About Me

The first time I stood on a rickety longtail boat in Damnoen Saduak Floating Market, balancing precariously with one hand on my camera and the other desperately gripping the wooden edge, I knew I was in trouble. Not the bad kind of trouble—the beautiful kind that happens when a place gets under your skin. The air hung thick with the scent of grilled fish, sweet mangoes, and diesel from the boat engines. All around me, vendors called out from their wooden vessels piled high with everything from steaming bowls of noodles to handwoven hats. A woman in her sixties, her face weathered by sun and smiles, paddled up alongside us and hooked our boat with a bamboo pole. She grinned, revealing betel-stained teeth, and thrust a bag of sliced pineapple toward me. That moment—suspended between the chaos and the calm, the familiar and the foreign—I knew Thailand had me hooked.

Hey there, I’m Jack. Not a travel guru or a digital nomad with millions of Instagram followers—just a regular guy who stumbled into Thailand six years ago and never quite managed to extract it from my heart. Back home in Manchester, I work in marketing (nothing glamorous, trust me), but every spare penny and vacation day goes toward my Thai adventures. My first passport stamp came at 19, a graduation gift from my parents. I’d been obsessed with martial arts films as a kid, and while that’s hardly a sophisticated reason to visit Southeast Asia, it was enough to spark something real.

I started Thai Trails Unraveled after my third trip, when friends kept asking me for tips beyond the usual “Top 10 Things to Do in Bangkok” lists. I realized there was a hunger for stories about the Thailand that exists beyond the tourist bubble—the roadside noodle shops where locals slurp fervently at dawn, the forgotten temples where monks still practice ancient meditation techniques, the mountain villages where traditions remain unchanged despite the world spinning madly beyond their borders.

Don’t get me wrong—I love the Grand Palace and Phi Phi Islands like everyone else. But there’s something magical about turning down an unmarked soi in Chiang Mai and discovering a workshop where a third-generation silversmith creates pieces using techniques from the ancient Lanna kingdom. Or sharing a bottle of Sangsom whiskey with fishermen on a nameless beach in Trang as they teach you words in southern Thai dialect you’ll never find in a phrasebook.

This isn’t just a blog; it’s my love letter to Thailand, scribbled from dusty trails and golden temples, from midnight street food stalls and sunrise mountain peaks. It’s every wrong turn that led somewhere right, every conversation pieced together with broken Thai and patient smiles, every moment that reminded me why we travel in the first place—not to escape our lives, but to find pieces of ourselves we never knew were missing.

My Journey to Thailand: How It All Began

Looking back, I was painfully unprepared for my first Thai adventure. I landed in Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi Airport in August 2017, sweating through my t-shirt before I even cleared immigration. The humidity hit like a warm, wet blanket, and the taxi driver who took me into the city laughed at my wide-eyed expression as we weaved through traffic that seemed to follow rules from another dimension entirely.

I’d booked a hostel on Khao San Road—rookie mistake. My guidebook (yes, an actual physical book—this was before I trusted online recommendations) called it the “backpacker hub of Southeast Asia.” What it didn’t mention was the relentless thumping bass that would shake my dorm bed until 3 a.m., or the persistent offers of ping-pong shows and “very strong” cocktails from touts who seemed to materialize from thin air.

After two sleepless nights, I fled to Ayutthaya, the ancient capital. I remember sitting among the crumbling brick ruins of Wat Mahathat at sunset, watching an orange-robed monk sweep fallen leaves with a bundle of sticks. No one was selling anything. No music played. The only sounds were birds, distant traffic, and the rhythmic scratch of his makeshift broom. Something inside me quieted for the first time since I’d arrived.

The turning point—the real one—came a week later in Kanchanaburi. I’d gone to see the Bridge on the River Kwai (another tourist checkbox), but ended up spending three days in a riverside guesthouse run by a woman named Malee. She was probably in her fifties, spoke limited English, and treated me like a son who’d been away too long. On my second night, she invited me to join her family for dinner. We sat cross-legged on bamboo mats, eating som tam that made my eyes water and sticky rice that we rolled into balls with our fingers. Her husband showed me photos of their children studying in Bangkok. Her nephew taught me how to properly wrap a sarong. We communicated through gestures, my phrasebook Thai, and her patient corrections of my pronunciation.

When I left, Malee pressed a small Buddha amulet into my palm and told me, “For protection. Come back again.” I still wear it on a cord around my neck.

Why Thailand? I’ve asked myself this question countless times. I’ve since traveled to Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos—all beautiful, all fascinating. But something about Thailand keeps pulling me back. Maybe it’s the disarming warmth of people who have every reason to be jaded by tourism but still invite strangers to family meals. Perhaps it’s the seamless blend of ancient and modern—monks checking smartphones inside 800-year-old temples, spirit houses standing in the shadows of gleaming skyscrapers.

Or maybe it’s how Thailand forces me to reconcile contradictions: the pristine beaches and the plastic pollution, the peaceful Buddhist teachings and the chaotic nightlife, the smiling hospitality and the hard-nosed business sense. Thailand refuses to be one thing, and that complexity mirrors something in me that I’m still trying to understand.

With each return trip, my path changed. The first journey was all tourist highlights—the ancient capitals, the famous beaches, the night markets. By trip three, I was spending days in neighborhoods where tourists rarely ventured, attempting conversations in my broken Thai, and developing strange cravings for boat noodles at odd hours. I graduated from guided tours to motorbike rentals, from resort pools to hidden waterfalls that required local knowledge and rough hikes to reach.

What Drives Me: The Heart of Thai Trails Unraveled

I have an embarrassing confession: I once spent three days in Sukhothai—Thailand’s first true capital and a UNESCO World Heritage site—without visiting the main historical park. Instead, I became obsessed with a tiny noodle shop on the outskirts of New Sukhothai where an elderly couple served only one dish: kuay tiew sukhothai. They prepared it the same way for 40 years, and locals started lining up at 6 a.m. before the husband even fired up his ancient charcoal stove.

By day three, the wife was teaching me how to properly balance the flavor components—the smoky pork, the crispy pork rinds, the lime juice, the palm sugar—using hand signals and taste tests rather than words. When I finally did visit the historical park (on my next trip), I appreciated it more because I understood something about the living culture that emerged from those ancient stones.

This obsession with Thailand’s hidden corners isn’t about bragging rights or some misguided idea that “off the beaten path” automatically means “better.” It’s about finding threads of authenticity in a place where tourism has created many artificial experiences. It’s about respecting Thailand enough to look beyond the surface that’s crafted specifically for foreign consumption.

Take Pai, for instance. This mountain town in Mae Hong Son province transformed from a quiet hippie hideout to an Instagram hotspot in less than a decade. On my first visit in 2018, I did what everyone does—rode a scooter to the canyon, took photos at the land-split, visited the hot springs. But last year, I returned and stayed with a Lisu hill tribe family in a village about 30 minutes outside town. We harvested vegetables from their plot, cooked over open fires, and spent evenings listening to traditional music played on handmade instruments. The patriarch, a man named Ja Thaw, took me on hikes to viewpoints that never appear on social media, showing me medicinal plants and telling stories about the spirits that inhabit certain trees and rocks.

Both experiences were valid, but one left me with photographs while the other left me transformed.

This brings me to something I care deeply about: ethical travel. A few years ago, I rode an elephant in Chiang Mai. The camp had “sanctuary” in its name, but looking back, the signs were all there—the hooks carried by mahouts, the chains at night, the performances for tourists. I posted those photos proudly on Facebook. Now they make me cringe.

Education changed me. I visited legitimate sanctuaries like Elephant Nature Park, where rescue elephants roam freely and human interactions happen entirely on the animals’ terms. I spoke with conservationists and former mahouts who explained the brutal “crushing” process used to make wild elephants submit to human riders. Now I advocate fiercely for ethical animal tourism, even when it means difficult conversations with fellow travelers who just want that elephant-riding photo.

This matters because loving a place means protecting what makes it special. Thailand’s wild elephants, its coral reefs, its ancient forests, and its traditional cultures deserve our respect—not just our Instagram attention.

But the true heart of Thailand, for me, has always been its people. There’s Somchai, the songthaew driver in Chiang Rai who took me home for Songkran when he learned I was traveling alone during the holiday. Or Lek, the university student I met on a train to Hua Hin who spent an entire day showing me her hometown’s hidden food spots, refusing to let me pay for anything because “you are guest in Thailand.”

These connections aren’t just heartwarming travel anecdotes—they’re the real education. Through them, I’ve learned about the regional rivalries between north and south, the complex relationship many Thais have with their Chinese heritage, the nuanced views on monarchy and politics that never make it into guidebooks, and the economic pressures forcing younger generations from rural areas into Bangkok’s concrete jungle.

I write because these stories matter. I write to remember the details before they fade—the exact shade of orange in a Sukhothai sunset, the precise smell of rain hitting Bangkok’s hot concrete, the specific cadence of southern Thai speech that sounds like singing to my foreign ears. I write because travelers deserve more than listicles and Instagram spots. I write because Thailand has given me so much, and words are my small way of giving something back.

My Travel Style: How I Explore Thailand

I’m not a planner by nature, which has led to both my best and worst travel experiences in Thailand. My approach is essentially: research enough to know what’s possible, then leave massive room for serendipity. I arrive with accommodations booked for the first few nights, a mental list of places I’d like to see, and absolutely zero attachment to checking all those boxes.

Some of my favorite Thai memories come from days when plans collapsed spectacularly. Like the time I missed the last bus from Phitsanulok to Sukhothai and ended up hitchhiking with a pickup truck full of durians and their jovial farmer owner, who insisted I come to his family compound for dinner. Or when monsoon rains washed out the road to a waterfall in Kanchanaburi, and I spent the day instead at a local school where the teachers invited me to help with English lessons after seeing me take shelter in their grounds.

I travel with a battered Osprey backpack that’s survived six Thai trips, a notebook for scribbling observations (my memory is terrible), and a ridiculous collection of pens because they always disappear. My phone is perpetually running out of battery because I’m constantly using maps, translation apps, and the camera. I’ve learned to always carry toilet paper, hand sanitizer, and at least one change of clothes in my day pack—lessons acquired through experiences I won’t detail here.

Thailand has humbled me countless times. I’ve ordered the wrong food and received plates so spicy they made me hallucinate. I’ve confidently headed to what I thought was a famous temple, only to end up at a shoe factory with the same name. I’ve bargained so poorly at Chatuchak Market that vendors actually laughed and gave me cooking lessons on the spot (“Farang needs education more than money!”).

My travel has evolved from purely solo adventures to a mix of solitary wandering and shared experiences. Solo travel in Thailand taught me self-reliance and forced me to engage with locals rather than retreat into the safety of travel companions. Some moments demand solitude—like watching the sunrise from Wat Saphan Hin in Sukhothai, where you can almost feel the ghosts of ancient kings who once stood on the same stone platform.

But I’ve also discovered the joy of showing Thailand to friends, seeing familiar places through fresh eyes. Leading my best mate Dave through the controlled chaos of Or Tor Kor Market last year, watching his face as he tasted durian for the first time (and immediately spat it out), was a different kind of pleasure than discovering these places alone.

The longer I explore Thailand, the more I value slowness. My early trips were frantic attempts to see everything—bouncing from Bangkok to Chiang Mai to the islands in two-week sprints that left me exhausted. Now I might spend a week in a single town, returning to the same noodle stall each morning until the owner greets me by name, walking the same streets at different hours to see how the community transforms from dawn to midnight.

This approach isn’t for everyone. If you only have two weeks in Thailand, perhaps you should hit the highlights. But if you can, I encourage slowing down. Sit in one place long enough for it to reveal itself to you. The Thailand that emerges in these quiet moments of patience is infinitely more complex and beautiful than the one you’ll race through on a guided tour.

Building Trust: Why You Can Rely on Me

I’ve spent a cumulative 14 months in Thailand across nine separate trips. I’ve visited 32 of the country’s 77 provinces, though that number feels less important than the depth of those experiences. I’ve been blessed with food poisoning in four different regions (the northern version was worst, in case you’re curious). I’ve celebrated two Songkrans, one Loy Krathong, and countless impromptu local festivals that never made it onto any tourism calendar.

Does this make me an expert? Absolutely not. Thailand contains multitudes I’ll never fully grasp. I don’t speak fluent Thai—just enough to order food, give directions to tuk-tuk drivers, and make grandmothers laugh at my terrible pronunciation. I haven’t visited every island or hiked every national park. There are entire cultural traditions I’ve only glimpsed from the outside.

What I can promise is honesty. When a place disappoints, I’ll tell you. The famous Emerald Pool in Krabi? Overcrowded and underwhelming compared to nameless swimming holes I’ve found elsewhere. Some trendy Bangkok restaurants serve watered-down Thai cuisine at international prices. The popular elephant camps around Chiang Mai? Most range from problematic to outright cruel.

But I’ll also tell you when something lives up to the hype. The White Temple in Chiang Rai is touristy but genuinely magical, especially at sunrise before the buses arrive. Street food in Bangkok’s Yaowarat really is worth braving the crowds. And yes, those postcard-perfect beaches in the Similan Islands actually exist (though they’re far from pristine these days).

I write this blog not as some definitive guide to Thailand, but as an ongoing conversation. Some of my best tips have come from readers who emailed to tell me I missed something essential or to share their own discoveries. Thailand is too vast and changes too quickly for any one person to maintain complete authority. We learn together, and that’s the beauty of it.

Where I’m Headed Next

As I write this, I’m planning my tenth trip to Thailand—this time focusing on the northeastern Isaan region. It’s Thailand’s largest region but receives only a fraction of the country’s tourism. The food is fiery, the Lao and Khmer influences are strong, and ancient Khmer temples dot the landscape near the Cambodian border. I’ve touched on Isaan before—a brief visit to Nakhon Ratchasima (Korat) and the stunning Phimai Historical Park—but this time I’m diving deeper.

I’ll be exploring Buriram’s Phanom Rung temple complex, built on an extinct volcano and aligned so that the sun shines through all 15 doorways twice a year. I’ll be sampling the region’s infamously spicy larb in Ubon Ratchathani and learning about silk weaving in Khon Kaen. And I’ll finally see the mysterious Mekong “naga fireballs” that rise from the river during the end of Buddhist Lent—if they decide to appear.

Looking back on six years of Thai adventures, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. Gratitude for the countless Thais who helped a lost, sweaty farang find his way—literally and figuratively. Gratitude for ancient temples and modern cities, for mountain trails and island beaches, for fiery curries and sweet sticky rice. Thailand has given me friendships, lessons, challenges, and joys I never expected when I first stepped off that plane in 2017.

If there’s one thing I hope this blog offers, it’s inspiration to explore Thailand with an open heart. Whether you’re planning your first trip or your fifteenth, whether you’re drawn to bustling markets or silent temples, whether you crave adventure or relaxation—Thailand has something for you. The Kingdom of Smiles is complex, contradictory, frustrating, and magical—often all in the same day.

Thailand taught me that the world is bigger, stranger, and more beautiful than I ever imagined. Let’s explore it together, one trail at a time.