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Memories of the Seychelles
We started in Mahé, and if we’re honest, it took us a day or two to warm up to the place. Maybe it was the jet lag, or maybe it was the island’s peculiar rhythm—nothing rushed, but nothing particularly inviting either, not at first. Still, the view from our AirBnB was outrageous: a quiet beach below the house, no name on a map, just a soft curve of pale sand and tide that came in like a secret. Mornings there were our slow ritual. Coffee, ocean. Silence, then the song of birds. It was the kind of beach that asked nothing of you, and in return, gave you stillness.
But driving in Mahé? That was another story. The roads were coiled tight around the hills like stubborn old vines—steep, narrow, and unapologetically wild. Every blind curve felt like a dare, every oncoming pickup truck a small test of nerve. It was the kind of driving that leaves your palms damp and your eyes wide even after you’ve parked. But what we remember most isn’t the driving—it’s the sudden openings. You’d be gripping the wheel, knuckles white, then turn a corner and boom: a hidden bay, water lit up like a turquoise gemstone, and nothing else for miles. Mahé didn’t charm you immediately. It ambushed you, like beauty that wasn’t trying to impress you anymore.
Then came the plane to Praslin. We boarded a propeller aircraft so small it felt like boarding someone’s private toy. We remember the pilot—barefoot, relaxed, like he was flying a kite instead of a plane. The flight was maybe fifteen minutes, but it was enough to shift the scale of everything. From above, the Seychelles looked impossibly scattered—green blots in a sea too blue to be real. The world shrank to color and curve.
Praslin felt more open than Mahé. The roads still had that roller-coaster madness, but the hills were gentler, the spaces between villages wider. We visited Vallée de Mai, where the famous coco de mer trees grow—massive, alien-looking palms with fruit shaped like something you’d get in trouble for describing. It felt prehistoric, dense with humidity and quiet, as though the forest didn’t care whether you were there or not. There was something sobering about walking among plants that had been here long before us and would likely outlast us all.
The beaches, though—this is what people write songs about. Anse Lazio was the obvious star: perfect symmetry, soft sand, granite boulders rising out of the sea like sculptures abandoned by giants. But our favorite was Anse Georgette—tucked behind a hotel, technically open to the public but rarely crowded. We spent hours there, floating in the shallows, watching the way the light changed the color of the sea. Time dissolved a little on Praslin. Meals stretched long. Evenings came without urgency.
And then: La Digue.
You arrive by ferry, and immediately the world shrinks again. No cars. Just bikes, footpaths, and the occasional ox cart. It took us all of five minutes to rent a pair of beat-up bicycles with squeaky brakes, and suddenly everything changed. You felt the sun on your shoulders, the breeze in your hair, the gentle fatigue of earning your way from place to place. There was no real schedule, just the slow rhythm of pedal, coast, stop, swim.
Anse Source d’Argent gets all the attention, and rightly so. You walk through a vanilla plantation to reach it, then emerge into this surreal stretch of beach—pinkish sand, shallow warm water, and those iconic granite boulders stacked like abstract art. It’s almost too photogenic to feel real. But it is real. And when the tide is low and the sun starts dipping, it becomes something close to sacred.
But the best beach—without hesitation—was Anse Cocos.
Getting there was its own little pilgrimage. You start at Grand Anse, which is stunning but dangerous to swim in—waves crash in hard, and the current tugs like it’s trying to steal you.
From there, you hike over a small ridge, past Petite Anse, and then through a short trail shaded by sea grape trees and pandanus palms.
And then you arrive: Anse Cocos. Half-moon shaped, wild and a little unkempt, the beach felt like it had resisted domestication. No cafés, no sunbeds. Just a natural pool carved into the rocks at the far end where the waves break just right, leaving a pocket of calm to swim in. We spent the better part of a day there, reading, swimming, talking, saying almost nothing. It was that kind of place—where words feel a little unnecessary.
La Digue was where we stopped thinking about time. The days bled into each other. We learned which local fruit vendor had the sweetest mangoes, which beach caught the sunset just right. Even the bikes started to feel like extensions of our own bodies—rusty, imperfect, but dependable. We rode under low palm canopies and along coastal paths, through the occasional rain shower that passed as quickly as it came.
Looking back, Seychelles wasn’t just a destination—it was a slow peeling back of speed, noise, and structure. Mahé was the entrance exam, Praslin the classroom, and La Digue the exhale. And through it all: water, light, and the sound of our own thoughts getting quieter.
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Who We Are:
Alan & May
Welcome to North of Known! We’re Alan and May, a married couple who have embraced digital nomadism while calling Bangkok, Thailand, our current home base. Over the past 8 years, our shared passion for exploration and adventure has fueled our journey across the globe. Join us as we continue to embark on our nomadic adventures, sharing our insights, discoveries, and travel tales along the way.
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