A monk and a motorbike

We were late. About four hours late, thanks to a missed train connection, an ancient tram, misunderstood Japanese directions and a long walk down a pitch black road that wound around a mountain. But we were determined to stay in the temple. Our ever-generous host Toshiko, in Osaka, had called the monks earlier that day to tell them we would be arriving that evening, but once we left the city, we had no way to contact the monastery with an update or an ETA. So we had travelled onwards hoping for the best - out of town on trains, up thousands of feet of mountainface in a cablecar, a bus to the village, and a confused walk through the village and out into the darkness beyond. When we finally found the opening in the stone wall which led into the front courtyard of one of the many temples on Mount. Koya, the lights were out, the carved wooden doors were shut, and there was an eerie (or serene, if you like that kind of thing) silence for what seemed like miles around. We were cold. We were tired. And we had no back up plan. Stranded on the top of a sacred Japanese mountain, we just trusted the incredible luck that had accompanied us all around the land of the rising sun so far.

Before despair had a chance to set in, we heard the unmistakable purr of a motorcycle in the distance, and two minutes later, were chatting to a portly, older man with a shaved head and Harley Davidson jacket, who seemed as surprised to see us as we were to see him. He said he had been out to dinner with friends, and pulled out his iPhone 5 to show us pictures of the meal. This, we later discovered, was the head monk.

He scolded us for our tardy arrival, and made it clear that dinner was long since over. We grovelled and insisted that we did not need food, just a place to lay our heads. Either his old heart softened or something was lost in translation, but as soon as we had dropped our bags in the sparsely furnished room, than we were ushered to the dining hall, all the young monks had been awoken, and we were sitting in front of a Buddhist feast. Bowl after tiny bowl of colourful mouthfuls, washed down with miso soup and green tea. Now, I've lived in Asia, Africa, North and South America and Europe, and I can honestly say that was is the first time I  had absolutely no idea what I was eating. None. Couldn't even tell you if it was animal, vegetable or mineral. But man, were we grateful for that spread. And mindful that every dish had been prepared by some sleepy monk who should have been tucked up in bed. It was a meal to remember.

The next morning, we woke to birds singing in the tranquil garden outside. The sun was just coming up, and we joined the monks for chanting by the golden altar, before taking a simple breakfast and heading out to wander amongst the stone monuments and meditation pathways of Koya-san. With the sun up and our place in the world that little bit more secure, the silence was the best part.