Philippines: Quiet Corners of Puerto Princesa
One of Palawan’s oldest churches, standing quietly at the heart of Puerto Princesa
The first thing I felt that morning was quiet. In Puerto Princesa, the sun rises early, and the city blooms into its day slowly—like it knows there’s no reason to rush.
I walked toward Immaculate Conception Cathedral, its white Gothic spires gleaming against a blue sky, softened by the sway of trees that framed it like an old painting. Founded in the late 1800s and rebuilt in the 1960s, the cathedral is one of the oldest structures in Palawan—a reminder that this city has been a place of arrivals and departures for more than a century.
Morning light and a moment of stillness in the cathedral’s blue-lit nave
Inside, the nave felt impossibly blue, sunlight bending through stained-glass windows in long, quiet strokes. One man sat alone near the back, hands folded, body still. I didn’t know his story, but in the hush of the room, it didn’t matter. Stillness has a way of belonging to everyone.
A soft chorus of voices rising beneath the wooden beams during morning mass
Mass was beginning—a small gathering, maybe forty or fifty people, each voice adding to a soft hum that echoed through the wooden beams. If Puerto Princesa has a heartbeat, it might sound something like this: gentle, patient, human.
Symmetry, clouds, and the gentle mix of old and new in Puerto Princesa’s cathedral
When I stepped back outside, the clouds were drifting fast, carrying the morning toward noon. Travel has taught me that small towns breathe differently. Puerto Princesa doesn’t try to impress you. It simply invites you to look closer.
Gothic lines softened by the tropical sky — faith anchored in calmness
And so I did—one last glance at the cathedral’s symmetrical face, its spires rising like calm exclamation points against the sky.
A long wooden path leading into one of Puerto Princesa’s quietest corners
Later that day, drawn by stories of a restaurant hidden deep in a mangrove forest, I found myself at the entrance of Badjao Seafront Restaurant. A long wooden walkway stretched forward like a quiet promise. Since 1996, this place has been serving seafood at the water’s edge, but its true magic begins long before the dining room.
Mangrove roots intertwined like an ancient network beneath the waterline
Mangroves are ecological powerhouses—protecting coastlines, sheltering juvenile fish, and filtering the water. In the Philippines alone, they span nearly 250,000 hectares. Walking among them felt like moving through an ancient world of interlocking roots and shifting shadows.
Filtered sunlight guiding the way through Palawan’s coastal mangroves
Every step along the wooden planks echoed softly. Light dappled through the canopy. It smelled of earth, salt, and something alive. Mangroves don’t try to be beautiful; they simply are.
A single mangrove holding steady in the shifting tides of the bay
At the far edge, the forest opened into a view of the bay. One lone mangrove stood in shallow water—its roots exposed, its leaves bright, its reflection trembling gently with each wave. The coastline stretched in the distance, mountains rising like a faded watercolor.
Built above the water, Badjao’s dining hall blends sea breeze and simplicity
Inside the restaurant, ceiling fans turned lazily and voices blended into the soft clatter of plates. Seafront restaurants often rely on scenery, but this one delivered far more than a view.
Smoky, tender grilled fish — a taste shaped by Palawan’s coastal life
I ordered grilled fish—simple, smoky, and tender enough that it flaked apart at the slightest touch. Nearly 60% of Palawan’s annual seafood catch comes from small-scale fishers, and dishes like this carry that story in each bite.
A comforting trio of flavors: grilled fish, savory adobo, and warm rice
Alongside it came a bowl of pork adobo—salty, savory, familiar. Rice, of course, needs no introduction; the Philippines grows millions of tons every year, yet each bowl feels personal somehow.
Slow-simmered adobo, rich with vinegar and soy — a Filipino classic
I could taste the slow simmering—the vinegar softening the meat, the soy sauce deepening into something warm and home-like.
Silky leche flan under dark caramel, sweetened by soft afternoon light
For dessert, I had leche flan, smooth and dense under a dark amber syrup. It tasted like childhood, even if it wasn’t mine.
The last bites of flan, catching the sunlight like amber on a plate
Halfway through, sunlight hit the plate just right, turning the caramel glossy. Moments like that remind me why I take photos—not to document, but to remember the feeling of “right now.”
Puerto Princesa isn’t a city of dramatic chapters. It’s a city of quiet paragraphs—the kind that stay with you not because they shouted, but because they whispered something true.
A cathedral filled with blue light.
A forest of roots older than memory.
A simple meal shared with the sea breeze.
Nothing extravagant.
Nothing rushed.
Just a day that unfolded gently—one that reminded me that travel doesn’t always need spectacle. Sometimes, it just needs space.
And Puerto Princesa gives you plenty of that.
The Philippines was never a perfectly planned journey, but maybe that was the point. It taught me that beauty doesn’t always wait for structure — sometimes it finds you in the quiet mornings with beach dogs, in the glow of starfish beneath clear water, or in a simple meal shared by the sea. As I left Puerto Princesa, I carried with me not just memories, but the feeling of having wandered through a place that welcomed me with warmth, color, and quiet kindness. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.
To see more photos & videos from my travels visit the links below
happy traveling,
~Sean
