And then… Ninh Binh.

It’s another world.

Everything slows down instantly. You go from a lively, noisy, dense Vietnam to something much more open, more breathable. Endless rice fields that change colour depending on the light, limestone mountains rising from the ground like silent giants, narrow little roads lined with water, and buffalo wandering calmly as if they’ve already figured everything out in life and have nothing left to prove. Culturally, it also feels different. More rural, simpler, more rooted in the land. People live to the rhythm of the fields, the seasons, manual work. You feel a more ancient Vietnam, raw in the best sense of the word. Less urban chaos, more silence, more space to breathe. And after several cities, that contrast really does something to you.

And then there’s one moment that stays with you: the climb up Hang Múa. Honestly, it’s not a gentle little walk, no matter what people might say. It’s around 500 steps, maybe a bit more or less depending on how you count them—and especially depending on your very personal level of exhaustion halfway through. Stone steps, sometimes uneven, sometimes very steep, rising straight into the heat with very little shade to negotiate with your breath. At first, you’re motivated. You climb, you look around, you tell yourself it’s fine. Then reality settles in. The climb becomes a rhythm: walk, stop, breathe, repeat. Your heart speeding up, your legs starting to negotiate, your mind trying to convince your body it’s not that bad. And slowly, the landscape begins to change. The higher you go, the more the rice fields spread out below you, the more the mountains take over the horizon, the more the paths shrink into tiny lines. You realise the effort is part of what you’re seeing. Without the climb, you wouldn’t see this.

And finally, you reach the top.

The breath still slightly short, the legs burning lightly, but in front of you, a completely open view over the entire Ninh Binh valley. The rice fields cut like green patchworks, the limestone mountains rising out of the ground, and that strange silence you don’t find in cities. It’s a simple moment, but a very powerful one. Not spectacular in a forced wow way. And on the way down, there is always that strange little mix: fatigue in the body, but a kind of calm in the mind. As if the climb had quietly put something back in place without really saying it.

But.

Every.

Step.

Is.

Worth.

It

Worth it

And as if that wasn’t enough, that’s when I met three Singaporeans.

Three school friends, inseparable, with such a natural energy together that you could feel it from the very first minutes. They were already up there when I arrived at Hang Múa, and the conversation started effortlessly: a comment about the climb, a joke about the heat, a shared look at the view… and suddenly, it was no longer strangers crossing paths, but an improvised group. Without really asking any questions, we decided to continue the day together. And it became one of those long, simple days that stay in your memory.

We spent a lot of time at the top, watching the Ninh Binh landscape change with the light, taking photos one after another, trying to find the best angles as if we were improvised tour guides. But between photos, there was mostly a lot of laughter. Little jokes, conversations that went in every direction, and also comfortable silences, just looking around.

In the evening, we went to eat at a small local restaurant in Ninh Binh. Nothing fancy: simple tables, local dishes, a very calm atmosphere. But exactly what we needed after a day like that. And then, an unexpected moment: they had prepared a game to get to know each other. Nothing complicated, just questions, anecdotes, small light challenges. That’s where I learned a bit more about their reality. In Singapore, the school system is extremely structured, competitive, and very demanding. And yet, they were the opposite of the rigid image you might imagine. Funny, open, spontaneous, curious about everything. They had a very light energy, almost carefree, despite clearly having an intense path behind them. It was fascinating to see that contrast between what they experience at home and how they were here, traveling.

Another day, I decided to rent a bicycle in Ninh Binh. No exact itinerary, no particular goal, just the desire to get a little lost in the landscapes. And as soon as I started riding, everything shifted pace. The noise of the city disappeared almost instantly. In its place, narrow roads, sometimes a bit bumpy, cutting through rice fields of an almost unreal green. The wind was warm but soft, and everything became slower, simpler. The only real sound was the bicycle on the road, sometimes a few birds, and in the distance, motionless buffalo standing in the fields, completely indifferent to everything happening around them. I rode without any specific direction, just following paths that looked beautiful or interesting in the moment. Sometimes I stopped without reason, just to look. I passed through small villages where life unfolds quietly, without staging. Children waving and smiling, people working in the fields with repetitive, calm gestures, very simple scenes but incredibly alive in their everyday reality.

Another day, I went to explore Cuc Phuong National Park.

The journey to get there is already an experience in itself. You gradually leave inhabited areas, and the further you go, the greener, denser, and quieter everything becomes. The road is calm, surrounded by vegetation, with occasional isolated villages, simple houses, people greeting you without surprise, as if your presence on a bicycle is completely normal in their everyday landscape. And then you enter the park. There, it’s another level. The forest is dense, ancient, alive. The air changes slightly—more humid, cooler, heavier. It really feels like stepping into something deeper, almost untouched. The sounds change too: more birds, more wind through the trees, less human presence.

I spent the day cycling around, walking a bit, stopping often. There was no pressure to see anything specific. Just being there, in this vast space, letting time pass differently. And that is probably what struck me the most: this feeling that nature asks for nothing, but still brings you back to something very simple within yourself.

And then there were the boat rides. Whether at Trang An Landscape Complex or Tam Coc, it’s a completely different experience. You sit in a small boat, often rowed by a local person using their feet lol, and you let yourself glide across the water between karst mountains. Everything becomes slow. Silence takes up a huge space. The water is calm, almost mirror-like at times. The mountains surround you on both sides like massive natural walls. And sometimes, you enter caves: a few seconds of complete darkness, just the sound of water and paddles, then the light returns and the landscape opens up again.

And that’s Ninh Binh, in the end. It’s not a destination that tries to impress through noise or intensity. It’s a place that naturally slows you down, that removes the need for performance, and brings you back to much simpler things: breathing, looking, existing without rushing.