Swim-up bar

A particular late afternoon indulgence was among Claire’s aspirations, and this informed our choice of Seminyak hotel (The Mercure). So, kitted out in our bathers, we tiptoed (Claire) and dove scruffily (me) into the unexpectedly brisk lagoon pool, waded about tokenistically, and then as the clock ticked over to Happy Hour, clambered onto our watery seats.

A swarthy DJ pumped rock classics out over the resort, but curiously he had just a solitary speaker hooked up, so we heard ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ with only the vocals and guitar, and it was a monstrosity. Claire ordered a cocktail, and I took a Bintang. Although the actual beverages didn’t match the thrilling context, this occasion of fizzing, longitudinal expectation had arrived, and it was fun.

Our Balinese villa

Pressing apart the rustic wooden doors. As acclaimed travel writer Bill Bryson says the next moment is one of delicious anticipation and now our eyes dart about, skimming and taking in the sweep of our bungalow. Private pool, outdoor shower, wide kitchen, four-poster bed.

We swiftly began a routine in which I’d purchase our nightly beer and gin accompaniments on our way home at the Ratna shop. Gliding about in the warm pool on the blow-up bed, doing gentle laps as languid music (a LRB playlist) drifted out across our muggy night. Vertiginous geckos kept us company.

Scooter!

Even at unlikely hours, Ubud’s traffic is bunged up, and so we’d each hop onboard a green Honda Scoopy. These riders earnt our trust with their spatial awareness like surgeons and nimble zip like mosquitoes. Slung along Jalan Raya (the main drag), we’d squash between a stationary car and the gutter, breathing in but not shutting my eyes, so mesmerising was each buzzing little trip. They judge distance and opportunity like champion athletes but show ceaseless respect for all.

In Australia horns are tooted with aggression but here they’re informative and aimed at collective benefit not selfishness. Although Bali is Hindu, the road-users are on the path to enlightenment and liberation from suffering and this is vehicular Buddhism.

Pyramids of Chi

Dark inside the pyramid now that the neighbouring ignoramus has finally turned off his phone. On mats with little blankets over our legs, we’re here for aural healing and I need it as there’s lately been way too much Pink invading (guerilla-style) my distressed ears. Claire and I hold hands and the deep voice of the English guide (an Estuary accent) says she’ll begin our session with what will be my debut gong bath.

According to the website, ‘These waves interact both with the water in our bodies, with our DNA and with our chakra system aiding the intelligence of our bodies to feel, heal, relax & release.’ The bath’s dramatic but I enjoy no (aural) healing and have limited consequent need for the earnest (emailed) after-care regime. Still, it’s ninety minutes of shared peacefulness.

Daily walk in Ubud

Rice fields lazy-thick with watery mud. Heavy, wet air envelopes us, and our path is uneven and narrows between the villas. Buzzing, lime scooters politely pick their way past. Dogs roam but mostly ignore us and don’t seek a pat on the head. Dotted about are warungs or restaurants. We frequent one named Mesari which does delicious beetroot and pesto salad and nasi campur and beef rendang.

On the path’s another eatery cutely called Whole Egg in which we have Sunday breakfast. The café only seats eight and the owner prepares everything with calming patience. Chatting, we take in the fertile, sweet air and then Claire’s banana pancake and smoothie appears while I have granola with yoghurt and local fruit. Claire saw a review that suggested it was like being in your Mum’s kitchen.

It was.