There are places you visit once and enjoy, places you remember fondly, and then there are places that somehow stay with you long after you have left.

The kind of places where, years later, you find yourself saying, “I wonder what it is like now?”

Koh Yao Noi was one of those places.

We first visited the island more than a decade earlier when it was still a quiet corner of Thailand. There were a handful of guesthouses, a few restaurants, simple roads winding through the countryside and long stretches where the loudest sound was usually a passing motorbike.

We liked it immediately.

Unlike some of Thailand’s more famous islands, which had embraced tourism with impressive enthusiasm, Koh Yao Noi had managed to remain relatively untouched. There were more visitors than before, more places to stay and a few more restaurants, but thankfully it had avoided becoming another stop on the well-worn backpacker circuit.

That was exactly why we wanted to return.

After a couple of months moving through large cities, we were ready for some quiet. Not just a few nights between destinations, but somewhere we could unpack properly, settle in and find our favourite places.

That, for us, is the pleasure of slow travel.

After a while, you stop feeling like a visitor passing through and begin to feel slightly like you belong. You recognise the roads. You know where to get coffee. Someone waves because they have seen you before.

It is a small thing, but it changes the way you experience a place.

Our speedboat from Ao Nang was packed with travellers heading towards various islands scattered across the Andaman Sea. There were families, backpackers and the usual collection of people who looked far more organised than we ever do.

The boat bounced across the water, the engine drowning out most conversation, and I found myself wondering whether Koh Yao Noi would still feel the same after all these years.

Returning somewhere you remember is always a little risky.

Sometimes places live up to the memory.

Sometimes they don’t.

Thirty minutes later, we slowed as we approached the island.

The wooden pier stretched out over the water, a few people waited at the end and that was about it.

Compared with the crowds, traffic and noise of Ao Nang, it felt wonderfully quiet.

Only a handful of people got off the boat.

A very good sign.

No beach parties.

No bucket cocktails.

No one trying to sell us a tour before we had even collected our bags.

Just a quiet island going about its business.

Our hostess had arranged a car to collect us, and soon we were winding along narrow roads through tropical greenery, passing farms, glimpses of coastline and the occasional chicken wandering confidently across the road as though it owned the place.

After twenty minutes we arrived at our home for the next two weeks.

Adrianna, an Italian expat who had made Koh Yao Noi her home many years earlier, welcomed us and showed us to our little wooden hut tucked away in a lush tropical garden.

It was simple.

It was charming.

It was perfect.

The hut was built in traditional Thai style, designed to allow air to flow freely through the space. This was excellent for ventilation.

It was also excellent for frogs.

And geckos.

Within a few days we accepted that we were not exactly living alone. We had simply moved into a shared house where the other residents were smaller, faster and contributed absolutely nothing towards the rent.

Most mornings a frog would be sitting calmly in the kitchen sink looking as though it was either waiting for breakfast or conducting a thorough inspection of our cleaning standards.

The tiny lizards moved confidently along the walls, clearly convinced they were the rightful owners and we were merely temporary occupants.

The best part of the hut, however, was the shaded verandah and the hammock.

That hammock quickly became my favourite place on the island.

It was also remarkably effective at convincing me that whatever I had planned to do could probably wait another hour.

Our days soon settled into an easy rhythm.

Mornings were spent working, afternoons wandering the island’s quiet roads and evenings were usually centred around food.

One of our favourite places became Lek’s.

After only a few visits we had gone from strangers to familiar faces. The food was excellent, but it was the small gestures that made us keep returning.

A little extra food.

A smile when we arrived.

A glass filled just slightly more generously.

Those are the things that make a place feel welcoming.

For a change from Thai food, we visited Ciao Bella, run by two Italians who had brought a little piece of home to Koh Yao Noi. The homemade pasta and pizzas were excellent, and after weeks of Asian food, it was a welcome change.

Sometimes your stomach simply announces that it would like to meet something familiar.

For sunset drinks, we often found ourselves at Pa Sai Thai Food, sitting beneath the trees near the beach watching the day disappear.

Simple.

Relaxed.

Exactly what we had come for.

We also became regular visitors to The Pub – Extra Time Sports Bar and Restaurant for their excellent burgers and mojitos.

After many weeks travelling, sometimes your body quietly suggests that perhaps something involving bread, cheese and a cold drink would be appreciated.

We listened.

Two weeks passed quickly.

That is always the strange thing about slow travel. You arrive thinking you have all the time in the world, then suddenly you are looking around the room wondering where all your belongings came from and how you managed to accumulate so much again.

On our last morning we packed our bags, said goodbye to Adrianna and headed back to the ferry pier.

As the boat pulled away, we watched Koh Yao Noi slowly disappear behind us.

The island had changed slightly since our first visit, as all places do.

There were more visitors.

More accommodation.

More restaurants.

But the things that mattered remained.

The quiet roads.

The friendly people.

The good food.

The feeling that life here moved at its own pace.

Koh Yao Noi was not the most dramatic place we had ever visited.

It didn’t need to be.

What we loved about it were the ordinary moments.

A morning coffee.

A walk with no destination.

A familiar face at a restaurant.

A sunset drink.

A frog sitting in the kitchen sink as though it paid rent.

Those are often the memories that last.

We left knowing we would return.

When, we didn’t know.

But some places you don’t really say goodbye to.

You simply say:

See you next time.