Sunday 2 March 2025
Again I awoke early, much to my travel companion’s chagrin. We showered and went to coffee, looking for a place recommended by Liv, called Secret Garden. We found it after some tricky alley way negotiations. It wasn’t open yet. A handball away was another place so we had our first coffee there and then honoured Dexter’s girlfriend’s tip by having a second at her choice. Here we sat on a raised platform, like an open air tree house, overlooking the garden. It was delightful.
Having only had beverages we then walked to Em’s Bakery on Nguyen Day Hieu Street. This was a single-storey, ochre-painted building with shuttered windows opening to the street. The sign read ‘Time for a sweet break’ so we complied with their wonderful pastries. We watched the world go by sitting on stools at the open window and then Dexter said we had to follow another Rohan tip, Oldapper. This, an artisan leather house, which I defy any tourist to find without Google Maps.
Oldapper had a cafe courtyard which was replete with young Japanese women taking selfies and posed shots. I thought the leather business must be booming but the tourists were there to be seen and photographed. To get into the shop required an invitation. A sign near the door read, in Vietnamese and English: “Please take a moment to learn about Oldapper before entering the shop. Thank you for respecting our space!”. There was a QR code beneath this entitled OLDAPPER_VIBES.
Dexter dropped Rohan’s name (this man, unknown to me was fast becoming a much-respected figure in my orbit) then showed the boss his photo. In we went and I thought the merchandise looked brilliant but there was nothing I needed. Then I saw it! A red leather, motorcyclist’s carry bag which would be affixed to the handlebars, stood out.
I immediately thought of Annie. I envisaged her using this as a clutch handbag which would be so original as to be the perfect bespoke gift. The leather man later told us that every article he made was made once, never replicated. Dexter was so on board he found a small peaked, cotton cap in the same colour. The style was that worn by beautiful 1960s models accompanied by a roll neck top, mini skirt and long boots. It was Carnaby Street, not US baseball.
With very limited English, our craftsman took some umbrage at my wanting his bag for use at women’s lunches rather than roaring about the Ha Giang Loop on a Norton but Dexter swung him around with the use of translation. When my impending marriage was mentioned, he smiled and then searched his shop for a strap in the same colour leather to complement the purchase. Unable to find it, he then offered two metallic couplings to make the fitting of a strap much easier when we returned home.
We bade farewell and eased our way through the Nipponese selfie-takers to the more travelled streets of Hoi An and headed back to Yaly for my suit fitting. A bit of tightening needed about the tummy – the kayaking in Lan Ha Bay must have helped? – and all was ready to be finished. The shirts and trousers were spot on. The consignment would be delivered to our hotel by 9pm.
At Quỳnh Nhu the purchases were ready. My shoes needed a slight easing across where the tongue would be if these were Brogue’s and this was the fitter’s suggestion not mine. Dexter was in raptures about his new overnight bag and then got cheeky and asked if they could make a set of loafers before tomorrow. He wanted my input so I pointed him to the Tod’s website and he chose a model to be copied. Again the discussion about the sole – this had been a sticking point with my order but I had thankfully won the day – and the order placed. Ready at 6pm, though it was already 10am. Amazing.
Somehow we had found a lot more laundry so passed Bong and dropped this off before heading to Bahn Queen, a family-run institution, specialising in bahn mi. It was the kind of place where four generations of the same family were visible, including the mandatory very old man whose main job seemed to be lowering blinds to keep patrons out of the glare. We had the house speciality and a juice. It was fabulous and Dexter said he would get two of these as take away the next morning to negate us having to eat the sub-standard airport lounge food.
We returned to the hotel for a sit by the pool, a sunbake and a Cointreau – the gift that kept on giving. Dexter, slightly impacted by my early rising, had a sleep so I sat by the pool, sipping liqueur and writing my diary notes. The previous day I had David Brosnan have a bet for me on Packing Angel in the Classic Cup at Sha Tin in Hong Kong. It was paying $7.80. Brossie had the bet but couldn’t get set for the full amount (betting companies are notorious for not allowing punters to have relatively small bets when markets are first set, usually two days before the event). The balance was placed at $4.80 and my agent said it would drift out. I disagreed and, as Dexter also wanted a part of the action, told him to take this price for Dexter’s portion. He got $4.60. With five minutes of betting to go, Packing Angel was $2.60. That is, my original bet, if it won, would return a profit of $680 for a $100 investment. Had I had the same bet with five minutes to go, the profit would be $160.
As George Way once said to me: “You can’t eat value mate.” Packing Angel, despite the confidence of the market, ran fourth. Later I was able to watch the replay of the race and I was glad we had only audio in our Hoi An room. For the entire race, Packing Angel looked the winner and loomed at the 200m mark as though about to blow his rivals away. The run finished. He didn’t run out the 1800m of the race genuinely and had no excuses. My visions of paying for my new wardrobe purchases as I had done with my green linen jacket from Bergamo in 2023 were snuffed out.
No real harm done but it was on my mind as we readied for the night’s events. We had booked at Ganesh, the leather goods, ring and laundry needed to be collected and Dexter wanted a tattoo.
His upper left arm had a space which he didn’t quite like and also a faint inking of a photograph replication which had great meaning for us both. It was of a very small Dexter placing a flower in the hair of his late sister, my daughter, Hannah. He wanted the outline to be more distinct and to fill the unadorned skin with a dragon fly.
We walked to Iri Tattoo which was a very professional operation. My role – apart from being lured into getting some ink myself – was to suss out the shop’s cleanliness and supervise placement of the new art, as it was to go in an area of his arm not quite visible to him. The artist was very competent but had no English. Between the shop manager, mobile phone translation and Dexter’s input, they reached consensus and he lay on the bench to get the work done.
Having resisted all entreaties for me to get a tattoo, I was dispatched to be the pack horse for retrieving many of our purchases. The leather women had all our items ready. When they realised Dexter wasn’t there to fit the loafers, one of them hopped a motorbike and went to the tattoo shop. Service! When this was done, I filled the new overnight bag with our gear, went to the jeweller to have a final try on of my very shiny ring, got the shirts from Kim Only, collected the huge amount of laundry and walked home. How I had been meant to do all this while laying on a tattoo parlour bench was beyond me? While walking home, a local man was sitting alone outside a shop and made a comment about the bag: “That’s a nice one,” he said and I was sure to pass this onto Dexter as a local knowledge opinion.
When I returned tired and sweaty to our room, I couldn’t get wifi. I went to reception in my boxers and gave them a cook. Why wasn’t the wifi password written somewhere in the room? There was no letterhead, no plastic sleeve with the information, nothing. At Du Peak it was written like graffiti on three different walls in foot-high digits. I asked to speak to the manager and they rang some office in Hanoi. I explained my frustration with their hotel and was about to ask why they didn’t have an operational bar when the female voice answered me with a complete misunderstanding of anything I had just said. I hung up and went upstairs to shower and cool off.
Rehydrated body and a glass of water later, I walked into Ganesh at the appointed time. Dexter, I knew would be running late so I ordered a beer and sat watching the packed restaurant and doing the menu form. When I sent a message to Dexter inquiring as to his whereabouts, I received a video selfie – him astride a scooter and heading to dinner. He agreed with my food selections, ordered a mango margarita and we awaited the fare. Indian is one of my favourite culinary delights and Rohan (he hadn’t put a foot wrong in all his tips) had said this was the best he had ever eaten. The food was stunning.
We walked back into our hotel reception but the Yaly delivery hadn’t yet arrived. I was about to put the blame on the very casual staff when a motorbike turned up with our goods. They were beautifully packed to make suitcase inclusion an easier task and we repaired to the room to do just that. Our neighbour wasn’t there on his balcony. Either he had decided the pool area was safer or was still out on the prowl for that night’s companion?
Monday 3 March 2025
We rose early and Dexter took me to a new place, Espresso Station, for coffee. It had yellow walls and blue shutters, a taste of Italy in the East. Dexter then left to get our take away bahn mi from Bahn Queen. We were 15 minutes overdue for our airport car when we returned to our hotel and there was a man there in a rush. We didn’t know our chauffeur was sitting in the driver’s seat so we thought this bloke was in charge of our next journey.
“Are the bags packed?” Dexter asked him. He received a yes from the man and an amiable smile from our driver, who had come into view. “Pop the boot, will you?” my travel host said. It was empty as a bank account after a wedding. In Asia, the language barrier must alway be considered. A polite “Yes” can often mean the other interlocutor didn’t understand what you said and replied with the answer which they know meets with least resistance. We retrieved our luggage from the foyer, packed the boot and commenced the easy drive to Da Nang airport.
Dexter wanted to keep his new bag out of the hold but this was unrealistic. In the bags went, leaving him with a backpack and me with nothing to tote. Despite eating the bahn mi in the car, we stopped for something to eat and I had a forgettable Caesar salad sandwich in rye bread.
On the aircraft, I watched Ford vs Ferrari, a James Mangold film starring Matt Damon and Christian Bale. They played two racing car drivers, one now a designer, hired by Henry Ford II to win Le Mans. It was good. Then I killed the final two hours of flight time rewatching Conclave, the papal election mystery written by Robert Harris and starring Ralph Fiennes, Stanley Tucci and John Lithgow, all playing cardinals with some hope, among others, of being elected Pope. Good movie.
The flight had been good, customs in Perth had flowed smoothly and I was glad we hadn’t brought in the wooden pipe. During the rest of our trip, Duncan’s reference to straw headwear had been abbreviated to the less-offensive RNH. We didn’t have one but plenty in the queue did.
Sent straight through customs, we came out the sliding doors to the beautiful Annie. It was nearly midnight and she looked as fresh as a spring flower. We held hands as we walked to the car park.
“Well, how was it,” she asked.
“It was one of the great experiences of my life.”
ENDS
30 May 2025
I WRIGHT 