Special mention to Glenn and Fergus of Finnegans and Sean in the Irish Embassy in Hanoi. Always good to to dragged to more and more good eateries and drinkeries on your travels.
We managed to drag ourselves out of the place eventually, settling on Hue as our next stop, a day by train down the coast. After a day of ironing out accommodation and avoiding ghastly tours to see bombsites, we made the most of the scorching weather and settled into some air-conditioned bars with pool tables, interspersed with trips to the citadel, the old town and the Hue Tourism Education Restaurant for a great meal. Bumped into a crowd of lads all the way from Tuam we had previously met in Finnegans, eveyone seems to be on the same route around here. Where ya come from? Heading north or south? Where to next? Oh, me too. See ya there.
A short bus-hop later and and we're in Hoi-An, home of the tailors of Hoi-An and (incidentally of course) the UNESCO World Heritage Site that is the Old Town. Chock full of bars, restaurants and cookery schools, the old town was the first real evidence of old world charm that you could reach out and touch. A tour of the city took in Ancient Houses and Assembly Halls, a fascinating mixture of Chinese and Vietnamese Architecture that tells a muddled tale of occupation and rebellion long before the Americans and Ho Chi Minh went at it. The My Son Temple complex an hour out of town has been reduced from it's original 70 temples, rediscovered in the late 19th century by a moustachioed Frenchman, to less than 30; the remainder having been blown to smithereens by the US of A (yeeeh hawww!!) when the VietCong based its operations there in 1969. A single hour was enough to walk the whole complex twice, a miniaturised and brutalised version of Angkor.
In our ever increasing list of bizarre coincidences a day of lounging by the pool in Hoi An was interrupted, in a good way, by a fellow traveller from Malahide joining us in the pool and commiserating with all of us on our hangovers. The usual swappage of routes, plans and tales ensued and Fiona was halfway through the round-the-world-no-planes-we're-daft spiel when he comes out with "This might sound thick, but do you know a Cathal Brugha?". Well, yeah. We do. Turns out that shortly before they left home himself and his girlfriend had bumped into the Brughas at a funeral and learned all about our routes and plans and he (Rob) had been regalling people all over Vietnam with tales of these eejits who were heading from Ireland to Melbourne without using a plane. Eejits.
We've had plenty of people, mostly Ozzies, who tell us it can't be done, no way you'll get to Oz without a flying machine of sort or another. Eejits like us, this sort of talk only strengthens our resolve.
After a day of cooking lessons for Fi and Paddy, we again bumped into our Tuam shadows at a pool table. This was to become a recurring theme as we headed down the coast. In another freakish but inevitable coincidence, a CBS Midleton alumni suantered into the Thanh Binh III Hotel with a hurley under his arm. Small world. We avoided the urge to have a cheap wardrobe made in Hoi An which the eager tailors could then fill with shiny suits, silky shirts and custom-made-on-the-spot shoes, heading south again to the beach party capital of Nha Thrang.
Naturally, five minutes after arriving after a day of reading and snoozing on a train, tucking in to our half-cooked burgers, we once again ran into our erstwhile Tuam buddies. One of them had headed for HCMC to make his way back to Oz, the others happy to take it easy and enjoy the beach, sun and ales that Nha Trang offered in buckets and spades. The tiny Irish Pub, the dodgy TexMex, splendid Louisiane Brewhouse and disreputable Sailing Club all clamoured for our attentions.
After a couple of days nursing the mildly pathetic Seamus out of a tummy bug, we turned our attention to celebrating his promotion to a twentysixth year. A sleep in followed by croissants and frosties to kickstart the afternoon. Hours lazing by the pool in the Louisiane sipping fresh juices then onwards to glory. Glory being a rake of pints. Huzzah!
Stuart from Sydney was also celebrating his advancement in years and was happy to encourage the beer, whisky and bad karaoke fest that followed. May 30th is an esteemed day all round. His girlfriend achieved a feat unmatched in all of Asia by picking Seamus out as being from Coonty Cark, like. Respect.
The adventure continues while we try to figure out where we're off to next. The beaten track is losing its appeal, daft decisions are called for.
We managed to drag ourselves out of the place eventually, settling on Hue as our next stop, a day by train down the coast. After a day of ironing out accommodation and avoiding ghastly tours to see bombsites, we made the most of the scorching weather and settled into some air-conditioned bars with pool tables, interspersed with trips to the citadel, the old town and the Hue Tourism Education Restaurant for a great meal. Bumped into a crowd of lads all the way from Tuam we had previously met in Finnegans, eveyone seems to be on the same route around here. Where ya come from? Heading north or south? Where to next? Oh, me too. See ya there.
A short bus-hop later and and we're in Hoi-An, home of the tailors of Hoi-An and (incidentally of course) the UNESCO World Heritage Site that is the Old Town. Chock full of bars, restaurants and cookery schools, the old town was the first real evidence of old world charm that you could reach out and touch. A tour of the city took in Ancient Houses and Assembly Halls, a fascinating mixture of Chinese and Vietnamese Architecture that tells a muddled tale of occupation and rebellion long before the Americans and Ho Chi Minh went at it. The My Son Temple complex an hour out of town has been reduced from it's original 70 temples, rediscovered in the late 19th century by a moustachioed Frenchman, to less than 30; the remainder having been blown to smithereens by the US of A (yeeeh hawww!!) when the VietCong based its operations there in 1969. A single hour was enough to walk the whole complex twice, a miniaturised and brutalised version of Angkor.
In our ever increasing list of bizarre coincidences a day of lounging by the pool in Hoi An was interrupted, in a good way, by a fellow traveller from Malahide joining us in the pool and commiserating with all of us on our hangovers. The usual swappage of routes, plans and tales ensued and Fiona was halfway through the round-the-world-no-planes-we're-daft spiel when he comes out with "This might sound thick, but do you know a Cathal Brugha?". Well, yeah. We do. Turns out that shortly before they left home himself and his girlfriend had bumped into the Brughas at a funeral and learned all about our routes and plans and he (Rob) had been regalling people all over Vietnam with tales of these eejits who were heading from Ireland to Melbourne without using a plane. Eejits.
We've had plenty of people, mostly Ozzies, who tell us it can't be done, no way you'll get to Oz without a flying machine of sort or another. Eejits like us, this sort of talk only strengthens our resolve.
After a day of cooking lessons for Fi and Paddy, we again bumped into our Tuam shadows at a pool table. This was to become a recurring theme as we headed down the coast. In another freakish but inevitable coincidence, a CBS Midleton alumni suantered into the Thanh Binh III Hotel with a hurley under his arm. Small world. We avoided the urge to have a cheap wardrobe made in Hoi An which the eager tailors could then fill with shiny suits, silky shirts and custom-made-on-the-spot shoes, heading south again to the beach party capital of Nha Thrang.
Naturally, five minutes after arriving after a day of reading and snoozing on a train, tucking in to our half-cooked burgers, we once again ran into our erstwhile Tuam buddies. One of them had headed for HCMC to make his way back to Oz, the others happy to take it easy and enjoy the beach, sun and ales that Nha Trang offered in buckets and spades. The tiny Irish Pub, the dodgy TexMex, splendid Louisiane Brewhouse and disreputable Sailing Club all clamoured for our attentions.
After a couple of days nursing the mildly pathetic Seamus out of a tummy bug, we turned our attention to celebrating his promotion to a twentysixth year. A sleep in followed by croissants and frosties to kickstart the afternoon. Hours lazing by the pool in the Louisiane sipping fresh juices then onwards to glory. Glory being a rake of pints. Huzzah!
Stuart from Sydney was also celebrating his advancement in years and was happy to encourage the beer, whisky and bad karaoke fest that followed. May 30th is an esteemed day all round. His girlfriend achieved a feat unmatched in all of Asia by picking Seamus out as being from Coonty Cark, like. Respect.
The adventure continues while we try to figure out where we're off to next. The beaten track is losing its appeal, daft decisions are called for.
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