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 dog-eared beside me
Today feels like one of those days where the world doesn’t just exist, it breathes. The local fishermen are already out, their long-tail boats cutting through morning mist like silent promises. I can smell Achara’s cooking from here – that magical blend of lemongrass, chili, and generations of culinary wisdom.
My notebook’s open, pages slightly damp from the sea air. Been writing about old Rung’s seafood legacy – not just a story about food, but about survival, about hands that know more history than most history books.
takes another beer sip
Sometimes I think Bukowski would’ve loved this – this raw, unfiltered existence where every moment is a poem, every meal a rebellion against mundane life.
The sun’s climbing now, painting everything in that impossible Thai gold. Another day begins, and I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
scribbles something in the notebook, smiling slightly
