Cocktails on the Rails

From the lantern-lit streets of Hoi An to the quiet shores of Quy Nhon, a journey aboard The Vietage by Anantara offers a different perspective on Central Vietnam, where the pleasures of travel extend well beyond the destination.

With thanks to Anantara Hoi An Resort and Anantara Quy Nhon Villas for hosting my stays and the journey aboard The Vietage by Anantara.

It is barely 9.30 in the morning, and I am already contemplating my first cocktail of the day.

From my window-side seat, I watch Da Nang slowly come to life as motorcycles weave through narrow streets, vendors manoeuvre their carts through the morning traffic, and locals gather around steaming bowls of noodles on low plastic stools. The train is moving at a leisurely pace, close enough to the houses and roadside stalls for me to catch fleeting glimpses of everyday life. I take another sip of Vietnamese coconut coffee, perfectly content to let the morning unfold outside my window.

Breakfast has just been served when Bien, one of the train attendants, approaches with a drinks menu. Dressed in a smart waistcoat and blazer designed by Vietnamese fashion designer Tom Trandt, he watches with an amused smile as my attention drifts towards the cocktail selection. There are five railway-inspired creations to choose from, and although it is still rather early for a drink, I can think of no compelling reason to resist. I settle on an All Aboard, a refreshing combination of Vietnamese craft gin, cucumber juice, rosemary syrup, mint and lime, which arrives just as the train begins to exchange the crowded streets of Da Nang for the open countryside.

I am travelling aboard The Vietage by Anantara, an exclusive railway carriage connecting two of the hospitality group's resorts in Central Vietnam: Anantara Hoi An Resort and Anantara Quy Nhon Villas. Attached to the Reunification Express, the carriage is almost indistinguishable from the regular passenger train on the outside, yet stepping aboard reveals an entirely different world. Designed by Ho Chi Minh City-based ShapeUs Studio, its interior combines Art Deco influences with contemporary Indochinese design, bringing together warm timber, earthy colours and curved rattan partitions. Six generously proportioned two-person booths accommodate just twelve passengers, while a marble-topped bar occupies the centre of the carriage. There is even a treatment room where guests can enjoy a massage during the journey.

Yet what appeals to me most is not the elegant interior or the attentive service, but the prospect of travelling without the familiar inconveniences of flying. There are no security queues to negotiate, no departure gates to locate and no anxious calculations about how early to arrive at the airport. Instead, the journey becomes part of the holiday itself, with time to eat, drink, read or simply watch the landscape change beyond the windows.

A Taste of Hoi An

My journey with Anantara had begun two days earlier in Hoi An, the historic trading port whose remarkably preserved architecture reflects centuries of cultural exchange between Vietnamese, Chinese, Japanese and European merchants. Located along the Thu Bon River, Anantara Hoi An Resort occupies a collection of colonial-style buildings surrounded by tropical gardens, within easy walking distance of the UNESCO-listed Ancient Town.

One evening, I find myself at the resort's Riverside Café, sipping a cocktail aptly named Pho while watching small boats decorated with colourful lanterns drift along the river. A gentle breeze passes through the open-air terrace, and across the water, the old town is gradually illuminated by the warm glow of lanterns hanging from shopfronts and balconies. It is an undeniably picturesque scene, although what interests me more about Hoi An lies beyond its familiar postcard image.

Food has always been one of my favourite ways to discover a place, and Hoi An's culinary traditions provide a particularly fascinating introduction to the town's history. During a street food tour, I venture beyond the restaurants frequented by visitors to explore family-run eateries and neighbourhood stalls, sampling dishes that have become inseparable from the region's identity. Among them are Mì Quảng, a turmeric-yellow noodle dish served with aromatic broth, pork and fresh herbs, and Cao Lầu, whose distinctive chewy noodles are accompanied by slices of barbecued pork and greens.

There are other discoveries along the way, from crisp Bánh Xèo pancakes to refreshing papaya salad, but the dish that leaves the strongest impression is Bánh Bao Bánh Vạc, better known as white rose dumplings. Their delicate translucent wrappers are folded into flower-like shapes and filled with savoury ingredients, producing a dish that is as pleasing to look at as it is to eat. Like many of Hoi An's traditional specialities, their appeal lies in techniques refined over generations rather than elaborate presentation.

The Pleasure of Going Slowly

Back aboard The Vietage, lunch is served at around eleven. My three-course meal begins with a seafood salad of green papaya, peanuts, chargrilled squid and prawns, followed by braised wagyu neck and a crème brûlée made with Vietnamese chocolate from Dong Nai. After lunch, I retreat to the treatment room for a twenty-minute head, neck and shoulder massage before returning to the bar for another cocktail, a Vietmojito prepared with locally produced rum, butterfly pea tea, ginger and lemongrass.

Seated at the curved marble counter, I watch the countryside pass through the large windows, occasionally catching my reflection against the landscape. There is something faintly nostalgic about the experience, reminiscent of an era when travelling by train was considered an occasion in itself rather than merely a means of getting from one place to another.

Beyond the windows, Central Vietnam reveals itself in an ever-changing succession of scenes. Brilliant green paddy fields stretch towards distant mountains, their surfaces dotted with white storks, while farmers in conical hats work among the crops and water buffalo wander along narrow earthen paths. Small shrines and cemeteries appear unexpectedly between the fields, followed by clusters of houses, stretches of coastline and brief glimpses of the sea.

The scenery is not uniformly spectacular, nor does it need to be. What makes the journey absorbing is the opportunity to observe the ordinary rhythms of life in places I would otherwise have passed over entirely.

As the train approaches Quy Nhon, the distinctive red-brick towers of ancient Cham temples begin to appear in the distance, offering a first glimpse of the region's historical significance. Once an important centre of the Champa civilisation, the coastal province of Binh Dinh is home to some of Vietnam's remarkable surviving Cham monuments, alongside a rich tradition of martial arts and a seafood culture shaped by its long coastline.

Beyond the Familiar

Some six hours after leaving Da Nang, followed by a thirty-minute transfer from the station, I arrive at Anantara Quy Nhon Villas and find myself swimming beneath the afternoon sun in the private pool of my beachfront villa. The resort occupies a secluded cove south of Bai Xep Beach, with just twenty-five pool villas scattered across seven acres of tropical gardens that descend towards a private stretch of sand. From my terrace, the view extends across an expanse of water interrupted only by two small uninhabited islands and the occasional fishing boat.

I must admit that I had initially been reluctant to leave Hoi An for Quy Nhon, a city some 300 kilometres farther south that receives considerably less international attention. Yet the tranquillity of the resort soon begins to work its charm, and after an afternoon spent swimming and enjoying the sea breeze, I am tempted to abandon my plans and remain here for the next two days.

Fortunately, curiosity gets the better of me.

The following morning, I meet Dinh Quoe Thich, a local guide who was born in Binh Dinh and spent several years living in Hoi An before returning home to establish his own tour business. As we drive through the province, he speaks with evident pride about its cultural heritage and his ambition to introduce more visitors to a part of Vietnam that has largely remained outside the established tourist circuit.

Our itinerary includes Thap Thap Pagoda, whose history stretches back more than three centuries, and a group of extraordinary twelfth-century Cham temple towers. Built by the Champa civilisation, which once controlled much of what is now Central and Southern Vietnam, these red-brick structures stand as reminders of a complex history of trade, religion and cultural exchange. Their architectural details are fascinating, but what strikes me most is the extraordinary quietness surrounding them. Unlike the heavily visited heritage sites elsewhere in Vietnam, there are no crowds gathering for photographs, no souvenir stalls competing for attention and, during our visit, barely another person in sight.

Later, at the Quang Trung Museum, I learn about the Tay Son Rebellion and Binh Dinh's longstanding association with traditional Vietnamese martial arts. The province is widely regarded as one of the country's principal centres of martial arts, and a demonstration of its distinctive techniques provides an impressive introduction to a tradition that remains an important part of local cultural identity.

As it happens, I have already signed up for a Viet Vo Dao lesson back at Anantara Quy Nhon, where the resort's head of security, Master Phuc, also happens to be an accomplished martial arts instructor. Wearing a black martial arts uniform, I attempt to follow his movements on the lawn near the lobby, providing considerable amusement for a few guests passing by. My efforts are less than graceful, particularly when he introduces a rather intimidating bamboo stick, but Master Phuc remains endlessly patient as he guides me through the various techniques.

I emerge from the lesson with no illusions about my martial arts abilities.

The Flavours of Quy Nhon

Quy Nhon's culinary traditions are equally deserving of attention, particularly given the abundance of seafood available along this stretch of coastline. That evening, I dine at Sea.Fire.Salt, Anantara Quy Nhon's all-day restaurant, where a selection of thirty-six different salts is presented to guests, each with its own characteristics and suggested pairings. My dinner consists of lobster, prawns and scallops grilled on a salt block, allowing the natural sweetness of the seafood to take centre stage. As I work my way through the meal, the resort's General Manager, Erik, explains that some of the seafood served at the restaurant is caught by fishermen working in the nearby cove.

Eager to learn more about the ingredients used in local cooking, I accompany one of the resort's chefs to Cho Dam the following morning. Originally established as a seafood market, it has evolved into one of Quy Nhon's largest marketplaces, with a bewildering assortment of stalls selling everything from household goods and fabrics to vegetables, meat and freshly caught fish. We navigate the crowded aisles and pavement stalls, stopping occasionally as the chef points out seasonal produce, fragrant herbs and ingredients commonly used in the region's kitchens.

Unlike a conventional market visit, where I might simply browse the stalls and take photographs, this excursion has a practical purpose. We are here to select ingredients for a cooking lesson back at the resort, and the chef explains how the various herbs, spices and sauces contribute to the balance of flavours in Vietnamese cuisine. Later, under his guidance, I prepare my own dishes, discovering that the apparent simplicity of many Vietnamese recipes often conceals a careful understanding of texture, seasoning and proportion.

By now, I have begun to appreciate Quy Nhon in a way I had not anticipated. Its appeal lies not in an abundance of internationally recognised attractions, but in the opportunity to explore a place where local traditions remain part of everyday life. Between the ancient Cham monuments, the martial arts lesson, the morning market and the leisurely hours by the sea, two days have passed rather too quickly.

Before we part, Thich suggests taking me on a hike up a nearby mountain, where the sunrise is apparently spectacular. Unfortunately, my departure is already approaching, and the excursion will have to wait for another visit. Perhaps leaving something unexplored is not such a bad way to end a journey. After all, there is always pleasure in having a reason to return.

One Last Surprise

Later that afternoon, I am once again aboard The Vietage, travelling north towards Da Nang. As the train makes its way through the countryside, I find myself reflecting on the past few days, from the bustling streets and riverside restaurants of Hoi An to the quiet temples and fishing communities of Binh Dinh.

While I am settling into my seat, a train attendant approaches with an unexpected delivery: a tray containing three bottles of artisanal Vietnamese gin, accompanied by glasses and an assortment of mixers. The selection includes Sông Cái Floral Gin, Lady Trieu Contemporary Gin and Saigon Baigur Premium Dry Gin, each offering its own interpretation of Vietnamese botanicals and flavours.

Then I remember a conversation from dinner the previous evening. Having noticed my enthusiasm for gin and cocktails, Erik had mentioned that he might arrange a little surprise for my return journey. True to his word, he had organised a private gin tasting aboard the train, complete with everything I needed to experiment with different combinations.

It is a thoughtful gesture, made all the more memorable because it responds to a personal interest rather than following a predetermined itinerary. Throughout the trip, Anantara has provided an impressive collection of experiences, from the elegant railway carriage and private pool villas to culinary excursions and encounters with local traditions. Yet it is this relatively simple act of remembering a conversation that leaves one of the strongest impressions.

As I begin mixing my own gin cocktail, I think back to the cooking lesson earlier that morning. Within the space of a day, I have gone from preparing Vietnamese dishes under the guidance of a chef to experimenting with locally produced spirits aboard a moving train. Both experiences have offered a small but meaningful way of engaging with the flavours of the country, rather than merely consuming them.

Outside, the landscape continues to unfold as the train carries me back towards Da Nang. I raise my glass to the passing countryside, grateful for the places I have discovered, the people I have met and, of course, the unexpected pleasures of travelling slowly.

It seems only appropriate that a journey which began with a cocktail should end with one, too.