An uneventful trip, the lowlight of which was passing through Danang which is possibly the ugliest town we've seen since leaving the UK. Think Middlesbrough with sunshine (difficult I know, as they haven't seen daylight on Teeside since ICI set up shop).
Hoi An, on the other hand - which is only 15 miles down the road - is a gorgeous place. Mercifully untouched during the war, it has more character than you could shake a stick at, the centrepiece of which is a nicely preserved old quarter that they've had the good sense to pedestrianise.
The town is renowned for its large community of master tailors and dressmakers, and few visitors leave without treating themselves to at least one bit of bespoke clobber. You name it, they'll knock it together, from Armani and Boss 3 piece replicas, to simple shirts, skirts and saucy underwear. All made to measure, and all at ludicrously low prices.
Tempted to get myself Hugo'd up for thirty quid, but with space being so tight in our backpacks opted for a shirt and trouser combo for half that amount. Wend, of course, is something of a miracle worker in these situations, and assures me the dress, skirt, trousers and two tops she ordered will fit easily into her already full bag.
Prior to today I'd only ever had my inside leg measured the once - by a tubby little bloke from Islington called Charlie Allen - an unpleasant yet necessary ordeal as he was taking dimensions for my wedding suit.
Call me a complete heterosexual, but it's much more fun when the tape measure's in the hands of someone 4 stone lighter of the opposite sex.
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