Hoi An

A small shrine sits inside the span, so the incense reaches you as you cross. Dogs guard one end and monkeys the other, and it is this bridge the 20,000 dong note shows on its reverse. Repairs in 2022 took it to pieces, and it was open again by August 2024.

Come on the fourteenth night of a lunar month. For that night the old town cuts its electric lights. Silk lanterns hang outside every shop, motorbikes are barred, and paper lanterns go on the river. Lanterns burn nightly here, but only this one without bulbs.

The merchant family that built this house still lives in it. Flood heights are marked on the wall with the year the river came in, and the highest is above head height. Entry is on the old-town ticket, and someone in each room explains what you see.

Spirals of incense strung overhead take about one month to burn out, each with a name tag. The main shrine holds Thien Hau, who watches over people at sea, and behind her sit twelve midwife goddesses, which is why couples hoping for a child come here.

It faces the crossroads by the market and was built in 1653. Two life-size horses stand across the courtyard from one another, one white and one red. Carp in the courtyard pond push their mouths above the water for whatever visitors throw in.

The bricks were laid without a visible joint, and no one has reproduced whatever bound them. Cham towers of the 4th to 13th centuries stand about the valley, and the craters from the 1969 bombing are still open. Arrive before the coaches for shade and quiet.

Twenty minutes on a bicycle from the old town gets you here, and unlike neighbouring Cua Dai the sand has stayed wide. Between October and February the rip is strong, and swimmers are told to stay inside the flagged stretch.

Rows of geotextile tubes lie where the sand used to be. This was Hoi An's main beach until erosion set in during the 2000s and a 2014 typhoon took the rest; work began in 2025 to rebuild it with submerged breakwaters and pumped sand.

The only fertiliser is waterweed dredged out of the river. Nothing chemical goes on the beds, so leaves stay small and scent strong, and Hoi An kitchens take their herbs here. UN Tourism named it a Best Tourism Village in 2024; working a bed is charged for.

Nipa palm planted for thatch closes over both banks of the creek. You go in on the round bamboo basket boats the fishermen use, though many now run loudspeakers and spin the boat like a top, so a quiet paddler has to be asked for.

Small islands a speedboat ride out from Cua Dai pier, listed as a UNESCO biosphere reserve. Plastic bags are banned on the island, so bring your own bag for shopping. When the northeast winter wind blows, sailings are often called off.

A red-clay village on the river upstream from the old town, a wheel and kiln in yard after yard. Its Terracotta Park holds famous buildings of the world fired small in clay. Clay whistles are the souvenir most visitors carry off.

Woodworkers on Cam Kim island, facing the old town, whose families have carved the pillars and beams of Hoi An's houses for generations. Stand at any workshop door to watch the chisels. Island lanes thread between paddies, good for cycling.

The market on the Thu Bon where Tran Phu street ends to the east. Its food hall lines up cao lau and mi Quang stalls, cheaper than old town restaurants. Riverside fish stalls only bustle as the dawn boats land, and they are packed up before noon.

A hall built by Cantonese merchants, a few steps east of the Japanese Bridge. Its back garden fountain draws more attention than the shrine in front: a dragon and a carp pieced together from broken porcelain. Entry is on the combined old town ticket.

Over the An Hoi bridge, opposite the old quarter, a night market stretches down the bank. Silk lantern stalls cluster here, many visitors buying the folding kind, with skewer grills and mango rice paper stalls between. The full row is up only after dark.

A gallery where French photographer Rehahn hangs his portraits of Vietnam's ethnic minorities beside each group's traditional dress. Entry costs nothing. Every photo carries a note telling that person's story, which keeps people longer than they plan.