My last night in Doha was a near miss. The driving there is genuinely unhinged. I survived. My bag almost didn’t.
At the airport they informed me my backpack needed wrapping because of the rat holes courtesy of Niue. I refused to pay for their professional wrapping service. So naturally, two airport staff appeared with a roll of cling film from behind the counter like they were about to mummify a sandwich.
It took both of them. A lot of dramatic huffing. Several laps around the bag.
The result? Questionable at best. The holes were still peeking through like they were waving goodbye. But apparently it was “secure.” Sure.
I made it onto my flight to Bahrain. Blink and you’ll miss it country. The bag, cling-filmed dignity intact, came too.
I landed in Manama, and within minutes the universe decided to reward me.
I bumped into the Japanese couple I’d met in Doha. Same plane. Karen recognised me from behind because of my phone case and my pink knee brace.
Honestly, if that’s not branding, I don’t know what is.
I hadn’t planned on doing a tour in Bahrain because the solo price was around $400, which made my wallet audibly whimper. But they had no plans either. So we did what sensible travellers do. Teamed up. Split it three ways.
Suddenly, an eight-hour private tour with Mohammad appeared for $125 each.
I love it when maths works in my favour.
First stop was the Pearling Path in Muharraq. This is the old heart of Bahrain’s pearling industry, back when divers risked everything plunging into the Gulf hoping an oyster might cough up something valuable.
Restored houses. Atmospheric alleyways. Stories of men gambling their lungs for a shiny bead.
It’s beautiful. Quiet. Honest.
Sometimes travel really is just timing, good people, and a knee brace acting as a homing beacon.
Bahrain Fort: Finally, Something That Isn’t Brand New
Then came my favourite: Bahrain Fort (Qal’at al-Bahrain).
We arrived just before sunset, which meant the entire place glowed like someone had turned on a vintage filter. And finally, a fort that isn’t freshly built and pretending to be ancient.
This one is the real deal.
Layer upon layer of history. Originally the capital of the Dilmun civilisation. Then conquered by pretty much everyone who passed by, including the Portuguese. Proper foundations. Proper ruins. None of that “finished last Tuesday” energy.
I walked the entire perimeter outside.
Then I walked it again inside.
Because when a fort is this good, you double back without shame.
The light softened. The air cooled. Silence settled in.
I really do love a good fort.
After all that enthusiastic fort circling, my stomach started yelling louder than the call to prayer. Mohammad took us to Haji’s Café, an institution since 1950.
It has that worn, lived-in charm that tells you half the country has eaten there at some point.
We had the classics. Meat. Bread. Salad. Hummus.
The bread alone could convert a person.
One dinar. About £2. I was fully prepared to bankrupt myself on round two. But Mohammad insisted on treating us.
I’m also thoroughly enjoying my new Japanese friends. Calm, curious, easy company. The kind of people you’re quietly grateful got seated behind you on a plane.
Next stop: the Tree of Life. Over 450 years old. Just standing there in the desert, refusing to die. No obvious water source. Slightly dramatic. I respect it.
Then to Bahrain’s first oil well, struck in 1931. A surprisingly modest little site for something that completely rewrote the country’s future. No flashy theatrics. Just quiet, historical significance.
On the way back we stopped at the Cathedral of Our Lady of Arabia, proudly labelled the largest church in the Middle East.
It’s…not that big.
We wandered through the souks, then into Little India to visit a temple and watch Krishna’s devotees. A soft, colourful contrast to forts and oil wells.
Somewhere between all that history we cruised past the skyline and squeezed in a mall visit, which absolutely thrilled my shopping-enthusiast friend.
This mall has an ice rink.
In a region where even the shade needs shade.
And then, just like that, it was time for me to be dropped at the airport for my 3am flight.
Nothing quite like sitting awake in departures at stupid o’clock, slightly delirious, mildly dehydrated, questioning every life choice that led you to this exact plastic chair.
Bahrain was short. Sweet. Surprisingly rich in history. And made infinitely better by accidental friendships and a fort that actually meant it.
