I started the morning with a walk to the beach, which is quickly becoming my version of clocking in. The usual suspects were out: a couple in matching white linen, clearly auditioning for a lifestyle ad (or just really committed to their matchy-matchy love), and a flurry of activity that made the beach feel like a backstage pass to Bali’s daily rhythm. Cleaners swept sand and taking such pride in their space, local fishermen casting lines with the kind of quiet grace that makes you feel lazy just watching, and a group of yogis bent themselves into shapes I’m fairly certain aren’t covered by their travel insurance.

Just in case you get lost – you can always find your way home

Just when I thought the morning had settled into its usual rhythm of beachside people-watching and scooter acrobatics, I passed the supermarket carpark and found myself in the middle of a traditional Indonesian ceremony. Because why not? Bali doesn’t separate the sacred from the everyday—it blends them, beautifully and unapologetically.
There were offerings laid out with care, incense curling into the air like it had somewhere important to be, and a quiet reverence that made the rows of parked scooters and the discounted bin of instant noodles feel like part of the ritual. It was beautiful, though. Incense, offerings, and the kind of reverence that makes you pause, even if you’re just there to buy toothpaste. 

I arrived back at the villa to find the neighbour’s cat sprawled across the path like it owned the lease. It didn’t flinch, clearly a seasoned veteran of Bali’s revolving door of humans and honking scooters.

Regal and sassy – the neighbours cat joins the side eye movement

After a bit of blogging we head out for breakfast to a French cafe/restaurant, which we’d passed on this and past trips to Sanur. On our way down scooter riders zipped past, balancing poles across their shoulders like they were auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. The real show, though, was in the turns—tight backstreet corners taken with the grace of a ballet dancer and the swagger of someone who’s clearly done this a hundred times, blindfolded, with a baguette under one arm. 
Surprisingly the coffee is the best I’ve had on this trip and as we look around the room decorated like you’ve stepped straight into a stereotypical Parisian scene from a movie, I consider how I can quirkily capture the essence of the place, inspired by my new favourite series, Emily in Paris.

After our daily stop to stock up on supplies for the villa, we ride down the road to play a few rounds of pool, which started off as a casual game and quickly turned into a weird exchange. Almost as weird as the makeshift bike rack we locate to keep our bikes ‘safe’ while we weave through a different part of Sanur in the hunt for one of the bars I’d found with a pool table. I love how simple things are here

This tree the perfect bike rack – Bali style

After only 1 wrong turn, we find the bar and just as we were lining up shots, the local drunk wandered over and asked who was going to win. His accent was a riddle wrapped in a beer-soaked enigma – somewhere between rural Ireland and pirate radio – but turns out he was just Swedish…..and drunk. He looked like a cross between a farmer and a backpacker who’d been traveling since the Nixon administration. He offered no advice, just vibes – creepy ones. You know – the ones that leave you feeling like you need to have a shower. ​

Matthew being absolutely sure the game was set up with laser like precision

The game was best of three. With one win each, it came down to the final ball. I was poised. Focused. Ready. And then Matthew, who had been trying to throw the game just to keep it going longer, went ahead and won. So, I lost. But I gained a story, a Swedish mystery man, and a reminder that Matthew, ever the gentleman, somehow manages to win with grace, even when he’s trying not to.We passed Santorini on our way back to the bikes and couldn’t resist its siren call. Last time, we’d barely scratched the surface of the menu, so this time we grabbed a table and dove in properly. No regrets, just full plates and the kind of flavours that make you consider cancelling dinner plans.
Our final detour was a patisserie that felt like it had been placed there just for us. Each treat was a tiny work of art, almost too pretty to eat–almost. The best part? They offered petit four-sized portions, which I immediately rebranded as ‘Hannah-size’: perfect for sampling more than one option.  A philosophy I fully endorse.

One last story to share today, I tried reflexology for the first time. Strangely relaxing, like my feet were being gently interrogated by someone who knew all my secrets. I don’t really understand how it works, so while the sweet girl expertly navigated pressure points like she was decoding a treasure map, I was busy Googling “reflexology foot map” to figure out why certain spots hurt more than others.
Just as I found an article explaining how the big toe is somehow connected to your brain (??), she pressed the spot supposedly linked to my sciatica—and to my absolute shock, I felt a tiny zing right where the ache usually lives. I left feeling oddly refreshed and cautiously optimistic that she may have poked my sciatica into submission. Would I do it again? Absolutely. I ask Matthew daily if he wants to join me – for a massage, a foot rub, an ear candle, anything remotely spa-adjacent – but he always declines. His feet remain suspiciously quiet.
The rest of the day was blissfully uneventful – just dinner, lounging, and admiring the impressive bruise I earned during one of yesterday’s many clumsy episodes. It’s got that deep purple dignity that says, “I fell with flair.” A quiet evening, a colourful foot, and the satisfaction of knowing tomorrow will bring more stories, more snacks, and hopefully fewer collisions with stationary objects.

That’s all for today—feet pampered, ego slightly bruised, and appetite fully satisfied.