Day two. Tee time mid-morning, van at the hotel at eight something, maybe forty minutes up to the north of the island. First impression when you walk out to the tee: the place is carved straight out of forest. Proper tall trees, not the decorative kind. The caddie told us it was the first course ever built on the island, which I can't verify, but it looks the part — mature, settled in, grass in weirdly perfect condition for somewhere this humid.

And it is humid. By the sixth hole my glove looked like I'd washed up with it. Take two gloves. Take three.

Round one went the way our rounds usually go: Dave hit the ball beautifully and complained constantly, I hit it sideways and enjoyed myself enormously. The forest holes are honest — miss the fairway and that ball has gone to live with the monkeys. I lost four. The pro shop was happy to see me.

Now the honest bit, because every trip has one. The heat in the middle of the day is no joke — we finished round one around two o'clock and the last three holes were a slog. If I did it again I'd ask for the earliest tee they'd give us. Also bring mosquito spray for the evening, and small cash: caddie tips, cold coconuts, the night market — it's all notes, not cards.

That evening was the night market in Duong Dong, which is exactly the kind of chaos I love. Tanks of things I couldn't name, smoke everywhere, plastic stools. One of the lads asked for a fork and was quietly judged by everyone present, me included.

(The pepper was diplomatic insurance. It worked.)

Day three, second round, same course — and this is where playing the same track twice pays off. First time round you're gawping at the scenery. Second time you actually know where not to hit it, which in my case changed nothing, but the scores came down for everyone else. Dave finally stopped complaining somewhere around the twelfth, which historically means he's happy.

We'd asked for an early tee this time, and the course at eight in the morning, mist still sitting in the trees, is worth the alarm clock on its own.

Afternoon: showers at the clubhouse, van to the airport, flight out. Painless. The driver had cold water in the van every single time we got in, which after eighteen holes feels like a genuine act of love.

So: the grand total of every crumpled receipt in my wallet came to just under three million dong — call it a hundred and ten dollars — for three days of beer, squid, lost balls, tips and one diplomatic bag of pepper. Everything else, the actual trip, was in the package and I never thought about it once, which for the group's designated worrier was a holiday in itself.

What the receipts don't show: the sound a drive makes in a forest corridor when you finally middle one. The caddie who read every green better than I read my own bank statement. Four middle-aged men entirely failing to act their age for three days.

If you're thinking of a Phu Quoc golf trip yourself, my only real advice is: two rounds minimum (one is a tease), earliest tee time you can get, and let someone else do the organising. Ours was TGROUP — they do golf all over Vietnam and they had answers before we had questions. Tell them you want the trip with the receipts.

— Who · played Vinpearl Golf Phu Quoc, June 2026 · ★★★★½