The slow road to Luang Prabang

The boat leaves Huay Xai a little after dawn, low and long and painted the colour of river mud. For the next two days it is home: a bench, a flask of tea, and a view that never quite repeats itself.

There is no hurrying the Mekong. The river sets the pace, and after the first hour you stop fighting it. Villages slide past on the banks — a school, a temple, a boy waving a fishing net — and the guide names them one by one without being asked.

By the time the golden roofs of Luang Prabang appear on the second evening, something has shifted. You arrive slower, quieter, and far more ready to be somewhere than any flight could have left you.