153 CYCLE TOURING MALAYSIA (6) - 2019

Between Momentum and Misjudgement

153 MALAYSIA (6)

625 Kilometres – 11 Days
28 November – 9 December 2019

PHOTOS

MAP

 PDF

VOICEOVER 

 FLIP-BOOK

The Road South Continues 

After the slow, immersive rhythm of Thailand, Malaysia arrived almost quietly—no grand transition, no dramatic change, just a stamp in a passport and a subtle shift in the road beneath my wheels. Yet within a few kilometres, it was clear that something had changed. The landscape opened up, the air felt different, and the journey, which had settled into a familiar cadence, found a new tone almost without asking permission.

Over the next 625 kilometres and 11 days, Malaysia would reveal itself not through spectacle, but through contrast: wider spaces, gentler traffic, and a cultural blend that expressed itself most vividly in its food and daily life. It was a place where mosques, temples, and roadside stalls coexisted with quiet ease; where the road alternated between effortless progress and mild misjudgement; and where even the simplest ride could shift unexpectedly into something worth remembering.

 

 

A Quiet Border, a Strong Tailwind and a Promising Start - Padang Basar to Alor Setar (87 km) 

Crossing into Malaysia turned out to be refreshingly uncomplicated—almost suspiciously so. A short ride brought me to immigration, where a single stamp granted me 90 days in the country. No interrogation, no paperwork marathon, not even a mildly disapproving glance. It felt less like entering a new country and more like being casually waved through a garden gate.

It was already past 9:30 by the time I finally got going, which meant my “early start” had once again failed to materialise—an ongoing theme of the journey. Still, Malaysia seemed determined to reward my lateness. Almost immediately, the landscape opened up. Compared to Thailand, there was more space, more breathing room, and fewer moments where I felt personally targeted by traffic.

The northern scenery was striking in a quietly confident way—limestone outcrops rising from flat plains, rice fields glowing an almost theatrical green. With a strong tailwind behind me, I had the rare sensation that cycling was less an effort and more a cooperative arrangement between myself and the elements.

Malaysia revealed itself quickly as a cultural mix, and nowhere is that more evident than in the food. After weeks in Thailand, I suddenly found myself confronted with an entirely new culinary landscape: Chinese, Indian, and Malay influences all competing for attention—and winning.

My first encounter was a bowl of Mee Goreng from a roadside stall, which I approached with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no idea what she was ordering. It was excellent—comfortingly familiar in structure yet entirely new in flavour. I made a mental note to continue this highly scientific method of ordering at random.

Accommodation, however, required a small adjustment in expectations. The ringgit was stronger than the Thai baht, which translated into rooms that cost just enough more to make me notice—and just little enough to keep me from complaining too loudly.

By mid-afternoon, I arrived in Alor Setar and checked into a modest guesthouse. A short walk revealed I was firmly in the Chinese part of town, which, as luck would have it, meant excellent food and an abundance of cold Tiger beer. It didn’t take long to settle into the comforting routine of travel: eat, drink, reflect briefly, and then repeat as needed.

 

Backroads, River Crossings and Eating for Historical Accuracy - Alor Setar to Georgetown, Penang (95 km) 

Not in the mood to test my relationship with traffic, I immediately escaped onto the backroads, where the day improved in direct proportion to the lack of vehicles trying to overtake me at improbable angles.

The route wound through rice fields and small villages, where locals greeted me with a warmth that felt both genuine and faintly amused, as though they were quietly wondering where exactly I thought I was going.

At the Merbok River, a ferry carried me across, sparing what would undoubtedly have been a long and unnecessary detour. I’ve developed a particular fondness for these small crossings—they give the impression that even geography is occasionally willing to cooperate.

From Butterworth, I made my way to the ferry terminal and crossed to Penang Island, gliding over the Strait of Malacca—one of the world’s most historically important waterways.

For centuries, ships from Europe, the Middle East, India, and China passed through here, often waiting days or weeks for the winds to change. Those waiting periods, it seems, were put to excellent use: cultures mingled, recipes were exchanged, and eventually, entire communities took root.

Today, this legacy continues most noticeably in the food—and I felt it was only right to honour this history in the most respectful way possible: by eating as much of it as I could reasonably justify.

Samosas, falafel, and other delights appeared in rapid succession, each one making a compelling argument for staying longer than intended. All of it, naturally, accompanied by a tall Tiger beer, which by now had established itself as something of a travel companion.

 

Georgetown - A City Designed for Wandering and Staying Put 

A drizzly morning arrived, and with it the deeply satisfying decision not to leave. There are few things in travel as pleasing as discovering a place that justifies doing absolutely nothing ambitious.

Georgetown is one of those places. It isn’t so much visited as wandered through, and even then, direction feels optional. The streets are dense with activity—food stalls competing for attention, narrow lanes leading to unexpected discoveries, and buildings that appear to have been collected rather than planned.

The island’s history is visible everywhere, layered like an architectural timeline. Chinese traders, Indian merchants, Dutch explorers, and British colonials have all left their mark, resulting in a place where temples, mosques, and colonial structures coexist with admirable indifference to categorisation.

One of the more fascinating areas was the clan jetties—wooden walkways built over the water, lined with houses that have been occupied for generations. First established in the 19th century, they still function today much as they always have, which is both impressive and slightly disorienting in a world that usually insists on constant change.

Time in Georgetown slipped by easily. Days stretched just enough to feel unstructured, and for once, progress wasn’t measured in kilometres but in meals, conversations, and the general sense that staying put was, for now, exactly the right decision.

 

Following My Nose into Mud, Regret and Eventual Progress - Georgetown to Taiping (110 km) 

After two pleasantly unproductive days in Georgetown, it was time to resume forward motion—an activity I approached with the enthusiasm of someone who had grown very accustomed to not doing it.

The plan seemed simple enough: follow the indicated cycle route out of town. Unfortunately, I decided instead to “follow my nose,” a phrase that sounds adventurous but in practice often translates to “ignore perfectly good advice.”

This turned out to be a mistake of admirable thoroughness.

Within a surprisingly short time, I found myself thoroughly bogged down in mud, pushing the bike through terrain that had clearly not been designed with cyclists in mind—nor, come to think of it, with any particular use in mind. It was an experience that combined physical effort with ongoing regret.

Eventually, I admitted defeat and returned to the highway, now carrying a generous coating of Malaysian countryside. Once on the main road, however, escape proved difficult. There was no convenient turn-off, no gentle alternative—just a long, unwavering commitment to forward progress. It took nearly 40 kilometres before I could leave it, by which point I was no longer in the mood for exploration or philosophical reflection.

Clouds began to gather, adding a sense of inevitability to the day. About ten kilometres before Taiping, the sky delivered on its promise with a tropical downpour of impressive conviction.

And then, just as quickly, it stopped.

Within minutes, the road was dry again, as though the entire episode had been a brief but enthusiastic misunderstanding.

Arriving in Taiping, I made my way to my old standby, the Peking Hotel, only to discover it had undergone a transformation—one that included, regrettably, higher prices. Progress, it seems, comes at a cost.

Fortunately, Sojourn Beds & Café offered a far more agreeable arrangement. At 35 ringgit, with the added bonus of being the only guest, it felt less like a hostel and more like a private residence I had temporarily acquired.

Its location—directly opposite the night market—was particularly helpful, eliminating the need for further decision-making. After a day that had not gone entirely to plan, this felt like a fair and reasonable reward.

 

Time Zones, Palm Oil and the Comfort of Simply Continuing South - Taiping to Lumut / Sitiawan (100 km) 

The following morning revealed an unexpected discovery: Malaysia is, in fact, one hour behind Thailand. This explained why my “early start” was once again occurring at a time that could more accurately be described as late morning.

There is something comforting about discovering that it isn’t entirely your fault.

With no strong feelings about route choice, I pointed myself south and set off through the countryside. The landscape quickly settled into long stretches of oil palm plantations, laid out with methodical precision. Malaysia, along with Indonesia, dominates global palm oil production, and once you’ve seen one plantation, you have, in a sense, seen several thousand.

That said, there is a quiet rhythm to riding through them—orderly roads, gentle curves, and just enough variation to prevent complete monotony. The cycling itself was easy, the road smooth, and for long stretches it felt as though I had slipped into a steady, manageable routine again.

Somewhere along the way, I realised I had fully transitioned into “journey mode”—that stage of travel where you stop questioning the road and simply follow it, trusting that it will eventually lead somewhere suitable.

By day’s end, I arrived not so much in Lumut as in nearby Sitiawan, which offered a more promising collection of accommodation and food. Experience has taught me that flexibility in such matters is not merely useful but essential—geography, after all, is often less concerned with your plans than you are.

 

A Day of Unreasonable Distance and Unexplained Determination - Sitiawan to Kuala Selangor (145 km) 

I’m not entirely sure what happened on this day, but something—whether chemical, psychological, or mildly supernatural—shifted rather dramatically.

For reasons that remain unclear, I set off early. Not “my version of early,” which tends to drift comfortably toward mid-morning, but genuinely early—as though I had suddenly become one of those efficient people who greet the day with purpose and intent.

And then I kept going.

Breakfast was skipped, which in my experience is usually not so much a decision as an oversight that quickly becomes a regret. But on this occasion, there was no regret. In fact, there was no hunger at all. I rode on, hour after hour, without stopping, without snacking, without even giving the matter proper thought.

At some point, I began to suspect that I was no longer entirely in charge of events.

Normally, a day on the bike is punctuated by small, necessary rituals—coffee stops, food breaks, moments of negotiation with one's legs. But all of that vanished. I simply continued, propelled forward with an efficiency that felt both impressive and faintly alarming.

“I was like a woman possessed,” I had written in my notes afterwards, and for once it did not feel like an exaggeration.

The main road, however, refused to cooperate. It was busy, loud, and in the process of being widened—an activity that seems to involve dismantling a road while simultaneously encouraging people to continue using it. Seeking relief, I veered off onto smaller country lanes, where the day improved considerably.

The route zigzagged through oil palm plantations, occasionally returning to tarmac but just as often dissolving into dirt tracks. It required attention, but somehow this only added to the sense that I was moving with purpose—even if I wasn’t entirely sure what that purpose was.

A ferry crossing over the Bernam River provided a brief pause, though even this felt less like a rest and more like a procedural delay in an otherwise uninterrupted advance.

And then, almost without warning, it was evening.

I arrived in Kuala Selangor having covered 145 kilometres—a distance that, under normal circumstances, I would have approached with careful planning, nutritional strategy, and a degree of caution. Instead, I had simply… done it.

By the time I checked into the Melawati Hotel, the spell had begun to wear off. The room itself was so small that it required a moment of spatial adjustment. The single bed fitted neatly inside, leaving just enough space to stand and reconsider one’s life choices, but not quite enough for anything else. A bedside table would have required structural modifications.

Oddly, it felt entirely appropriate.

After a day of uncharacteristic efficiency and inexplicable stamina, being confined to a room roughly the size of a generous cupboard seemed like the world gently restoring balance.

 

Into the Sprawl: Traffic, Roadworks and Fading Enthusiasm - Kuala Selangor to Puchong (Kuala Lumpur) (88 km) 

The following morning began later than intended, though in fairness, this was partly the result of my windowless room, which gave no indication of time, weather, or indeed whether the outside world still existed. It could have been dawn, dusk, or a minor geological epoch—I had no way of knowing.

Eventually, I emerged into reality and set off toward Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia’s sprawling capital. The route, however, lacked the charm of previous days. As I moved closer to the city, the landscape shifted from countryside calm to a steadily expanding urban presence.

Kuala Lumpur—known simply as KL—is not so much a city as an ongoing project. With a metropolitan population of over 7 million, it appears to be in a permanent state of development, with roadworks serving as a unifying theme. Unfortunately, this is less enjoyable when experienced from a bicycle.

There were moments, I admit, when my enthusiasm waned slightly—particularly when sharing narrow, disrupted roads with traffic that clearly had more pressing engagements than accommodating a cyclist. Still, progress was made, and as always, small pockets of calm appeared when least expected: roadside temples, brief quiet stretches, and the occasional moment where everything seemed to align just enough to keep going.

KL marked the end of my Malaysian ride, and with it came a quiet inventory of recent mishaps: one unfortunate encounter with mud, a broken pannier, a mysteriously vanished lens hood, a flat tyre, and what I can only describe as a deeply misguided attempt to cross a bio-slim ditch.

Taken individually, each incident was manageable. Taken together, they suggested a pattern.

Nevertheless, I arrived in good time and checked into my hotel before meeting my friend Peter and his wife, Alice. We hadn’t seen each other in a while, which meant the evening quickly dissolved into conversation—catching up, filling in the gaps, and gently rewriting a few stories in the process.

 

Kuala Lumpur - Boxes, Beers and the Gentle Unravelling of a Journey 

The following days were spent in a different kind of activity: dismantling the journey. Packing the bike, sorting panniers, organising the small details that allow travel to continue in another form. Peter had kindly sourced a bicycle box in advance, and with his help, the process became surprisingly efficient. Laundry was done, gear packed, and, naturally, a few beers were consumed—already chilled, which felt like an act of quiet genius.

It’s the sort of generosity that stays with you long after the journey moves on.

 

Departure – Budget Flights, Sleepless Nights and Questionable Comfort - Kuala Lumpur to Chennai (India) 

Budget flights, I have learned, come with their own particular philosophy—one that tends to prioritise affordability over nearly everything else, including comfort, convenience, and occasionally basic human expectations.

My flight departed at 2 a.m., a time that exists largely to test commitment. Peter, displaying far more kindness than the hour deserved, drove me to the airport, and before long I was navigating the slow rituals of departure once again.

What followed was a lesson in the true cost of inexpensive travel. The luggage fees were impressive, the seat narrow enough to encourage introspection, and the recline function appeared to exist more in theory than in practice. Sleep, unsurprisingly, did not occur.

The journey routed via New Delhi before continuing to Chennai, with a three-hour layover that provided just enough time to remain awake without achieving anything useful. By the time I arrived in Chennai around midday, I had reached that curious state of fatigue where everything becomes both intensely vivid and faintly unreal.

 

Arrival in Chennai, India

A Sudden Shift: Into Noise, Heat and a Different World Entirely 

A taxi ride into the city—made more expensive by the presence of a bicycle—delivered me to Paradise Guesthouse, a name that demonstrated a bold commitment to optimism. The room, while affordable, was notably lacking in certain luxuries, such as a towel.

Still, at seven dollars, one learns to adjust expectations accordingly.

And then there was India.

It does not ease you in gently.

Stepping outside was like walking into a fully formed world, already in motion. Traffic surged and improvised itself in real time. Tuk-tuks negotiated space with the confidence of vehicles that had given up on rules altogether. Cows moved calmly through the chaos, entirely unconcerned with human urgency.

Amid it all, life unfolded at multiple levels: vendors calling out, incense drifting from roadside shrines, people navigating daily routines with an ease that suggested this was all perfectly normal—which, of course, it was.

The sounds, the smells, the movement—it was immediate, immersive, and slightly overwhelming.

It took the rest of the day to slow down, to breathe, and to begin adjusting to a place that does not so much welcome you as absorb you.

After the measured rhythm of Thailand and the gentle unfolding of Malaysia, India felt like being dropped into the middle of a story already moving at full speed.

And just like that, the journey had shifted again.

 

 

Epilogue

By the time I rolled into Kuala Lumpur, the journey through Malaysia had taken on a strangely complete feeling—despite its relatively short distance. There had been days that unfolded effortlessly, others shaped by poor navigation choices and tropical downpours, and one that defied explanation entirely, powered by a form of momentum I could neither control nor fully understand.

There was also, as always, the quiet accumulation of smaller things: roadside meals chosen more by instinct than knowledge, conversations that required little shared language, ferries that appeared exactly when needed, and accommodations ranging from unexpectedly perfect to spatially improbable. None of it dramatic in isolation, but together forming the substance of travel itself.

Because by then, another transition was already waiting.

India did not ease into view. It arrived all at once—loud, immediate, and entirely unconcerned with the pace I had grown used to.

And with that, the road shifted again.

 

152 CYCLE TOURING THAILAND (19.2)

Tailwinds, Temples and the Slow Shape of the Road

152 THAILAND (19.2)

1,261 Kilometres - 18 Days
10 November – 27 November 2019

PHOTOS

MAP

 VOICEOVER

PDF

FLIP-BOOK

 

Prelude

Every long journey begins long before the first kilometre is ridden. Mine began in a tangle of logistics, persistence, and mild absurdity—chasing bank cards across continents and boarding a flight to South Africa simply to convince my own money to cooperate. By the time I finally rolled out of Pattaya, the practicalities were resolved, but something less tangible had also shifted: I was ready again for the quiet, uncertain rhythm of the road.

What lay ahead was 1,261 kilometres through Thailand over 18 days—moments that would unfold slowly and unpredictably. There would be the easy pleasures of roadside coffee and ocean air, the strain of long days through traffic and heat, and the quiet intervals in between where the journey reveals itself most clearly. Travel, I’ve come to realise, is rarely about reaching somewhere else. It is about settling into movement, into discomfort and wonder in equal measure, until the unfamiliar begins to feel, unexpectedly, like a kind of home.

 

Breaking Free: Banking Battles, Bucket Toilets and the Open Road - Jomtien to Chonburi (65 km)

After what felt like a long-running diplomatic standoff with my bank—complete with relentless follow-ups, unanswered queries, and the occasional existential sigh—my cards finally arrived. Victory, however, was short-lived. Moving money from South Africa to Thailand proved to be about as straightforward as herding cats through airport security.

Naturally, I did the only reasonable thing: I flew to South Africa, opened an FNB account in person, and forced the issue into submission. It was a ridiculous solution, but undeniably effective. I returned feeling like a financial pioneer, or at the very least, someone who had outwitted a particularly stubborn spreadsheet.

With the condo locked and my mobile home packed to a level of organisation best described as “optimistic,” I rolled out of Pattaya. The city’s chaotic streets did their usual best to discourage human ambition, but once I broke free, the world opened up in glorious fashion. Temples drifted past like postcards, cassava plantations stretched to the horizon, and the road ahead whispered promises of freedom—or at least fewer motorbikes attempting to occupy the same patch of asphalt as me.

Chonburi greeted me in full celebratory mode for Loy Krathong. The beachfront was alive with holidaymakers, lanterns, and an energy that suggested nobody had any intention of going to bed at a reasonable hour. I, meanwhile, seized a far less glamorous opportunity: a hotel room for 300 baht.

It was, objectively speaking, a very strange room. Stark white tiles gave it the ambience of a mildly cheerful operating theatre, and the bucket-flush toilet required a level of user participation normally reserved for DIY plumbing enthusiasts. Still, it had walls, a door, and a price that made me feel like I’d beaten the system.

Sorting through my panniers revealed that my packing strategy had been less “carefully curated” and more “enthusiastically stuffed.” It took time to restore order, but soon enough I was back in control—or at least in the comforting illusion of it.

 

Bangkok Beckons: Birds, Backroads and a Brush with Chaos - Chonburi to Pha Pradaeng (110 km)

The day began with promise and quickly descended into something more character-building. The northern Gulf of Thailand is never straightforward, and Bangkok loomed ahead like an unavoidable exam you forgot to study for.

The first 20 kilometres, however, were delightful—alive with birdlife and mercifully calm. I paused at a restaurant on stilts for an iced coffee, taking a moment to reflect on how well things were going, which in hindsight was probably tempting fate.

Then came the highway.

To call it chaotic would be generous. It was an all-out sensory ambush—noise, fumes, traffic, and the occasional existential questioning of my life choices. I clung to the service road like a lifeline, inching past Bangkok’s automotive enthusiasm until I crossed the Bang Pakong River and escaped onto smaller, saner roads.

From there, things improved dramatically. A quiet canal road appeared like a gift from the universe, complete with villagers resting under enormous trees and ducks ambling about with the confidence of creatures who know they own the place.

A ferry across the Chao Phraya River spared me a long detour and added a touch of adventure that didn’t involve dodging buses, which I considered a win.

By evening, I reached the Rimnam Hotel, where Loi Krathong was in full swing. The streets filled with families launching their floating offerings, lights flickering against the water. It was beautiful, meaningful, and—refreshingly—moving toward environmentally friendly traditions. I watched quietly, feeling fortunate to be exactly where I was.

 

One Plug Socket and a Banana-Leaf Breakfast - Pha Pradaeng to Samut Songkhram (79 km)

Mornings on the road require strategy, resilience, and, ideally, electricity. My budget hotel, however, offered precisely one plug socket—which, in an impressive display of defiance, didn’t work.

Leaving without coffee felt deeply unnatural, but I soldiered on, eventually finding salvation at a roadside stall. Breakfast arrived wrapped in banana leaves, presenting the age-old traveller’s dilemma: delicious mystery or culinary gamble. Fortunately, curiosity prevailed, and breakfast did not attempt to fight back.

The route once again flirted with Bangkok’s outer chaos before giving way to flatter, swampy terrain dotted with stilt houses. Life here revolved around fishing and boat-making, with the steady rhythm of water defining everything.

Reaching Samut Songkhram early felt like a strategic masterstroke. I washed my cycling gear, charged my devices, and briefly experienced the rare and glorious sensation of being organised.

As evening approached, the town transformed into a street food haven. Vendors filled the air with sizzling aromas, though vegetarian options were still something of a treasure hunt. Still, I managed to piece together a respectable meal before retreating to my modest accommodation, content and slightly over-salted.

 

Wrong Turns, Salt Fields and Familiar Temptations - Samut Songkhram to Cha-Am (113 km)

The day unfolded as a zigzagging exploration of the countryside, where roads meandered with little regard for navigation or human expectation. It was endlessly charming—until, of course, a promising route would abruptly end, forcing me into an undignified retreat.

The landscape was a patchwork of salt farms, their surfaces shimmering faintly as crystals began to form—nature quietly preparing its next harvest.

Although I knew this route, Cha-Am itself was new territory for me. On arrival, I quickly realised it bore a striking resemblance to Pattaya. The town buzzed with older European men whose enthusiasm for life appeared to have been recently—and enthusiastically—rediscovered in the company of younger women.

It was, if nothing else, a curious scene. There was laughter, music, and a general sense of determined enjoyment that carried well into the early hours.

Good for them, I thought. Everyone deserves a second wind—provided, of course, it comes with kindness and respect.

 

A Short Ride and the Dangerous Comfort of Staying Put - Cha-Am to Hua Hin (31 km)

If ever there were a stage designed specifically for a weary cyclist, it was this one. The short 31 kilometres from Cha-Am to Hua Hin felt less like a journey and more like a thoughtful gesture from the universe.

I arrived in Hua Hin with just enough energy left to make a dignified entrance—by which I mean I rolled straight to Bird Guesthouse, my old favourite perched heroically on stilts over the sea. Within minutes, I was planted in a chair with a glass of wine, gazing at the ocean in a manner that suggested I had personally organised the sunset.

The following day was devoted to the less glamorous side of long-distance travel: laundry and the ongoing discovery of items I had somehow failed to pack. The supermarket provided some relief, as did a visit to the local bike shop where I acquired a new back tyre—something called a CST Pedium. I had never heard of it before, which, in cycling terms, meant I was either about to discover a hidden gem or make a regrettable life choice.

That evening, I met up with Gavin, a friend living in Hua Hin. In keeping with long-standing traditions, we celebrated our reunion with a thoroughly unreasonable number of beers. The conversation flowed easily, memories were revisited (and slightly improved with each retelling), and the evening slipped away far quicker than good judgment would recommend.

 

The Morning After: Slow Pedals and Missing Gloves - Hua Hin to Prachuap Khirikhan (118 km)

Morning arrived with all the subtlety of a marching band. Unsurprisingly, I felt less like a determined cyclist and more like a cautionary tale. For a moment, I considered staying another day in Hua Hin purely out of survival.

Eventually, however, stubbornness triumphed over common sense, and I set off toward Prachuap. Progress was... unremarkable. Each pedal stroke required negotiation, and I stopped frequently to address a thirst that felt both personal and accusatory.

Hours later—though it may have been days; time is unreliable under such conditions—I rolled into Prachuap and checked into Maggie’s Homestay, a place so perfectly priced (220 baht) that I briefly wondered if there had been a clerical error.

Naturally, I extended my stay. The amenities—water purification, washing machines, and the elusive promise of order—made it irresistible. It also gave me time to deal with a lingering mystery: the disappearance of my cycling gloves. Losing one glove is understandable. Losing both suggests either foul play or a level of absent-mindedness that should probably be studied.

 

Coastal Perfection and the Art of Finding a Good Bungalow – Prachuap to Bangsapan Beach (110 km)

The ride to Bangsapan was one of those rare, perfect days where everything seems to cooperate. The road hugged the coastline, the breeze was kind, and pedalling required far less negotiation than the previous day.

Upon arrival, I embarked on the traditional ritual of budget accommodation hunting, which involves wandering around looking hopeful until something affordable presents itself. After a modest search, I found a charming bungalow for 400 baht.

It had air conditioning, a welcoming atmosphere, and—most importantly—a sense that I could happily do very little there for an extended period. I immediately decided this was a place I would return to, which is traveller shorthand for “I have found somewhere that understands me.”

 

Caves, Mosquitoes and Small Discoveries - Bangsapan Beach to Chumphon (112 km)

The day began with an excellent coffee, which set unrealistic expectations for everything that followed.

Feeling optimistic, I diverted to explore a nearby cave. The path leading to it was overgrown to the point of mild discouragement, suggesting that either few people visited or those who did had quickly reconsidered their life choices. Naturally, this made it irresistible.

The cave itself was beautiful—light streaming in, creating an atmosphere that hinted at discovery and adventure. Unfortunately, it also hosted a highly motivated population of mosquitoes who appeared delighted by my arrival. I left sooner than planned, having contributed generously to their continued wellbeing.

The rest of the day was quieter, with fewer distractions and a steady rhythm of cycling. In Chumphon, I found a hotel that allowed me to wheel my bike straight inside—a small but deeply satisfying luxury. After a day of sharing space with traffic, dust, and insects, it felt only right that the bike should enjoy indoor accommodation too.

 

Riding into the Storm and Finding Refuge by the Sea - Chumphon to Pak Nam Langsuan (86 km)

With a night ferry to Koh Tao planned for later, I granted myself a slow morning—encouraged further by a gentle drizzle that made the idea of moving seem unnecessarily ambitious.

Eventually, however, even the most committed idler must act. I set off, and the day quickly improved as the weather cleared, revealing a lovely stretch of countryside. Around 60 kilometres in, I stopped at a small restaurant and enjoyed an excellent plate of fried rice—one of those simple meals that somehow feels like a reward for effort.

Naturally, this marked the precise moment the weather decided to collapse.

As I returned to the road, a storm rolled in from the Gulf of Thailand with dramatic enthusiasm. Rain lashed horizontally, wind howled, and visibility declined to what might generously be described as “suggestive.” I donned my plastic raincoat—a heroic but ultimately limited defence—and pressed on, blinking through the onslaught.

The road became muddy, the conditions deteriorated, and by around 85 kilometres I was approaching a philosophical discussion with myself about the wisdom of continuing.

Then, as if arranged by a particularly kind storyteller, a hidden bungalow appeared among banana trees.

I called out, somewhat desperately, until a young woman emerged, her expression suggesting she hadn’t expected to encounter a drenched foreigner materialising out of the storm.

She showed me to a tiny wooden bungalow perched directly at the water’s edge. It was so close to the ocean that I briefly wondered whether it came with a life jacket. Inside, space was… economical. The bed dominated proceedings, and the bathroom consisted of a squat toilet and a concrete reservoir that required a certain level of cooperation.

And yet, it was perfect.

At 250 baht, it felt less like paying for accommodation and more like accidentally discovering a secret.

As I sat watching the tide creep in—uncomfortably close to the floorboards—I reflected that this might not be the most structurally reassuring place I’d ever stayed, but it was certainly among the most memorable.

With no restaurants nearby, I relied on my modest supplies. The local fisherman and his family kindly invited me to dinner, but I declined, not wanting to impose on what was clearly a carefully balanced meal.

Instead, I settled into my little retreat, eating cup noodles and listening to the waves, which felt like a perfectly reasonable alternative to fine dining under the circumstances.

 

Coffee, Coastlines and Rain at the Finish Line - Pak Nam Langsuan to Surat Thani (124 km)

I awoke with the quiet satisfaction of discovering that both I and my seaside bungalow had survived the previous day’s storm. Given how enthusiastically the weather had tried to rearrange the coastline, this felt like a small but meaningful victory.

The owner appeared shortly after with a cup of coffee—an act of kindness so well-timed it bordered on heroic. I sat on my tiny veranda sipping it while he wandered off to inspect the sea conditions. Watching him consider heading out in what looked like entirely unreasonable water, I couldn’t help but admire the optimism. A small boat in those conditions seemed less like a livelihood and more like a wager with nature.

The day’s ride to Surat Thani started off beautifully, winding along the coast through scenery that seemed almost suspiciously picturesque—limestone cliffs, pale beaches, and the sort of views that make you wonder if someone’s carefully arranged them overnight.

Naturally, the weather had other ideas. The sky settled into a steady grey drizzle, and just as I approached Surat, it escalated into a full performance. The final five kilometres were completed in a determined downpour, threading through traffic while negotiating both visibility and my increasingly questionable navigation skills.

Arriving in town felt like docking after a long voyage. I located My Place Hotel—an astonishing bargain—and immediately prioritised a shower, which felt less like hygiene and more like restoration.

Dinner was sourced from the nearby night market, a wonderfully fragrant operation where everything looked tempting and slightly mysterious—exactly the sort of place where one makes culinary decisions with confidence and occasional regret.

The following day was spent in Surat, which is not so much a tourist destination as it is a place where actual life happens. That, of course, made it immediately appealing. People went about their routines, markets buzzed, and vendors guarded their produce with the focus of seasoned strategists—particularly when it came to pigeons, who were clearly viewed as hostile forces.

 

The Unexpected Pleasure of an Easy Day - Surat Thani to Tha Khuen (108 km)

The weather was mercifully cooperative, making for one of those rare days where cycling feels almost effortless. I intended to deviate from the main road but found it so pleasantly quiet and accommodating that I simply stayed on it, like someone who has accidentally found the correct queue.

Villages slipped by, roadside stalls appeared at convenient intervals, and temples punctuated the landscape with reassuring regularity. The whole day had a gentle, unhurried feel, as if the road itself had agreed not to complicate matters.

I ended the day at a “24-hour” establishment, which provided both a bed and what I can only describe as a proper bathroom. After recent experiences, this felt like an extravagant luxury—proof that one’s standards, given enough time on the road, can shift quite dramatically.

 

Quiet Roads, Curious Faces and a One-Baht Crossing - Tha Khuen to Hua Sai (115 km)

Setting off south, I anticipated a fairly routine ride. Instead, the day unfolded into something unexpectedly delightful. This was clearly not a route frequented by foreign cyclists, which meant I attracted a steady stream of curious looks and cheerful greetings—some amused, some openly puzzled.

The scenery was spectacular: shimmering coastline, rice paddies glowing in the sun, temples standing in quiet dignity, and brightly painted fishing boats completing the picture. For long stretches, I became so absorbed in the ride that distance ceased to matter entirely.

After several days of minimal conversation, I stopped to chat with a couple making cigarette paper from palm leaves. The interaction was brief but satisfying, neatly fulfilling my weekly quota of social engagement.

Progress was interrupted when the road simply… stopped. Fortunately, a small ferry provided a solution, shuttling people across the river for the impressive price of 1 baht. I spent a moment wondering how such an operation remained economically viable before deciding it was best not to interfere with mysteries of this nature.

On the far side, I entered a compact, lively village where narrow walkways and busy stalls created an atmosphere of organised chaos. It was one of those places where there is always something happening, and nobody appears remotely surprised by it.

Later, the coastline reappeared—this time accompanied by towering wind turbines that seemed almost comically large up close, as though someone had scaled them incorrectly.

Despite it being “winter,” the temperature hovered firmly in the mid-30s, proving that Thai seasons are largely conceptual.

By late afternoon, I located a room by the ocean for 300 baht, which felt like an excellent conclusion to an unexpectedly rewarding day. After watching the sunset, I cycled into the village in search of dinner, reflecting on how effortlessly the day had unfolded.

 

Rain, Lost Things and an Earned Arrival - Hua Sai to Songkhla (110 km)

The morning began with the polite suggestion of rain tapping on the window, encouraging me to linger over a second cup of coffee and reconsider all ambitious plans.

Eventually, I set off, though the weather continued its indecisive performance—alternating between drizzle and brief clarity just often enough to keep things interesting. It also meant photographing anything required swift, tactical thinking.

At one point, I managed to lose my lens hood in a river—an achievement that baffled me, as it had previously demonstrated a strong commitment to remaining attached to the camera. The exact mechanics remain unclear, though I suspect gravity played a leading role.

Later, just before Songkhla, I encountered a car ferry crossing the mouth of Songkhla Lake. It felt like a welcome shortcut, sparing me what would undoubtedly have been a longer and less scenic route. The crossing itself added a sense of minor adventure, which I was happy to accept at this stage of the journey.

I arrived in Songkhla around mid-afternoon, thoroughly decorated in a layer of rain-soaked road grime—a look that, while not fashionable, was undeniably earned.

Finding Bo Yang Guesthouse, I treated myself to a slightly more expensive room, and it felt like a triumph. Clean white sheets, air conditioning, and—most luxuriously of all—a bath. After days of improvisation and compromise, this felt less like accommodation and more like a reward.

 

Exploring Songkhla - Old Town Stories, Strange Sculptures and an Improbable Legend

I awoke to the steady drumming of rain against the window—a sound that, under most circumstances, might inspire urgency. On this particular morning, however, it inspired the exact opposite. I smiled, turned over, and allowed myself the small luxury of ignoring the world for a little while longer.

Eventually, responsibility—or at least curiosity—prevailed. Armed with a bag of laundry and a vague plan, I stepped out to explore Songkhla, a town that doesn’t shout for attention but quietly rewards those who wander.

It didn’t take long to find Old Songkhla, a place so rich in history it almost seemed to hum underfoot. For several centuries—from roughly the 10th to the 14th—this had been a bustling centre of trade, with connections stretching as far as Quanzhou in China. Later, in the 18th century, Chinese settlers added their own layers to the place, creating a cultural blend that still lingers today.

Now, it’s all wooden shophouses, narrow lanes, and temples that appear to have been positioned with great care for maximum charm. Even a section of the old city wall still stands, quietly reminding visitors that this once mattered on a much larger scale than its sleepy present might suggest.

At some point, I found myself heading up Songkhla Hill, which offered wide views over the town and coastline—exactly the kind of vantage point that justifies the effort of climbing it. Coming back down, I wandered along the beach and into a sculpture park populated with artworks that ranged from intriguing to mildly baffling, as though someone had given artists complete creative freedom and then quietly stepped away.

Naturally, Songkhla comes with its own legend, and it is a delightfully improbable one. According to local lore, a Chinese merchant once sailed here with a cat and a dog, who—being understandably bored at sea—conspired with a mouse to steal a magical crystal that prevented drowning. Their escape plan was bold but poorly executed, resulting in the loss of the crystal and the collective demise of all involved. The aftermath, however, was creatively interpreted: the cat and mouse became islands in Songkhla Lake, while the dog became the hill itself.

It is, if nothing else, a compelling argument against trusting animals with supernatural objects.

 

Turning West: Monsoon Warnings and the Border Looms - Songkhla to Padang Basar (80 km)

The morning brought a weather warning of impressive seriousness: heavy monsoon rains and possible flash floods across southern Thailand. This seemed like the sort of information best taken seriously, so I adjusted my plans accordingly. Rather than continuing south along the coast, I turned west toward the Malaysian border, aided by the timely arrival of a helpful tailwind.

The route was not particularly scenic—mostly main road—but it served a clear purpose: make progress quickly before the weather turned theatrical again. My backup plan, should conditions deteriorate, was to retreat to Langkawi and wait things out, which struck me as a highly acceptable contingency.

As I neared Padang Basar, subtle changes began to appear. Mosques dotted the landscape, and more women wore head coverings—the quiet but definite signals that I was approaching a cultural shift.

Arriving in town, however, was less inspiring. Like many border settlements, Padang Basar appeared to have been designed with minimal regard for aesthetics and maximum focus on functionality. Dark clouds gathered overhead, nudging me toward the sensible decision to stop.

In hindsight, I may have stopped slightly too soon, as the rain never quite delivered on its threat. Still, my accommodation—a pink, windowless room of considerable modesty—was already secured, and so I committed to the decision.

Dinner was sourced from nearby food carts, after which I retired to my room, reflecting that not every stop on a journey needs to be memorable—though this one, in its own way, probably would be.

 

A New Country, a Fresh Stamp and the Road Continues -  Padang Basar, Thailand to Alor Setar, Malaysia (87 km)

Morning brought sunshine and with it the satisfying sense of transition. As I set off, the road ahead felt different—not physically, but in that subtle way that signals the beginning of something new.

The Thai-Malaysian border arrived quickly, and the crossing itself was refreshingly straightforward. A passport stamp, a brief exchange, and just like that, I was granted 90 days to explore an entirely new country. No interrogation, no complications—just the quiet efficiency of a system that had clearly done this before.

And with that, Thailand—after hundreds of kilometres, countless roadside coffees, questionable accommodation choices, and more than a few conversations with myself—was behind me.

I rolled onward toward Alor Setar, the open road stretching ahead with its familiar promise: that whatever happens next will almost certainly be unexpected, occasionally uncomfortable, and very likely worth it.

 

By the time I reached the border at Padang Basar, Thailand had become something more than a stretch of road I had crossed—it had settled into me in ways that are difficult to measure. Not through singular, dramatic moments, but through an accumulation of small, persistent encounters: the rhythm of villages waking and sleeping, the generosity of strangers, the weight of monsoon skies, and the steady, almost meditative act of moving forward each day.

There had been discomfort, certainly—rooms that tested expectations, weather that demanded resilience, and stretches of road that seemed to resist progress entirely. But there had also been an ease that emerged over time, a quiet acceptance of whatever the day offered. Somewhere within those 1,261 kilometres, the journey ceased to be about distance or destination, and became instead a way of paying closer attention—to place, to people, and to myself.

Crossing into Malaysia felt less like an ending and more like a continuation—another line on the map, yes, but also an extension of the same unfolding narrative. The road, as it had been from the beginning, remained open, indifferent, and full of possibility.