This place, it’s not only centuries and centuries of history and inspiration touching you gently in the face – without crowds and fences and locks and official guides following you around. It’s also talking to some people who don’t even know any other place on earth. Picked up English from grandparents and tourists, never been further than 50 miles, never seen a city, train, elevator, convenience store, factory, never used a washing machine or mobile phone.
Still, there is history to talk about, legends, other countries, politics. Horses, travelling, schools, the whole world.
Still, it’s easy to share a joke, a smile, a meal, a sunset.
Not many places where I feel safe to be me, but this was one of them.
And the village’s most scaredy horse even protected us from the mad new year water fights, kicking and bolting for the nearest bush at the mere sight of a water bottle or bucket, so the owner made sure to keep the local urchins away.
A doorway so rhyming with the window from Angkor.
I can’t even say anything, all these years, four of them now, and I’m still lost for words.
Which makes me really really reluctant to go back and visit again. Don’t want to break the memories.