The rain stopped at seven this morning, but the air stayed thick and grey. I was out of the guesthouse by eight, heading not for a temple or a park, but for a small street stall I'd noticed on my first day here, tucked between a phone shop and a laundrette on Wisut Kasat Road. The plastic stools were already out, and the woman running it was pulling fresh rice noodles from a steamer. I sat down and pointed at the pot, and within two minutes I had a bowl of boat noodles in front of me — kuay tiao ruea, dark broth, a tangle of noodles, a few thin slices of pork, and a spoonful of that fiery, deep-red chilli vinegar.
It cost about 20 baht — under a dollar. In Phitsanulok, the boat-noodle shops famously advertise bowls at 15 to 20 baht as a deliberate gesture to help with the cost of living. This is a university town, Naresuan University is just outside the centre, so the students keep prices honest. I ate two bowls and felt full. A local next to me, an older man in a faded blue shirt, nodded at my second bowl and smiled. I paid and walked out into a street that was already steaming in the early heat.
My plan for the day was simple. I wanted to see the bronze casters at the Buranathai Buddha Casting Foundry, which I'd glimpsed yesterday in a brief visit. Today I wanted to actually watch the process. The foundry sits on Wisut Kasat Road, a serious, working place — not a tourist attraction. Large bronze images in various stages of completion stand in the yard: some only rough shapes, others with faces so serene and finished they seem to be waiting for someone to take them home. The air smells of hot metal, clay, and dust.
I was lucky. A small crew was preparing a pour for a medium-sized Buddha image, maybe a metre and a half tall. I stood well back as a worker in a thick apron and rubber gloves lifted a crucible of molten bronze from the furnace. The metal glowed a dull orange. He walked carefully, arms steady, to the mould and tipped it. The bronze flowed in a thin, bright stream, and a plume of smoke rose. No one spoke. Then it was done, and the crew moved immediately to clean up, checking the vents and the temperature. The silence broke into easy chat and laughter.
One of the workers, a young man with tattooed forearms, gestured for me to look at a smaller finished piece — a standing Buddha about the size of a loaf of bread. He held it out. The detail on the face was extraordinary, the downcast eyes, the small smile. I asked the price. He shrugged and said that pieces like that get sent to temples all over the country, and that this one was already promised. I thanked him and stepped back into the heat.
The foundry is one of the few places in Thailand that still pours large bronze images in the traditional way, and it is tied to Wat Yai, the great temple down the road. The Phra Buddha Chinnarat, the image that makes this city a pilgrimage site, is not bronze — it is a mix of metals, cast in 1357, and considered by many to be the most beautiful Buddha image in the country after the Emerald Buddha. I went back to the temple grounds around mid-morning.
The rain had held off, but the air was heavy and the sky grey. I walked past the main chapel, where a steady stream of people moved in and out — young couples, families with children, monks in saffron robes. Inside, the Chinnarat sits high under a pointed spire. He is covered in gold leaf applied over centuries, and the effect is not just beautiful but almost blinding. His hands are in the mara pose, touching the earth. I sat on the tiled floor for a moment, just watching the light catch the metal and the visitors who came to pray.
The temple is also home to the famous mother-of-pearl inlaid doors, made in the 18th century. They are enormous, and the inlay work is intricate — tiny pieces of shell forming flowers and vines and mythical figures. I stood there for a long time. It is easy to walk past them, but they repay attention. A monk nearby was sweeping the walkway, moving in slow, deliberate strokes, and the sound of the broom on stone matched the rhythm of the rain that began to fall again, gently at first.
I took shelter in the Phuttha Chinnarat National Museum, which sits on the temple grounds. It is a serious collection of Sukhothai and Ayutthaya bronzes. Admission was around 50 baht. Inside, the rooms are cool and quiet, the light low. I spent an hour circling the galleries, looking at the graceful walking Buddhas of Sukhothai — that impossible elegance, the balanced weight, the hint of movement in bronze. The museum labels are in Thai and English, which helps.
By early afternoon, the rain had settled into a steady drizzle. I crossed the Nan River on the small footbridge near the night bazaar and walked along the riverfront park, Suan Chom Nan. The river was high, swollen from weeks of rain, the water brown and fast. A few people were jogging under umbrellas. A man was fishing from the bank with a simple line, not expecting much. I watched the current for a while. It is a serious river, not a decorative one.
I was getting hungry again, so I made my way to a riverside eatery I'd noticed, called Krua Nannum Phitsanulok. It is a simple place, open to the street, with the kitchen right at the front. The speciality here, and all along this stretch of the Nan, is kuaitiao hoi kha — fish-maw noodle soup. Fish maw is the dried swim bladder of a fish, and when it is soaked and cooked it becomes soft and slightly spongy, picking up the flavour of the broth. I ordered a bowl and it came quickly — a clear, rich soup with thin noodles, the maw cut into strips, topped with crispy garlic and spring onions.
It tasted of the river. The broth had a deep, savoury note that I could not quite place — probably dried shrimp or a piece of pork bone. The maw itself was delicate, with a texture unlike anything else. The bowl cost about 50 baht. I ate it slowly, watching the rain pattern the river. A tuk-tuk idled nearby, the driver asleep, head tipped back. Everything felt slowed by the water.
After lunch, I wandered into the small, covered market near the night bazaar, just to get out of the rain. Inside, the air was humid and loud. Stalls sold dried fish, piles of green chillies, bundles of morning glory, bags of rice. A woman was making som tam at a tiny counter, pounding chillies and garlic and lime and fish sauce in a big clay mortar with a rhythm you could set a clock to. The sharp, clean smell cut through everything else. I ordered a small portion and ate it standing, the crunch of green papaya and the sting of chilli waking me up again.
The som tam cost about 30 baht. I could feel the heat in my throat for the next hour, a pleasant burn.
Late afternoon, I went back to Wat Yai for the evening chanting. I had heard about it but not yet been. The main chapel fills up not with tourists but with local people — a mix of older worshippers, students from the university, families. The monks began to chant, a low, rhythmic intonation that filled the high space. I sat at the back. The sound was not melodic so much as grounding, like the hum of the earth itself. A baby fussed; an old woman gently shushed it. The rain had stopped, and the evening air was cool, almost sweet.
When the chanting ended, I walked back along the river toward the night bazaar. The Saturday Walking Street is famous — the 'Flying Water Spinach' noodle performance is a real thing, where a vendor throws a bundle of water spinach high in the air and slices it with a cleaver before it lands, a trick that has become a local legend. I did not see it tonight, but I did eat a plate of pad thai from a stall that had set up early, and I sipped a cold Thai milk tea as the lights came on along the river.
I have been in Phitsanulok for three days now, and I am beginning to understand its rhythm. It is not a pretty, curated town. It is a working city, a railway junction, a provincial capital that has been here for centuries. The hotel I am staying at, Shinnabhura Historic Boutique Hotel, is a quiet place near the river, and a night there runs a bit more than a typical guesthouse. I have been looking at longer options for my own notes. A modest studio in this town rents for around 6,500 baht a month, which is about 185 dollars. A basic local apartment runs far less — 2,000 to 4,000 baht. You can live well here on very little.
Tomorrow, the plan is a day trip to Phu Hin Rong Kla National Park, up in the mountains east of here. It is the rainy season, so the waterfalls will be full and the mist heavy on the cliffs. I have heard the drive is winding and the weather unpredictable, so I will organise a car in the morning. The park is the kind of place where the rain is not an interruption but the point.
As I walked back to my hotel tonight, the sky was clearing, a pale gold band of light at the horizon. The river was still high, still moving fast. A night heron stood motionless on a rock at the water's edge. I stood there for a moment, and then I crossed the bridge into the old town, the lights of the night bazaar behind me, the river carrying the silence of the day away.
Everything I have mentioned today, from the foundry to the noodle stalls to the park trip I am planning, is in the episode notes. There is a good data eSIM to sort at the airport and a car service for the mountains — both worth booking ahead, it saves waiting. Have a good night, sawasdee.