Before it became known as the place where one can “fairy walk,” our Spanish colonizers once called it Isla del Fuego due to the eerie glow of countless fireflies at night.

Siquijor has always been shrouded in mysticism, tales of witchcraft, and folk magic that, for a time, tourists shied away from the place. Not anymore.

Nowadays, its folk healers, herbalists, and mystic rituals have become part of its unique charm.

Nature has blessed the island with white sand beaches like Salagdoong Beach, Paliton Beach and Kagusuan Beach as well as turquoise waters, IG-worthy falls, and lush interiors.

Which was why when my running buddy mentioned months back there was going to be a marathon there, I was instantly convinced to register. But just as I was about to sign up, I realized that the marathon was exactly a week after the Sydney marathon that I had registered for so I told the buddy, I couldn’t commit.

But there I was that late Saturday morning on a plane to Dumaguete with the buddy and her fellow police officers who were also running the race.

After arriving at the Dumaguete airport, we went straight to the port where we boarded a ferry headed for Siquijor. The trip took us a little over 30 minutes and from the Siquijor port, it was a brief tricycle ride away to where we were supposed to pick up our race bibs.

Then, off to our Airbnb to rest and sleep early considering the 1 a.m. gunstart.

Our quaint bed and breakfast was in the middle of a forest with mammoth decades-old trees. It’s one of those accommodations where you wouldn’t mind staying in. The rain began to pour again and the pitter patter helped lull us to sleep.

It was still drizzling around midnight when we headed to the plaza where the start area was. We were pleasantly surprised at the sizable crowd that had gathered to run the 42K, most of whom are not from the area. There were foreign tourists as well.

Having just ran the Sydney marathon the week prior, I really had no plan of even targeting a specific pace. I wanted to take it easy, enjoy the scenery, and breathe the mystical Siquijor air. The rain had stopped shortly before gun start, and I thought we had the perfect conditions for an easy night run.

Soon after, I realized that it couldn’t be all that “easy.”

I thought I had left the hills behind me in Sydney. Siquijor did not want to be outdone. My not-so-fully recovered legs complained with the undulating elevations but every other part of me was happy.

For one, despite the up and down route, the roads were flawless and mostly well-lit. It gave a sense of what provincial life feels like at night. If not for the sound of hundreds of feet running, everything else was quiet and still.

We finished the run just after sunrise. Got our medals, packed, and headed home. It was a much too short trip but long enough to make me commit to come back for more.

Until the next time, Siquijor.