During our first days in Ninh Binh, we kept exploring on foot from our homestay in Trang An, often without a fixed plan. On one of those walks, we came upon a stone bridge crossing the river toward an impressive gate and realized this was Hoa Lu Ancient Capital. It was already quite busy that day, so instead of exploring fully, we decided to come back early the next morning.
Arrival at Hoa Lu: Crowds vs Expectations
It was a Saturday morning, just after 8 a.m., and for a moment it felt like we had timed it well. But as we approached the site, the illusion quickly broke—buses had just arrived, and large groups of schoolchildren were already spilling across the entrance.
So much for a peaceful visit.
The complex sits between limestone hills around a wide open plaza, with two main temples at its centre.
This was once the 10th-century capital of Vietnam, where Đinh Tiên Hoàng unified the country after years of conflict, later succeeded by Lê Đại Hành during a period of instability.
The usual route follows chronological order, beginning with Đinh Tiên Hoàng’s temple, where most of the school groups were already gathering.
So we headed the other way.
The “Wrong” Temple That Was Right
Instead, we went straight to the Temple of Lê Đại Hành, hoping to get ahead of the crowds. It was the right decision. The temple was still quiet, and for a short time, we had the space almost entirely to ourselves.
The contrast with the entrance was immediate. Where the main gate had felt crowded and noisy, here everything slowed down. The courtyard was still, broken only by the sound of distant footsteps and the occasional voice echoing across the stone.
Without the noise of tour groups and competing guides, the atmosphere felt completely different.
We could move slowly, take in the details, and experience the place rather than just pass through it—pausing by the pond to feed the fish as they gathered at the surface.
Stone carvings, incense, and open space gave the temple a calm, almost suspended feeling—like it existed just outside the movement of the world beyond its walls.
Soon enough, the first groups began to arrive, voices spilling into the courtyard, and we took that as our cue to leave.
Into Trường Yên Village: When Maps Stop Working
From the temple, we tried to follow a riverside path to the left, as shown on OrganicMaps.
It didn’t take long to realize that maps are only an approximation of the landscape here.
Just because a path exists on screen doesn’t mean it exists on the ground.
The trail quickly disappeared, forcing us to turn back toward the Hoa Lu grounds.
We returned to a side gate and stepped out into Trường Yên village to try again from the other side.
From there, we wandered into the backstreets, looking for a way to reconnect with the river.
More than once, we followed what looked like a clear route, only to find it blocked by a gate leading into someone’s yard. We had to backtrack repeatedly, adjusting our direction as we went.
Still, getting lost became part of the experience.
Walking the Edges: Rivers, Temples, and Village Life
A narrow canal—unmarked on the map—guided us for a while. From here, the landscape opened into a quieter rhythm.
Along its banks, every available patch of land was used for growing vegetables, sometimes in improvised containers like old boxes.
Nearby, orange peels were laid out in the sun in large heaps, their sharp citrus scent mixing unexpectedly with the damp smell of the river.
Stone steps led down to the water in places, where small wooden boats were moored. Locals went about their day, glancing at us with gentle curiosity and greeting us as we passed—clear signs that not many visitors made it into these parts of the village.
Eventually, we found our way back to the riverside trail, passing traditional brick charcoal kilns that are still in use today.
The path then led us past a cemetery and out to the main road, where we emerged at the village’s main entrance toward Hoa Lu.
Along the way, we stopped at a small temple where soft music was playing. A woman was praying inside, while pink water lilies bloomed in a nearby pond. The temple was dedicated to Princess Phất Kim, a daughter of Đinh Bộ Lĩnh, whose short life is remembered as a story of love, loyalty, and betrayal.
Further on, we reached Nhất Trụ Pagoda, known for its ancient stone pillar. A Buddhist service was in progress—chants echoing through the space as others joined in prayer. We walked in silence along the perimeter before continuing on.
Through the Side Gates and Into the Landscape
When we returned to Hoa Lu, we made an unexpected discovery.
The main entrance, across a stone bridge, is ticket-controlled. But the side gates—those connecting directly to Trường Yên village—are not. We were able to walk in and out freely through these entrances, something we hadn’t anticipated.
Crossing the complex again, we saw that the crowds had only grown. Rather than continue with the remaining temple, we decided to head back toward our homestay.
We exited through another side gate and followed a narrow track, hoping it would connect to the main road.
This walk turned out to be one of the most memorable parts of the day.
On either side of the path, limestone cliffs rose steeply, their reflections mirrored in the water below. It wasn’t quite a river—more like a wetland stretching out between the karsts.
A cemetery appeared to float in the water, some tombs seemingly accessible only by boat, as if it existed in a different time altogether.
Beneath one of the limestone walls, a small dump had collected at the water’s edge, where landscape and everyday life sit side by side.
Nearby, fishermen sat on folding chairs, rods cast into the water, as if nothing in the scene were out of place.
The track curved, and soon we recognized a familiar landmark—the tomb of Lê Đại Hành, which we had visited the day before by boat.
From there, the water widened as the river came into view. We walked along a narrow dike between the river and the wetland until it led us back to the road.
Returning Again: Learning the Rhythm of Hoa Lu
We returned to Hoa Lu on another morning.
What had started as a slightly chaotic visit was beginning to reveal a pattern—a lesson in timing and patience.
On this return, we finally entered the Temple of Đinh Tiên Hoàng.
It was a Monday morning, just after 8 a.m. This time, it was perfect.
No buses, no school groups, barely anyone at all. We walked through the temple in near silence, taking in the carvings, the scent of incense, and the stillness of the space.
After about half an hour, the first tour groups began to arrive.
We were ready to leave.
On the way out, we noticed a small trail running along the outside of the temple grounds and decided to follow it. A friendly dog joined us, as if it had decided to keep us company.
The path led toward the edge of the karsts, where a few scattered houses seemed to grow from the limestone cliffs. The track ended at the waterline, and we could not go any further.
It felt like another world, though the Hoa Lu complex was still nearby.
We turned back, with the dog still leading the way. It stayed with us all the way to the gates of Hoa Lu, only leaving once we were clearly back on the main path, as if satisfied that we would be fine from here.
I’m still not sure whether it simply liked the company—or was making sure we didn’t steal any chickens.
Reflection: Learning the Rhythm of Travel
By then, a pattern had emerged.
At Hoa Lu, the experience came down almost entirely to timing—the same place could feel crowded and rushed one day, then quiet and deeply atmospheric the next.
We began adjusting our visits around that rhythm, arriving earlier or later depending on how we expected the place to feel.
Even after leaving Hoa Lu, that awareness stayed with us as we continued exploring the surrounding landscape the next day.
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