Langkawi: The Island We Meant to Explore but Didn’t
Langkawi the island of adventure, cable cars, sky bridges, waterfalls, snorkelling, the whole glossy‑brochure experience, but instead it became the place where our travel stamina quietly sat down and refused to get up again. We wandered beaches, watched sea eagles, bought a laptop in a town that felt like a Western film set, and let the island drift past us in slow, unhurried scenes. Langkawi didn’t get the grand tour it deserved, but it did give us something else: a reminder that sometimes the best part of travelling is simply admitting you’re tired, ordering an ice cream, and letting the island be the one doing all the work.
In the sixties and early seventies my grandparents would embark on great adventures to the new holiday destinations of Spain. Tourism had existed there long before Franco, of course, but his government promoted it with the zeal of a man who had discovered a lucrative side hustle. Thomas Cook were only too happy to oblige, whisking British families off to places where the water gradually became safer to drink, the food less hazardous, the toilets more reliable, and the hotels larger, shinier and increasingly confident in their ability to charge extra for air‑conditioning. The transformation was rapid and relentless.
Pantai Cenang seems to be undergoing a similar sort of renaissance. The beachfront is dotted with run‑down hotels and derelict restaurants, each one in the process of being replaced by a high‑rise complex determined to out‑tower its neighbour. These new buildings are stacked almost on top of one another, grabbing whatever slice of coastline they can, with the clear aim of quite literally putting the competition in the shade. It is development with elbows out.
Pantai Cenang itself is a long, lively strip of beach, bars and shops, three beaches, in fact, running into one another like chapters in a book that never quite decides what genre it wants to be. The main stretch is broad and busy stretch of fine white sand. A place where parasails drift overhead, jet skis buzz along the shoreline, and sunbathers arrange themselves with the solemnity of people auditioning for a brochure. Further along, the beach softens into quieter patches of slightly coarser sand, backed by palms and resorts. At the far end, the sand becomes finer again, the crowds thin out considerably leaving only the sea, the sky, and the occasional hermit crab making its slow, determined commute.
At the end of the run, the beach gives way to a stretch of mangroves, a tangle of roots against the fringe of rocks that feels like the island suddenly remembering it is, in fact, part of a rainforest. Above the mangroves, sea eagles circle with the slow, deliberate confidence of creatures that know they are the main event, although nobody seems to notice them, although many are happy to pay to join a tour to go and see them. The eagles glide on broad wings, tracing lazy arcs over the water and the trees, their calls echo sharp, clean cutting through the humid air. The interface between beach and forest provides a relaxing place to hide when caught out in a passing shower. It is a reminder that Langkawi’s beauty isn’t confined to beaches and brochures; sometimes it’s found in the quiet edges, where the island simply gets on with being itself, let’s hope progress allows it to continue being so.
Langkawi is indeed a beautiful island. Alas, we did not do it justice. We had plans, vague, optimistic plans, to visit several places, and it is with some regret that we did not make the most of the opportunity. Each day, walking along the shoreline, we would look up into the mountains and just make out the Sky Bridge, suspended in the clouds like a misplaced piece of futuristic architecture. We convinced ourselves we were lucky not to waste time going: the view would have been similar to every time I climbed Snowdon, non‑existent. But deep down we knew that if we had gone, we might have found a gap in the clouds. We simply didn’t.
Kuah: For a few Dollars More!
We did make one trip, more out of necessity than design. Along the coast from Pantai Cenang lies the town of Kuah, Langkawi’s administrative centre and commercial hub. On our last day in Kuala Lumpur, our laptop coughed one last time and died. We ran around Chinatown looking for a screwdriver and ended up creating a makeshift workshop in the back of a telephone accessory shop in a futile attempt to resuscitate the machine. As a result, we went on the hunt for a replacement in Kuah.
At home, this would have been a quick look on Amazon, followed by a bit of research and a shortlist. Here, it was a matter of seeing what was available and conducting frantic research on the phone while trying to ignore the sales assistant hovering with the persistence of a fruit fly (perhaps a little unfair, she was a lovely person). A new laptop purchased, we left it with them to download all the updates (something Amazon don’t do) and went out for a walk.
When planning the trip, we nearly stayed in Kuah, and thank goodness we didn’t. Years ago, I nearly went to work in Lethbridge, Alberta, and while in Calgary we travelled down to the town. To be honest, you would not have been surprised to see Lee Van Cleef riding down the road on the town’s only horse. Kuah has a similar feel to it. There is a white structure that looks vaguely like the Eiffel Tower, as though someone had once seen a postcard and decided to give it a go, and further along the coast, after walking through the park, we came across the quay area, the high point being Eagle Square, where a gigantic eagle statue prepares to take flight over the harbour with all the solemnity of a national emblem and all the theatricality of a theme‑park mascot.
A few pictures later, and, more importantly, an ice‑cream, we picked up the laptop and headed out of Dodge.
Why We Didn’t Do More on Langkawi
So, why didn’t we do more on Langkawi? Well, you know how marathon runners can hit the wall, when suddenly their body decides that enough is enough, and despite all the training and obvious fitness they struggle to stay upright, never mind take another step. A similar thing can happen when travelling for an extended period. It isn’t dramatic, and it doesn’t arrive with trumpets; it simply settles over you like a damp towel and refuses to leave.
In the first instance we have stayed in some noisy hotels as of late, be it other guests, noisy air con units, traffic, or as is most common a combination of all three. In the second instance, the continual logistical juggling plays its part. Every day becomes a small administrative puzzle: finding somewhere to eat that isn’t a tourist trap, only to find they are not open because it is Frank’s birthday, working out transport routes that seem to have been designed by someone with a grudge, checking train and ferry timetables that contradict each other, deciding whether the weather app is lying again, and constantly repacking your bag. Then there’s the mental arithmetic of travel: How long will it take to get there? Is it worth the effort? Will it rain? Will the attraction be closed for “maintenance” (a Southeast Asian euphemism meaning “we lost the key”)? And, perhaps most importantly, will there be coffee?
After almost three months of this, even the most enthusiastic travellers find themselves slowing down. Not stopping, exactly, but moving with the weary deliberation of someone who has spent too long negotiating with hotel receptionists, taxi drivers, shop assistants, ATMs and ticket machines that insist your perfectly valid bank card is “not recognised”.
By the time we reached Langkawi, we were still enjoying ourselves, still curious, still delighted by the island’s beauty, but the travel stamina had dipped. The idea of organising a cable‑car trip, timing it with the weather, navigating the crowds (I will rant on this for hours, but will tactfully refrain from writing any of it down), and then pretending to enjoy a view we probably wouldn’t see felt strangely exhausting. So, we didn’t. We also didn’t go to the waterfalls, take a trip round the other islands or head to the north coast to do some snorkelling and certainly no kayaking, I get accused quite unfairly of lollygagging, something I vehemently deny. We walked the beach, watched the sea eagles, drank coffee (finally found somewhere using Arabica beans!), ate ice‑cream, and allowed ourselves to simply be on Langkawi rather than trying to conquer it.
And perhaps that was no bad thing.
One of the things about Pantai Cenang being a tourist hotspot is the sheer amount of entertainment available. I’ve already mentioned the parasails drifting overhead and the jet skis carving noisy zigzags along the shoreline, but there are other diversions too. You can “surf” for about three seconds on the short‑lived waves, just long enough to feel triumphant before the sea politely reminds them who is in charge. And every evening, as the sun slips behind Pulau Rebak Besar, the small island to the northwest of Pantai Cenang, the beach becomes a theatre. The sunsets here are extraordinary: the sky folds itself into layers of gold, apricot and deepening violet, and the sea reflects it all with the smug satisfaction of a place that knows it’s photogenic.
As the last light fades, sections of the beach are fenced off and the fire shows begin. The performers arrive with the swagger of people who know they’re about to be photographed from seventeen angles. Flaming batons are dipped, spun and tossed into the air; poi balls streak arcs of orange across the darkness; and the sand flickers with reflections as the performers stamp, whirl and leap in choreographed patterns. One show was impressively synchronised, guys in well-rehearsed routines. The other was… enthusiastic. Less choreography, more improvisation. A sort of “fiery freestyle” that felt one dropped baton away from a health‑and‑safety incident.
Still, both had their charm. There’s something undeniably hypnotic about watching fire dance against the night, even if one performance is a polished spectacle and the other looks like two cousins who found a lighter and decided to have a go. On Pantai Cenang, the entertainment seems to rarely disappoint. You just had to accept that some of it is more refined than others.
Langkawi: The Island We Owe a Second Chance
We visited the Picos de Europa before we had Victoria, and thinking about it, also when she was eleven months old. We would take the car across on the ferry and freestyle our way around Cantabria and Asturias. No itinerary, no pre‑booked attractions, no hotel bookings, just a map, a vague sense of direction, and the sort of optimism that convinces you every village will have a bakery and every mountain road will eventually lead somewhere interesting. It was travel in its purest form: improvised, unhurried, and wonderfully inefficient.
I’d like to think that at some point we’ll return to Langkawi and give it a proper chance to show us what it can do. From our brief experience, I suspect the island rewards a different approach. One closer to those old Spanish adventures. Hiring a car on arrival, throwing the bags in the boot, and simply drifting around the island would, I think, be a far better way to meet Langkawi on its own terms. No timetables, no Grab drivers, and working out whether you will be able to get another one to get you back to the hotel. Just the freedom to follow the coastline, duck into quiet beaches, stop at roadside stalls, and explore the interior without having to calculate how many minutes remain until the next Grab driver cancels, or cancels because you have a pet (bless him).
Langkawi feels like the sort of place that reveals itself slowly, one winding road, one hidden cove, one unexpected viewpoint at a time. And perhaps next time, with a car and a little of that old freestyle spirit, we’ll finally let it.