Tailwinds, Temples and the Slow Shape of the Road
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
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.
