I know, a terrible title but I couldn’t resist. Visiting the old imperial city of Hué has been the perfect antidote to my race-extension rant.

The city itself is not very different from Danang: another bustling busy city, where everyone is in a hurry to get somewhere on a scooter, bicycle, or vélo-moteur (now there’s a bit of vocab I haven’t needed for 23 years); but I stayed for just one night in the Hotel Siagon Morin, built in 1910 by the French on the banks of the Perfume river.  It’s still all polished wood and mirrors, whitewashed pillars, with bits of beautiful fabric distributed at random around the walls and a level of service that even the snootiest maitre d’ couldn’t fault. Apart from all the smiling staff.

  
  

I managed to tear myself away from the al fresco brekkie after just three cups of coffee, and made it across the bridge to the World Heritage Site that is the citadel.  Built in 1802 as the seat of the Nguyen dynasty, the citadel was situated on the river, with a large and auspicious mountain guarding its western flank, its feng shui balanced by the dragon and tiger sandbanks lying in the river to the south.

Such geomancy sounds odd to western ears; but our ancestors would have understood. Every standing stone in the British Isles was placed with careful regard to the rivers, hills and lakes around it, and our churches face East – towards Jerusalem, for certain; but also towards the sunrise still sacred to those who had yet to be persuaded of the new God.

Today the citadel is still impressive: both a statement of the emporer’s authority and a serious working fortress that proved a tough nut to crack for the US in their counterattack to the Tet offensive. There’s little mention of the war, but the signs are still there if you look.

Through the main gate, the palace complex opens out onto courtyards, cloisters, koi, and enough chrysanthemums to, well, do whatever it is you’d do with lots of chrysanthemums.

After a while, though, the relentless symmetry became slightly oppressive and I found myself longing for a curve rather than a corner, or a wonky wall, or an odd turret. No chance. In a palace where the very stitching of ones clothes differed from rank to rank, and where there were eight levels of concubine (the otherwise-informative billboards failed to mention what determined their grade), there was no room for randomness.

Having had my UNESCO fix I made my way along the northern bank of the Perfume river (pausing for a pagoda) to highway 1, the main north-south road that links Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City, and then back over the Hai Van mountain pass to Da Nang.  

After such a glut of culture, it’s time to go the Luna pub for pizza and beer…