July 2025

Ah, another morning on Maenam Beach. The tide’s whispering something today something about memories and salt and endless horizons. I’ve been here long enough that the beach knows me, and I know its rhythms better than most. *looks out at the turquoise waters*

*takes a swig from a local Chang beer, adjusts reading glasses* You know, mornings here aren’t like anywhere else in the world. The light here doesn’t just arrive it cascades, soft as silk, washing over the beach like liquid gold. I’ve been watching this stretch of Maenam for years now, and each sunrise still catches me by surprise.

Morning Musings on Maenam The tide whispers secrets this morning, rolling in like an old friend with stories tucked between its waves. My coffee black as Bukowski’s mood, strong as his prose sits halfdrunk beside me. Achara’s fishing boat is already cutting through the morning mist, a silhouette dancing between sea and sky.

Another morning on Maenam Beach. The tide’s whispering its usual secrets, and I’m here Richard Doherty, 64, more at home in this Thai paradise than I ever was in my old Dublin suburb. *looks out at the ocean, a Bukowski paperback dogeared beside me*

The morning hangs heavy with salt and possibility here on Maenam Beach. My coffee black as Bukowski’s mood, strong as the memories that drift like weathered fishing nets across my consciousness. Achara’s grandson just delivered fresh prawns, caught just before sunrise. These aren’t just seafood; they’re living poetry, each crustacean a verse written by the Gulf of Thailand. The way they glisten, man it’s like they’re still dreaming of deeper waters.

The morning light here is different from anywhere else I’ve known. It doesn’t creep in it explodes, like someone’s torn open a golden watercolor across the sky. My coffee sits beside me, strong enough to wake the sleeping spirits of this island.

I’ve just finished my morning coffee strong, black, with a hint of local palm sugar that whispers stories of tropical mornings. Bukowski would’ve loved this view, I think. Not the romantic postcard perfection, but the raw, unfiltered beauty of a place that doesn’t try to impress anyone.

Another morning on Maenam Beach. The tide’s whispering those familiar stories again the ones Bukowski would’ve loved if he’d ever made it out to this slice of Thai paradise. My notebook’s open, pages slightly damp from the morning humidity, and the local fishermen are already hauling in their catch.