Taking the shuttle in Singapore proved a refreshingly smooth affair, a far cry from the immigration chaos of 2023.

Posted by parkers travels April 02, 2025

Taking the shuttle in Singapore proved a refreshingly smooth affair, a far cry from the immigration chaos of 2023.

Our shuttle guide offered a rather cunning tip for bypassing the queues at Marina Bay Sands: purchase a cocktail ticket from one of the rooftop bars. A far more civilised approach, surely, than elbowing through hordes of tourists for a glimpse of the view.

Ah, but there’s a catch—only half the rooftop is open to the public. The other half is reserved for hotel guests, who lounge with infuriating smugness around their infinity pool while the rest of humanity jostles for selfie space. If you’re absolutely determined to experience the pool, you’ll need to book a night’s stay, though be warned, it won’t come cheap.

Far better, I think, to follow the guide’s advice: head to Tower 3, buy a drinks voucher, and ascend to CÉ LA VI. There, you can sip a cocktail in air-conditioned comfort while enjoying the same staggering views, minus the scrum.

We disembarked near the casino and shops, strolling along the waterfront in a state of serene admiration, until we were jolted by the sight of what appeared to be a snake slithering through the water. A closer inspection (and several frantic attempts at iPhone photography) revealed it to be an otter. Trying to capture a clear shot of a darting otter with an iPhone, is bloody near impossible. I found myself longing for one of those Xiaomi phones with Leica lenses, tested one in Hong Kong, and the difference was staggering. One does wonder why Apple can’t manage a similar collaboration and spare us the need to lug around a proper camera. But I digress.

A brief detour took us past Gardens by the Bay and the Singapore Flyer, the sort of Ferris wheel that makes you question whether any city truly needs to be seen from quite that altitude. But that’s because l’m totally biased, having an aversion to heights.

The river itself was in a state of upheaval, partially drained and cluttered with cranes, diggers, and cement mixers, all labouring over what the signs grandly termed an “iconic landmark.” The old Formula One track now resembled a vast construction site, swarming with workers like an ant colony.

As the heavens opened, we ducked into the Esplanade, where I marvelled, not for the first time, at Singapore’s impeccable tidiness. They even have umbrella dryers outside the shops—a small but genius touch.

Emerging near One Fullerton—once the General Post Office, now a hotel—we encountered a dragon statue spewing water in a manner that seemed rather excessive, though clearly perfect for the legions of Instagrammers angling for shots. From a marketing standpoint, I suppose, it’s a necessity.

Nearby, bronze statues along the riverbank offered a more subdued charm, depicting scenes from Singapore’s past: children leaping into the water, merchants hauling goods, junks drifting lazily.

By evening, this stretch filled with all manner of eateries transforms into a dining paradise, though at this hour, the restaurants lay dormant, their staff poised to pounce on passing tourists with menus in hand.

Further along, we spotted another giant otter, this one strolling with unhurried confidence before slipping into the water. Their presence, I suppose, is testament to the river’s cleanliness, which is rather more impressive than one would imagine.

A quick stop at a 7-Eleven for a cold Coke revealed yet another Singaporean efficiency: a microwave and stacks of instant noodles, allowing customers to whip up a hot meal on the go.

Nearby, a crab—presumably an escapee from some kitchen—scuttled along the promenade with a look of grim determination. A flustered chef in hot pursuit.

We pressed on to Fort Canning, where even the hills are thoughtfully equipped with escalators for those disinclined to hike. The drizzle was pleasant at first, until it escalated into a full-blown monsoon. Judith grew increasingly uneasy at the sight of signs warning of falling branches and lightning strikes—not the most reassuring backdrop for a leisurely stroll. We took refuge in a charming tea house, nibbling mandarins as the rainforest around us hummed with birds, insects, and the relentless hammering of rain.

We slipped into the Fort Canning Heritage Centre—well worth a visit, and mercifully free. The exhibits trace the hill’s history from Malay royalty to British fortress to WWII bunker, all with immersive flair. Best of all, it provided a welcome respite from the downpour.

Once the rain eased to a cooling mist, we ventured back into the gardens—only for the skies to unleash another deluge, turning paths into shallow rivers. We dived into a convenient shrine, dedicated to the last king of Singapura, where the scent of incense mingled with what I think was frangipani (though botany was never my strong suit).

By then, my stomach was gnawing at itself with hunger, so the sight of the KL Handmade Noodle Store near the University of Law felt like an obvious choice. A hearty, fresh-tasting meal—noodles, side dishes, drinks—came to less than £10. A timely reminder that the best food is often found near universities; students, after all, have no patience for mediocrity.

The rain had driven even the butterflies into hiding as we trudged along Orchard Road, pausing frequently for shelter. Singapore’s architecture never fails to impress—vertical gardens cling to skyscrapers, while historic gems like the Rendezvous Hotel stand defiantly among the glass-and-steel newcomers.

Our final stop was Little India, a riot of colour, noise, and pungent aromas. Packed with locals tucking into meals, it was a little too earthy for our tastes—though undeniably vibrant.

By then, thoroughly knackered and in dire need of a shower and dry clothes, we called it a day.

Day Two in Singapore: A Cabin Cough, Cable Cars, and the Relentless March of Civilization

There is nothing quite like waking up in a foreign country with the distinct sensation that your head has been stuffed with wet cotton wool. Such was my condition on the second morning in Singapore, victim of that most insidious of travel afflictions—the cabin cough. My throat felt as though it had been scoured with sandpaper, my sinuses were staging a full-scale rebellion, and my general demeanor was that of a man who had been recently exhumed.

Fortunately, my ever-resourceful Canadian friend, produced a small pharmacy’s worth of remedies from her first aid kit, including a generous swig of Benylin, which tasted too good to do any good.

fortified or at least chemically subdued, we bid Denise farewell and set off for Mount Faber via Singapore’s impeccably efficient underground system. I must pause here to sing the praises of their tap-and-go payment method, which is so effortless that it makes the London Underground’s Oyster system seem like something cobbled together in the 1800s.

The climb through the jungle was nothing short of enchanting, a lush, green tunnel alive with the rustle of leaves and the occasional, mysterious birdcall. It was the kind of setting that makes you half-expect to see David Attenborough pop up in front of a film crew.

And then, abruptly, we arrived at the cable car station, where the spell was shattered by the unmistakable clamor of mass tourism. Crowds jostled for doughnuts and Coca-Cola, children wailed, and the air was thick with the scent of sunscreen and fried food.

One moment, pristine wilderness; the next, a carpark overflowing with tour buses and a road slicing through the landscape,

Still, the view from the ridge was undeniably spectacular: Singapore’s endless concrete sprawl stretching in every direction, a gleaming testament to mankind’s ability to pave over nature with ruthless efficiency.

By the time we began our descent, my cold had transformed me into a proper grumpy old sod. Although my wife commented that she didn’t notice any difference. My legs felt like they had been filled with lead, and my mood was not improved by the knowledge that we still had miles to go. Yet even in my state of self-pity, it was impossible not to be struck by Singapore’s peculiar magic, the way it seamlessly stitches together urban living and pockets of untamed wilderness.

A hundred yards from the cable car, the peace and tranquility once again retuned.

The path wound downward through a verdant wonderland, every inch teeming with plant life so exuberant it seemed to be actively trying to reclaim the land from human coexistence. Eventually, we emerged at the Henderson Waves bridge, an elegant, undulating structure that arched high above the treetops. Part of a 10-kilometer trail linking various parks, it was a masterclass in how to blend engineering with nature, assuming, of course, that nature doesn’t mind having a giant footbridge planted in its midst.

Our next intended stop was the famed TreeTop Walk, a suspended canopy bridge offering dizzying views over the forest. Alas, it was closed due to water damage, a sensible precaution, I suppose, given that no one wants to be mid-stride when a tree decides it’s had enough of supporting tourists and collapses in protest.

We took an alternate route downhill, twisting and turning until, inevitably, we were spat back out into civilization. Singapore, after all, is never more than a stone’s throw away from a high-rise apartment block.

This particular cluster of towers appeared to be social housing, though "social housing" in Singapore looks more like a sleek, self-contained utopia than anything you’d find in Croydon. Yet the 13 floors of washing was a slight giveaway. Each complex came complete with its own supermarket, medical clinic, pharmacy (where I finally secured some Chinese extra strength cough medicine), and—most importantly—food courts.

It being lunchtime, these food courts were heaving with locals, all tucking into steaming bowls of who-knows-what with enviable gusto. The downside? Not a single one accepted credit cards. We traipsed from one to another, each marginally more upscale than the last, only to be met with the same infuriating refusal. In the end, we resigned ourselves to eating our emergency snacks, which, given the sheer volume of food we’d already consumed on this trip, was hardly a tragedy.

With our hunger only partially sated, we hopped back on the underground and made for the Singapore Botanic Gardens. We had visited the city on numerous occasions before but had never managed to see its famous orchid collection.

The gardens were vast, sprawling, and crucially home to the National Orchid Garden, which was situated at the furthest possible point from the entrance. A brisk 60-minute walk, in other words, which in my weakened state felt more like a forced march.

But oh, was it worth it.

The orchids were nothing short of spectacular. A riot of color and form so extravagant that it seemed almost indecent. There were blooms the size of dinner plates, petals that shimmered like silk, and hybrids so improbable they looked as though they’d been dreamed up by a particularly imaginative botanist. It was, without exaggeration, one of the most breathtaking displays of nature (albeit nature carefully curated by humans) I’d ever seen.

And for the first time that day, I forgot all about my cold or the need to eat

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Parkers travels - the diary of the Parker's from Innellan, Scotland

Taking the shuttle in Singapore proved a refreshingly smooth affair, a far cry from the immigration chaos of 2023.

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