After all, we did not have to go through hell to get to heaven. The ferry from Georgetown was fine, for the four hours or so of the sea journey, as the monsoon was finished here, by this time in mid September. Dire warnings I read, of terrifying conditions and seasickness, had kept me awake much of the night in anxious anticipation, but they were warnings for July to early September. Now here we were, driving by friendly, springless taxi from the dock at Kuah, the capital, through lush lazy countryside to the beach of Pantai Cenang.

It’s a popular tourist strip, but with that casual coastal feel of a small town that is so familiar to most Australians. We’re dropped off at our hotel, Malibest Resort, where we’re met with a breezy Indian restaurant, film star posters on its walls, Bollywood song spreading happy emotions, Kingfisher beer in its fridge, and the sea sparkling beyond. The pleasure is short lived and is replaced with some alarm when we drag our packs through to our room on the beachfront. The room is fine, though a little “motel like” (and the next day we move to a hut), but the beach….oh no !

The beach at Pantai Cenang that first day presents a scene that is reminiscent of M. Hulot’s Holiday, for those who remember that adorable 1950s Jacques Tati film with its affectionate, amused reflections on holiday makers (and on human nature in general), who seem convinced that technology is an essential part of true holiday pleasure. The long, curved beach with its gentle water is abuzz with wasp-like jet skis furiously tearing across the surface, spraying white plumes of foam, turning sharply in displays of macho “can-do”, or racing other jet ski heroes far out to sea, then unthinkingly screaming back to the shallows, into the timid bobbings of unaccustomed swimmers. Then there are banana boats, as I’ll call them, long tubes of inflated yellow and blue rubber that seat about 8 intrepid passengers (wearing life jackets) which are pulled by a speed boat, take a wide bumping cruise of the bay amidst squealings and shrieks. They finally come to shore with a finale that involves a sharp turn, dumping all passengers overboard, to much hilarity and some alarm for the non-swimmers. Overhead, other thrill seekers hang from huge coloured balloons which are pulled across the sky by speedboats below, and motorized hang gliders rumble above too, dangling pairs of helpless looking passengers high over the water.

The beach itself is strewn with holidaymakers taking various poses in front of friends or husbands armed with long lensed cameras. We are astonished at the number of people with such expensive, professional looking photographic equipment, but it seems to be paying its way, as it is the main entertainment for many beach goers perhaps unaccustomed to entering the water. Malay families pose in groups, some of the women wearing “burkinis”, one piece hooded swimsuits (which I think were developed in that seaside loving nation, Australia). Other women remain totally covered, though they do try to paddle in this very hot weather (only, in one case I noticed, for the woman to be reprimanded for having pulled her long pants a little above her ankles.) I was sad for the fully black-burqua-ed woman who so much wanted to swim that she flailed around in dragging robes, dipping and jumping, for a long time. The men, of course, may wear shorts, and swim quite comfortably. I wondered at the message given by one smartly dressed woman, who, although clad in long pants, long sleeves, and headscarf (tudung), had her clothes quite tightly fitted, made in overtly sexy leopard skin print. Her similarly middle aged husband seemed a laissez faire, worldly kind of chap; it is as if they followed the letter of the law, but not necessarily its spirit.

Indians remain quiet and modest on the beach, and generally did not seem to swim at all. Yet we saw proportionately few Indian visitors, as it was not the time of year they arrive (usually from Chennai, Michael is told). There are, similarly, few Europeans or other Western visitors, who are the only joggers and sunbathers of the groups, mostly overly sunburnt and wearing as little as possible. An abrasive, beery group of youngish men (Australian or British) walk past at times, exuding an atmosphere of cockiness I find unpleasant. Despite the prevailing modesty of the Malaysians, there is here a feeling of great tolerance, too. One young woman who worked in a grocery shop we frequented took a great attraction to Michael, and let him know it. She was rather miffed to find he had a wife. It is really interesting to us to notice the marked differences in demeanour between these cultural groups.

Chinese visitors appear to be the keenest models in the photographic stakes. In pairs, wearing fluttering dresses and wide brimmed, pastel shaded hats, or in bikinis, they take magazine style poses with hips tilted forward and hand to brow, bend admiringly for a sea shell, or skip, laughing, over tiny waves. In groups, a popular photographic pose (for everyone) is the leap into the air, arms flung high in simulated ‘spontaneous’ joy. I’ve noticed this change in photographic posing elsewhere too – wide open mouthed smiles or shouts – a less formal style, certainly, than our ancestors’ grim formality! Our hut, situated on the beachfront, has before it a romantically swayed coconut palm, the kind you see in travel brochures or early South Sea Island films. This lolling palm is an ideal setting for single models to drape themselves over, and for fun-filled groups to cluster upon.

Swimming is another occasion for mirth, splashing one’s friend being a requisite part of having a good time. I hate being splashed. It interrupts my communion with the sea – unless it is the sea that does the splashing. Beach going for pleasure, holiday making in general, is something new to some Asian societies, who may not until now have had the leisure or the money to have this experience. This novelty creates an awkwardness at times, a not-quite-fitting-comfortably with the situation – as occurs to most of us in new situations. Sadly, too often it also means that “holiday” is equated with rip roaring exhilaration, or the appearance thereof, rather than with quiet relaxation or other internal, or perhaps nature oriented, pursuits. Reading “Tripadvisor” reviews for Mt Abu in Rajasthan, a serene and friendly area usually visited in pilgrimage, we were alarmed to find that some Indian holiday makers now count it as dull, its lovely lake and mountain walks not providing the joy rides and night life deemed necessary for holiday fun. I hate to think of speed boats on Nakki Lake, funfairs on its banks…

That first day, it was unsettling to see that our time here could be immersed in noisy hijinks. But unknowingly, we had arrived on a national holiday, Malaysia Day – hence the unusual crowds. From then on, the beach was quiet all morning apart from the occasional walker or swimmer, until the cooler late afternoon, when vehicles begin to drive onto the beach pulling the banana boats and jet skis behind , and people come out from their retreats to photograph, ski, balloon, or ride. Some swim. The sunsets over the ocean and the off-lying islands are glorious.

Another important holiday season is afoot – the Chinese Mooncake Festival, a mid Autumn fertility festival in SE Asia. Already in Penang we had bought the round mooncakes, delicious, like a coconut syrup cake, stamped on top with propitious messages. Michael had made the mistake of choosing a “special” one with duck yolk enclosed, and had to throw it away in fear of illness (and the horrible taste). Perhaps due to this festival, young Chinese holidaymakers have turned up in large groups. Unfortunately, our hut by the ocean is central, and a light outside means it makes a good gathering place. About midnight the high times begin, much laughing and talking, even shouting; some sort of competition seems to be afoot, for groups of revellers run up the small sand dune as if at a signal, screaming and thumping. The second night, it begins later. The young Dutch woman (on honeymoon next door) agreed with me that it was 3 am when a loud whistle was blown, waking us all with a shock. I was tired when we arrived here, and desperate for sleep. Michael manages to turn off the lights outside, but the caretaker resets them. After that, we wait till quite late each night to darken our area. But I sleep in a sort of fear that again the shouting, the running, which had taken on in my sleep-deprived state an almost demonic quality, would reoccur. As full moon draws near, my unease increases. But this group must have gone, for after those few nights, thankfully, I hear them no more.

And the days are divine. We wake at leisure, make tea, walk northwards, the gentle water lapping, shells cast up by the evening high tide. The mountain fringed interior lay ahead in our sight, but we know we will not make excursions to the forests, the other islands or beaches. It is just good to be at peace. We swim, floating, in the warm, gentle water. After a few days, the sea grows stronger, the waves higher, much to Michael’s delight, for now he can surf properly, catching the waves. When we have swum, we sit on the verandah, cooled from the sultry heat, looking at the scene at our feet: the sea, the sky, the islands on each side, the coconut palm waving gently. A bird with yellow eyes sings sweetly. Lulled by it all, and the heat, we sleep in the afternoons, or lie looking out the door at the waves lapping, the sea murmuring in the sun, the lightest of breezes blowing through our open windows. At evening, we walk on the beach again, watching with delight the myriad human sights and the setting sun. Later, we cross the road to our favourite café, D’Khas, and eat delicious food – fresh, subtly flavoured and cheap, mixtures of vegetable, seafood and chicken with noodles or rice, the famous Malaysian blending of different Asian food styles.

Langkawi is known for its rich belief in myth and legend, its people said to be strongly influenced by its lore. The white sands of the islands are the blood of a princess wrongly accused of adultery, who cursed seven generations for her death. The sea eagle is the island symbol, and one night I dream of a man who must climb to the top of a very high roof, on which is perched an immense, strong eagle. Then I dream I am buying my mother a suit of clothes, thinking, it will be so nice to see her dressed in this soft colour. But I realise she is now too thin, too frail and I’m sad. How could I have gone away? When I wake, I remember she has died, and am devastated, all over again. These dreams are good, somehow. I feel I am reaching a deeper part of my soul.

As the moon grows full, the seas increase, and the breeze is stronger, though the days are still fine. There is a typhoon in the South China Sea, near Cambodia – not so far across the Malaysian Peninsula. The last two nights the waves creep up almost to our steps, the final night in particular, and they crash noisily – to my mind, fearfully. I wake and watch the moonlit sea for a while, as if to keep it in check. It feels that the Langkawi spirits tell us it is time to go, now.