into the pod, squeezed my backpack beside me and laughed.

This should be interesting.

The air conditioning rattled above my head, blowing icy air straight onto my face while, outside, the night remained hot, humid and sticky.

The engine growled into life.

A few moments later, we rolled away from Nha Trang.

The city lights slowly faded behind us until only darkness remained, broken by the occasional petrol station and a steady procession of lorries heading south.

Inside the coach, silence gradually took over.

The soundtrack became strangely comforting.

The steady hum of the engine.

Tyres whispering over smooth tarmac.

The occasional snore drifting down the aisle.

Every now and then, a bump reminded me exactly where I was.

It wasn't The Ritz.

But before long, I was asleep.

At around two in the morning, the brakes hissed.

The coach eased into a brightly lit roadside service stop.

Still half asleep, we all climbed down wearing identical blue rubber slippers supplied by the driver.

We must have looked like a convention of exhausted Smurfs.

The warm night air hit me instantly.

Steam rose from huge pots of pho.

The smell of grilled pork drifted across the forecourt.

Strong Vietnamese coffee mingled with diesel fumes while moths hurled themselves at the fluorescent lights.

I ordered a black coffee.

It arrived thick, dark and powerful enough to wake the dead.

Exactly what I needed.

Fifteen minutes later, we were back on the road.

The gentle rocking of the coach worked its magic once again.

I don't remember much after that.

When I opened my eyes, dawn had arrived.

The darkness had disappeared.

Outside, the sky slowly shifted from pale pink to glowing orange above the mountains of central Vietnam.

Fishing boats were already heading out to sea.

Mist clung to the rice fields while farmers began another day's work.

There's something special about watching a country wake up through a bus window.

You see ordinary life unfolding.

Schoolchildren waiting for buses.

Street vendors setting up breakfast stalls.

Older men exercising in parks.

Nobody performs for tourists.

Life simply gets on with itself.

A little after six, we rolled into Da Nang.

Everyone climbed off looking exactly how they felt.

Hair everywhere.

Creased clothes.

Stiff backs.

A few passengers stretched so enthusiastically I thought they'd pull a hamstring.

After ten hours folded into a sleeping pod, I certainly wasn't walking like Fred Astaire.

I booked a Grab.

Within minutes we were cruising along Nguyễn Tất Thành Road with Da Nang Bay sparkling beside us.

The morning air carried the scent of salt and fresh bread from nearby bakeries.

The city immediately felt calmer than Saigon.

Less frantic.

More relaxed.

Soon we arrived at the Aura Beachfront Hotel & Apartments.

Behind reception stood Harry.

Immaculately dressed.

Calm.

Smiling.

He took one look at me and knew exactly where I'd come from.

"Long journey?" he asked with a grin.

"You could say that."

Check-in wasn't until 1pm.

I lasted about five minutes before falling asleep in the lobby.

A few hours later Harry gently woke me.

"Your room's ready."

Minutes later I stood inside a spotless studio apartment.

The air conditioning purred quietly.

Fresh linen covered the bed.

Sunlight poured through the window onto polished tiles.

Beyond the glass, Da Nang Bay stretched beneath a cloudless blue sky.

After a night folded inside a sleeper berth, pulling off my socks and feeling cool tiles beneath my feet ranked among life's greatest pleasures.

Sometimes luxury isn't a five-star resort.

Sometimes it's simply a hot shower.

A proper bed.

And the sound of the sea outside your window.

I dropped my backpack on the floor and smiled.

The same thought crossed my mind as it always does whenever I arrive somewhere new.

Travel light.

Don't waste money on sleep.

The next story is usually waiting just down the road.

The Next Day
Walking Da Nang Bay: Where the Tour Buses Don't Stop
There are two Da Nangs.

There's the one on Instagram.

Then there's the one you discover when you put your phone in your pocket and simply start walking.

I'm staying at the Aura Beachfront Hotel on Nguyễn Tất Thành Road, overlooking Da Nang Bay.

It isn't the side of the city most visitors choose.

Most head straight for Mỹ Khê Beach in search of infinity pools, beach clubs and cocktails served with little umbrellas.

Over here, things feel different.

More authentic.

More lived in.

I've spent the last few days doing exactly what I enjoy most.

Walking.

Miles and miles of it.

No destination.

No timetable.

Just following my feet.

By six in the morning, the bay is already alive.

The first thing you hear isn't traffic.

It's laughter.

Groups of Vietnamese pensioners stretch beneath the palm trees.

Some dance.

Some practise tai chi.

Others simply chat while the sun rises across the water.

Young couples jog hand in hand along the promenade.

Fishermen quietly untangle their nets.

Brightly painted coracle boats bob offshore.

The sea smells clean with just a hint of salt.

A gentle breeze carries fresh coffee from tiny cafés opening for breakfast.

Every few hundred yards somebody smiles and says hello.

Nobody seems in much of a hurry.

Leave the waterfront for five minutes and everything changes.

The streets narrow.

Scooters squeeze past each other.

Tiny family-run shops sell everything from buckets to televisions.

Women chop herbs at astonishing speed.

Grandfathers patiently repair fishing nets patched more times than anyone could count.

Children weave through traffic in spotless school uniforms carrying backpacks almost bigger than themselves.

Every doorway tells another story.

One family cooks breakfast.

Next door, someone rebuilds a motorbike engine.

Across the road, an elderly woman waters dozens of plants growing from recycled paint tins.

The smells constantly change.

Fresh bread.

Charcoal smoke.

Fish sauce.

Grilled squid.

Ripe mangoes.

Incense drifting from a tiny shrine squeezed between two houses.

Then comes Vietnamese coffee.

Dark.

Rich.

Strong enough to put hairs on your chest.

I stop at a tiny pavement café.

The owner points towards a chair and smiles.

No menu.

No English.

No problem.

A few minutes later a thick iced coffee arrives, slowly dripping through a metal filter into condensed milk before being stirred over ice.

One sip reminds me why Vietnam takes coffee so seriously.

Life rolls past at walking pace.

Scooters carry impossible loads.

A family of four somehow balances on one bike.

A man pedals past with hundreds of fresh baguettes piled above his head.

Another transports live chickens in bamboo cages.

Nobody bats an eyelid.

I've learnt not to either.

By midday, the tropical heat settles over everything.

Shirts cling to your back.

The pavement shimmers.

Even the stray dogs retreat beneath parked scooters.

Suddenly, a bottle of cold water feels like the greatest drink on Earth.

Later, I wander back towards the bay.

The sea sparkles beneath the afternoon sun.

Children splash in the shallows while grandparents sit beneath colourful umbrellas sharing fruit, gossip and laughter.

Very little English drifts through the air.

Most of the people here are Vietnamese families enjoying an ordinary day by the sea.

That's exactly why I like it.

Nothing feels polished or packaged.

You're simply sharing a small piece of everyday life.

As evening arrives, everything changes again.

The heat softens.

Portable barbecues appear along the pavements.

Smoke curls into the orange sky.

The smell of grilled seafood fills the promenade.

Somewhere a karaoke machine bursts into life.

Nobody feels embarrassed.

Everyone joins in.

Children chase bubbles through the warm evening air while grandparents clap along to songs they've probably been singing for decades.

I sit on the sea wall with a cold beer.

Across the bay, the lights slowly flicker into life.

Fishing boats head out into the darkness.

The bridges begin to glow.

The air finally cools enough to breathe properly.

Nothing extraordinary is happening.

Yet everything feels exactly right.

These are the moments I remember.

Not famous landmarks.

Not attractions with queues outside.

The ordinary streets stay with me.

The smell of someone's evening meal drifting through an open window.

Dominoes clicking together outside a corner shop.

A smile from someone whose language I don't speak.

This side of Da Nang probably won't appear on many postcards.

And, if I'm honest, I hope it never does.

Sometimes the finest places are the ones the guidebooks quietly overlook.

Travel light.

Don't waste money on sleep.

And keep walking.