Leaving Koh Yao Noi was always going to be difficult.

Not because we were heading somewhere unknown, but because we were leaving exactly the kind of place we love. A place where days had developed their own rhythm, where we recognised people, knew where to eat and had a hammock waiting for us when the afternoon heat became too much.

But travel has a habit of moving you along whether you are ready or not.

We boarded the ferry back to Ao Nang, where we would spend one night before beginning the next leg of our journey to Koh Samui.

The boat was packed with travellers heading in the opposite direction—people arriving from islands further south, backpacks strapped on, phones in hand, all looking excited about whatever came next.

The speedboat skimmed across the Andaman Sea, bouncing over the waves at a speed that suggested the driver had somewhere important to be. Or perhaps he simply enjoyed making sure nobody had time to become too comfortable.

Arriving back in Ao Nang was an entertaining reminder of one of the reasons we prefer travelling with backpacks.

The ferry landed directly onto the beach, which meant the usual routine: climb down a narrow ladder, collect your bags and walk through the sand to shore.

Simple enough.

Unless, of course, you are travelling with a suitcase that appears to contain enough possessions for a small expedition.

I once again found myself fascinated by my fellow travellers attempting to drag enormous wheeled cases through deep sand.

It rarely went well.

Men wrestled with oversized suitcases, often accompanied by a partner carrying additional bags, and I could almost hear the silent internal conversation:

“Why did we bring this much stuff?”

“Why did I agree to carry half of it?”

“Is this really how I imagined my tropical island holiday?”

Women were often no better, navigating the beach in shoes that had clearly never met sand before, carrying handbags, shopping bags and pieces of luggage that looked larger than my entire backpack.

I have said this before, but I genuinely do not understand it.

What is in those suitcases?

What possible collection of items is required for a tropical beach holiday?

It remains one of life’s great mysteries.

AP and I simply swung our backpacks over our shoulders, walked past the struggling crowds and quickly found a tuk-tuk.

Within minutes we were hurtling through the streets of Ao Nang.

And I mean hurtling.

Thai tuk-tuks appear to operate under the principle that if you are going to travel without doors, seatbelts or much protection from the outside world, you may as well arrive quickly.

Our beachfront hotel from our previous visit was unfortunately fully booked, so we had found another option: The Blue Ba You.

An unusual name, certainly.

Possibly chosen by someone who had a limited relationship with English but excellent confidence.

Fortunately, the hotel itself was much better than the name suggested.

It was a charming little place, and our room opened directly onto the pool. One step from our door and we could be in the water, which, after travelling in tropical heat, is a feature I believe should be considered essential.

The hotel also had a pleasant restaurant with friendly staff, making our brief return to Ao Nang much more enjoyable than our first impression of the town had suggested.

The following morning, after a relaxed breakfast, our minivan arrived to collect us.

And this was where Thailand reminded us why travelling here is often so wonderfully easy.

I had booked the entire journey online, and despite my natural suspicion that anything involving multiple forms of transport would inevitably go wrong, everything worked.

Perfectly.

We were collected from the hotel, delivered to the bus station in Krabi, handed a collection of tickets and instructions, and directed towards a comfortable coach.

No confusion.

No wondering where we should be.

No standing beside a road hoping that the correct vehicle would eventually appear.

The bus carried us for three hours towards Surat Thani, where we stopped at a roadside rest area for food, drinks and the essential traveller ritual—the search for a decent toilet.

While there, I watched an entertaining little drama unfold involving a British traveller and a tray of eggs.

He confidently purchased what he clearly believed were hard-boiled eggs.

They were not.

This important distinction became apparent when he cracked one open and a stream of raw egg ran down his arm.

The expression on his face was priceless — a mixture of shock, betrayal and the sudden realisation that perhaps asking a few questions first might have been useful.

I felt for him, although I also felt that anyone buying mystery eggs in a roadside restaurant probably needs to accept that surprises are part of the experience.

Eventually, we arrived at the ferry terminal, transferred ourselves and our bags onto the boat and settled in for the crossing to Koh Samui.

The ferry ride took around an hour and a half, giving me time to appreciate just how smoothly the entire operation had worked.

One ticket.

One organised chain of transport.

One journey.

Everything connected.

It made me think about France, where even a simple trip from a train station to home can somehow become an exercise in logistics, patience and accepting that perhaps you were never meant to arrive.

Upon reaching Koh Samui, we were directed to yet another minivan, which delivered us directly to our apartment.

The entire process had been almost suspiciously efficient.

And, I have to admit, I loved it.

Our apartment itself was lovely. It was located within a large complex with a beautiful pool and everything we needed for a comfortable stay.

Unfortunately, there was one small problem.

The location.

It was rather isolated.

Normally this would not bother us—we often choose quieter locations—but on Samui we quickly discovered that being somewhere quiet and being somewhere convenient are not always the same thing.

We tried booking Grab cars.

None arrived.

Ever.

Eventually we accepted that if we wanted groceries, we were walking.

The supermarket was only about three kilometres away, which in normal circumstances is nothing. In tropical heat while carrying bags of food, it becomes a slightly different calculation.

Most meals were therefore cooked at home, although occasionally we walked to a small local restaurant nearby.

And slowly, we formed our impression of Koh Samui.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a positive one.

After the peace and simplicity of Koh Yao Noi, Samui felt like the complete opposite. It was crowded, commercialised and built around mass tourism. Prices were higher, traffic was everywhere and much of the island seemed designed around tourists rather than the people who actually lived there.

Of course, Koh Samui has beautiful beaches and plenty of people love it.

But that is the thing about travel.

A place can be objectively beautiful and still not be right for you.

For us, it lacked the things we had loved about Koh Yao Noi—the quiet roads, the feeling of discovery, the small interactions and the sense that we were somewhere rather than simply passing through a tourism machine.

So we settled into our temporary routine.

We worked on our projects.

We cooked meals in the apartment.

We spent afternoons floating in the pool.

It wasn’t the immersive travel experience we usually look for, but sometimes travel throws you a place that is simply a stepping stone.

And that is okay.

Three weeks passed quickly.

Before long we were packing our bags again, preparing for another ferry journey, this time heading north to Chumphon—a town about four hours away where I had randomly booked a beachfront hotel.

As we left Koh Samui, I didn’t feel the usual sadness that comes with leaving somewhere we have enjoyed.

No last coffee.

No lingering farewell.

No promise to return.

Instead, I felt relief.

Some places capture your imagination and quietly become part of your travel story.

Some places make you want to return before you have even left.

Koh Samui was not one of those places.

It had been an experience.

It had been interesting.

But would I go back?

Probably not.

And sometimes, that is part of travelling too.