Is two weeks too long on a cruise? I took one alone - here's what surprised me

A butterfly takes two weeks to emerge from its chrysalis, transforming into something new and spectacular. Two weeks is also just enough time to reset your sleep cycle. Scrolling before bed? You can kick that bad habit for good in 14 days.

A lot can happen in two weeks. It's also the time it takes the Seabourn Encore to make its way from Hong Kong to Singapore on its 14-Day Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam voyage, stopping at eight of Asia's most exciting ports along the way.

But is two weeks too long to be on a cruise ship? Is it likely to give you cabin fever, or is it just long enough to find your sea legs? I am boarding the small ship in Hong Kong, one of 600 guests from around the world, to find out.

"Happy New Year!" a cry rings out over the water. It's coming from a tiny fishing boat. Our ship is sailing into Ha Long Bay in Vietnam and beautiful rock formations are appearing beside the vessel - dark shadows rising from the sea in the early morning light.

It's Lunar New Year and a cacophony of drums greets us at the port, the sound reverberating through my chest. It's tribal, building to a crescendo before we disembark, and to my surprise, I feel emotional. It says welcome to Vietnam, and welcome to a new year - the year of the horse, an opportunity to charge ahead.

I am travelling alone, and today is my first shore excursion of the cruise. After disembarking a junk boat which takes us on a tour of the bay, I lower myself into a bobbing two-person kayak with a stranger.

"Don't expect me to be good at this," the American gentleman laughs.

"We'll do it together," I say as we strike out into unknown territory, ice broken between us. Soon, we pass Vung Vieng, a traditional fishing village where the houses are built on jetties over the water. Standing on a small beach later, I look up, and a sea eagle flies over me so close I see tawny patterns on the underside of its belly. Sea eagles are signs of independence and courage, and I feel heartened as it calls to the bay below.

Back on the ship that afternoon, Noel the Filipino bartender keeps me company in the Observation Bar as he makes me a mint julep. Dinner for one doesn't seem so daunting when the maitre d' at The Restaurant offers me his arm and escorts me to my table. I even feel I'm among friends as Halil, a waiter from Bosnia, asks me if I would like cracked pepper on my Massaman curry. "Why not?" he laughs.

My bus seat companion is teaching me how to say her Austrian name as we drive to Vietnam's ancient city of Hoi An. She gives me her business card, and we smile at each other as we pass rice paddies, a man riding a water buffalo on the side of the road.

I will be walking around solo today, and that's OK because I have a mission: stuffing myself silly with Vietnamese food.

I have only a few hours to taste as much as I can, so after an exceptional frozen coconut brew at the renowned Poison Coffee, I grab a table at Hoian Cuisine Street Food and begin my indulgence: banh mi on crispy bread, morning glory salad with banana flower and delicate chunks of pork, and white rose dumplings with a thick and chewy casing and a dipping sauce to write home about.

Full to bursting, I head out to the street where motorbikes and mopeds rule, and I stroll past tailors, lantern-sellers and leather-makers, until I find the wet market. A woman, sitting on the ground among tubs of fresh noodles, eggs and fruit, is making quick work of a coconut with a rotary shaver. This feels like the old Hoi An, I think, as the woman smiles at me from beneath her traditional conical hat.

Back on the bus, armed with my finds for the day - handcrafted pottery and art prints - my new friend is laughing at me. "Look at all your shopping!" she says. If only she knew how much I ate.

That night, at the Observation Bar on the ship again, I order a Rat Pack Manhattan. Nuts come automatically. Thanks Noel.

The mad motorbike hub-hub of Vietnam's Ho Chi Minh City is waiting outside for me - and I'm sitting in my suite like a loser. I've been on the ship for a week and seen some of Asia's most unmissable cities, but I need a night in. I have poured myself a glass of wine and I have a cheeseburger on its way from room service. I'm ashamed, as it's Saturday night.

Today, as part of a tour group, I visited a Chinese herb shop and learnt ginseng root can be used as heart medicine. At the Thien Hau Temple, built around 1760, a wall of incense engulfed me as I weaved through worshippers paying respect to Mother Goddess for Tet. I navigated the maze-like Ben Thanh Market and its noisy stall-holders spruiking knock-offs.

By snack time, over a steaming bowl of beef pho, my tour group were getting to know each other's backgrounds. By lunchtime, over chicken spring rolls, we toasted new friends - and dug in.

Back in my room alone, my burger arrives, and I know I've made the right decision.

"The average amount of weight a person puts on during a cruise is five kilograms," says my newfound gym friend during our morning pilates class. I have been attempting to limit my indulgences but the temptations at sea are great.

It's a week and a half into the trip and I've been spending more time in my room. It's funny that travelling alone has made me crave alone time, but even doing the laundry is a communal endeavour.

My suite has become my haven, with its private balcony and four types of shower gel. Every afternoon there is a huge fruit platter waiting for me, and every night when I roll back into my room from dinner, a tempting chocolate plate has been placed on my table.

But it's dinner time now and I need to decide where to strap myself in. Still feeling full from lunch, I park myself at the Patio Bar, overlooking the pool, when Noel brings me a pinot grigio.

I am drawn into a conversation with a friendly Norwegian couple about restaurants. They must be feeling the belt-buckle pulling, too.

"Sushi is my favourite," I declare, deciding that's where I'll go after this. As I waddle off, I pass Darwin, who served me codfish at The Patio grill a few nights ago.

"See you tomorrow night then?" he calls.

"OK," I say, not sure I'll even be able to fit in dinner come tomorrow.

We are in a small boat, cruising along a mangrove-lined canal, and it's giving me Apocalypse Now vibes. Three friends I have made on the cruise are with me and we are laughing at this uncanny experience.

The boat has docked in Sihanoukville, and we are on a Ream National Park tour. Our guide, Phou Serey, explains that in Cambodia, everyone is called by the last syllable of their name. So we call him Ray.

"Could this get any more decadent?" I say to my ever-expanding group of new friends. Afterwards, lying in a hammock and drinking a cocktail out of a coconut, I meet a guest who is about to rack up her 1000th day cruising with Seabourn. I think I know why.

It's Friday night and the cruise is coming to an end. There's a big party Poolside and I hear the chords starting upstairs from inside my suite. The clock is ticking towards 7pm and I don't feel like going out. But I drag myself under the shower, put on a party dress, and head up to the tropical heat on the deck.

There they are: my favourite passengers. I stop by the bar, where Noel serves me a pinot grigio and a smile, and join the throng.

People are waiting for me back home; that seems like a different world now. I put my drink down and dance with abandon.

"It's been an honour meeting you, Sarah," says my favourite of the group, hugging me.

And I realise something: it also takes two weeks to make friends.

The writer was a guest of Seabourn