Back to Hội An: Rice Fields, Golden Light & Slowing Down

There’s a different feeling when you return somewhere that already feels like home. Stepping back into Hoi An this summer wasn’t about ticking off sights or planning the next move. It was about exhaling.

After months of moving, packing, navigating, and chasing the next destination, we finally found it our perfect little villa tucked deep in the rice fields just outside town.

Mornings here begin with soft light spilling across endless green, water buffalo wandering lazily in the distance, and the quiet hum of insects rising with the heat. It’s peaceful in a way that slows your pulse almost instantly. The kind of place where time stretches.

We knew we wanted to stay longer this time. To unpack properly. To let routine return. To trade constant motion for something steadier.

By late afternoon on our first evening back, the pull of the Old Town was too strong to resist. We picked up a "Grab" as the sun began its slow descent, the air thick and warm, the sky turning that soft pastel blue that only lasts a few minutes before gold takes over.

Entering Hoi An Ancient Town at sunset always feels cinematic yellow walls glowing, lanterns flickering to life, silhouettes drifting across the river.

The light was perfect. That low, forgiving glow that wraps around faces and textures everything in warmth. Locals set up their evening stalls, tourists wandered with fresh curiosity, and familiar street vendors greeted us with smiles of recognition. There’s something special about shooting in a place where you’re no longer a stranger. The camera feels less intrusive. Conversations flow more easily. The moments feel shared rather than taken.

I found myself slowing down with the camera too not hunting for shots, but waiting for them. Watching reflections ripple along the Thu Bồn River. Framing the way lantern light catches on a bicycle wheel. Noticing the quiet interactions happening just beyond the busiest corners.

It reminded me why Hội An keeps calling us back. It isn’t just the golden facades or the postcard evenings. It’s the rhythm the blend of calm countryside mornings and lively, glowing nights. The balance between movement and stillness.

As we cycled back through the darkening rice fields later that night, fireflies flickering in the distance, there was a deep sense of contentment. For the first time in a while, we’re not thinking about what’s next.

We’re thinking about being here.

The next few months will be about slowing down building routines, revisiting favourite coffee spots, getting to know the streets in different weather and different moods. About letting the work evolve naturally instead of rushing it. About settling into this corner of Vietnam and seeing what unfolds when you stop moving long enough to really look.

And honestly, I can’t wait.