So glad I’d slipped home early last night; the rest was a gift, and my back sang its gratitude. I tap away on the blog in bed, amused to be told I’d written a palindrome post, the word count echoing my own name that reads the same backward and forward. Between stories, I drifted in the villa’s pool, the cool water shimmering in the heart of our living space, sunlight spilling across the surface. It was a perfect prelude to the ziplining adventure waiting for us later. This morning, the house hums with tales, each family member rising with their own version of the night, painting scenes of a wandering mumma, unexpected iguana cuddles, and most heartwarming of all, my daughters guiding the group through the crush of the markets. The stories tumble out like treasures, stitched with love and mischief, until the whole room feels charged with laughter and anticipation for the day ahead.

We all made sure we were fuelled up before 11:30am ticked around, and soon our transport arrived to take us deep into the jungle. Bags in hand, we jumped into the minibus only for Mum and Bek to suddenly realise they hadn’t checked for money, forgetting today was strictly cash‑only. Luckily, between the rest of us we managed to cobble together enough to cover them, crisis averted. Inside the minibus we discovered we weren’t alone, a young honeymooning English couple, Josh and Jess, sat quietly in the back. After a bit of polite small talk, Mumma launched into what can only be described as conversational turbo-mode. Within ten minutes she’d shared half our family history, mentioned she was a widow (with a side note about liking hugs from men – Josh looked deeply afraid), asked for their number, and extended an open invitation to visit us in Australia. We sat there and I sat there wide‑eyed, trying not to laugh, while Josh and Jess, in true English fashion, nodded politely and smiled through the whirlwind. It was equal parts endearing and mortifying, the kind of moment where you can feel Mumma’s enthusiasm but also want to slide down in your seat and pretend you’re invisible. By the end of the ride, she’d practically secured herself as their new pen pal, while the rest of us were still recovering from the conversational rollercoaster.

It was a pretty crazy drive, winding deeper into the jungle until we arrived at a handover spot where our trusty minibus was swapped out for a 4WD far more suited to the terrain. The whole thing felt like a pit stop, bags shuffled, people reassigned, engines revving, and off we went again. Josh looked momentarily relieved at the short reprieve from Mumma’s conversational marathon, but that relief was short‑lived. As we piled into the 4WD, Jess somehow managed to leave the only available seat right next to Mumma. Whether it was tactical genius or pure coincidence, we’ll never know, but Josh found himself back in the hot seat for round two of “speed‑friending on wheels.” The rest of us buckled in, quietly amused, while Mumma picked up right where she’d left off, proving that jungle roads were no match for her momentum.

The place was buzzing with energy, run like a well‑oiled machine that somehow looked like chaos. We checked in, paid (thankfully covered thanks to the group cash pool after Mum and Bek’s earlier oversight), and were ushered toward the lockers. From there it was a conveyor belt of safety prep: helmets handed out, straps tightened, clips clicked, and gear adjusted until we were all dressed and ready. It felt less like a leisurely jungle outing and more like being processed through an adventure factory, but the efficiency was impressive.

Once we were geared up, the staff took over with the kind of enthusiasm that made the whole experience feel effortless. They catered to our group across the full age spectrum – 9 to 71 – with equal parts patience and fun. They cracked jokes, kept us engaged, and somehow managed to capture videos that made us look like seasoned adventurers. And truthfully, we were all adventurous… except for Bek, who looked terrified on each of the ten ziplines. The rest of us were grinning, cheering, and soaking up the adrenaline, while Bek’s expressions became their own highlight reel. If bravery is measured by doing it anyway, she definitely earned her stripes, even if her face told a slightly different story. The views were staggering, the adrenaline unforgettable, and by the end we all agreed it was one of those “must‑do” Koh Samui moments.

After posing for a quick pic, satisfied and sweaty, it was time to head back down the mountain. The journey back was much quieter than earlier; the adrenaline had clearly drained most of us, and with lunch long gone our blood sugars were running on fumes. Conversation was sparse, but we did laugh about the zipline crew, how they managed to keep us all moving, clipped in, and laughing at the same time. Their energy was infectious, and even on the way down we were still replaying their jokes and the way they made the whole adventure feel effortless.

We farewell mum’s new ‘best mates’ and order some food in. This was quickly followed by naps and dips, depending on the level of energy. We have a few hours before we’d planned yet another market tonight, in the hope that the haggling and shopping was better.

It doesn’t take much to get the gang moving as Bek orders a car, and we pass through the spot I’d left my vomit and dignity on Day 1. Harper asked innocently if you could still see it (the vomit not the dignity) and we all chuckled as we turned the final corner to be dropped off at the Chaweng Markets.

The market spread outside a large shopping centre, offering just a small selection of stores that didn’t take long to wander through. Tonight we tried a new tactic: every person for themselves, after last night’s lesson in different paces, likes, and shopping styles. It worked, everyone got their fill without the group shuffle.

The real highlight, though, was the journey home. We flagged down a songthaew, basically an open‑air ute with benches, and instantly turned it into karaoke on wheels. Between the singing, laughing, and the driver beeping along like our unofficial percussionist, it felt less like public transport and more like a travelling show. At one point we were convinced he was enjoying himself as much as we were, especially when he happily pulled into 7‑Eleven for a refuel stop before delivering us back in one piece.

Tomorrow is Bek’s birthday, so we plot and plan out the day, play a few rounds of 20 Questions, and finally tumble into bed – tired, happy, and still humming from our moving concert.

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