Behind the door - finding a way in Bali

The door wouldn’t lock. It didn’t matter how many different ways we attacked it with our weary shoulders, or tried to manipulate the rusting key, it wasn’t happening. Perhaps it was the heat, still intense at three in the morning; that had swollen the flimsy wooden frame and made it refuse to align with the lock. Perhaps a locked door wasn’t a big deal in this part of the world.

“It’s no problem, we fix tomorrow” came the lazy reassurance from the maintenance man who had come to our aid. His eagerness to resume the position from which we’d disturbed him - snoozing in a battered armchair in the corner of the hotel lobby - was fair enough given the unsocial hour.

Unsettled, we jammed our unpacked suitcases across the doorway as a makeshift security barrier. Had the door shielded us from a plush, soft-lit carpeted corridor, we may have felt more at ease. But that night, we couldn’t have been further from the standard hotel set-up, and admittedly, our comfort zones.

We were in what appeared to be a lonely rustic thatched bungalow, deep in the jungle in Ubud, Bali. It was pitch dark. Any bearings were formed on the brief walk from the lobby to our accommodation via an overgrown twisting path, spiky branches brushing our faces and unidentified crunches at every footstep. A watery gush suggested a nearby river but other than that, whatever lay beyond that troublesome door, lay shrouded in mystery.

It was fair to wonder whether there were any other guests. Signs of human life in the hotel were scarce in the small hours as the airport taxi driver took his cash and sped off into the darkness. Going on the deafening frog chorus and accompanying natural backing track filtering through the open sides of the terraced lobby however, the amphibian and insect community were wide awake.

With heavy suitcases barring would-be intruders, the impact of travel from the UK - two flights and eighteen hours - rapidly defeated any sleep-preventing mind tricks.. Spindly antennae and other eight legged shadows which may or may not have been poking from the air-con vent soon blurred into exhausted oblivion.

Four hours later, daylight broke over Ubud and suddenly the insecure door was insignificant. Now we were eager to see the things our small hours’ anxiety had made us want to shut out. As we wheeled away the cases and threw open the door to sit bleary-eyed on our porch, the perpetrators of the natural noises made themselves known. Supersized butterflies in flamboyant outfits, jumbo wasps, hummingbirds, busy ants. Sunlight bored its way through the dense greenery and bathed our doorstep in warmth. Hibiscus, and frangipani blossoms punctuated the view. Uninhibited natural beauty.

A gentle amble in search of breakfast unveiled the resort in all its finery. It was in fact made of a variety, and not, as assumed in a jet-lagged delirium, one isolated bungalow, set on a steep valley side in the Balinese jungle. Each villa had a unique local town, landmark or person namesake. Narrow, uneven stone pathways connected accommodation with pools, the spa and restaurant.

And then it happened. The sudden switch of mindset from fear of an alien environment, to a tangibly relaxed way of being. Everything about this place was calm and reassuring. From the tropical birdsong to the potent bouquet of incense filtering from the vibrant handmade bamboo baskets resting on every available ledge - we’d later learn these were Canang Sari - daily offerings to the Hindu gods. Somewhere nearby, you could guarantee there’d be a yoga mat unrolling for some morning downward dog.

Breakfast was spicy Nasi Goreng washed down with treacle-thick, powerful coffee from the neighbouring Indonesian island of Java. The rattle of cutlery against crockery the only thing interrupting the steady hum emanating from the jungle’s thriving inhabitants.

The open-air restaurant, resting at the top of the hillside afforded a view of the valley and a chance to survey exactly where we’d landed in the dead of night.

Multiple Balinese gods, hand-whittled from wood and stone and garishly accessorised with freshly-plucked hibiscus, watched us from their leafy perches. Further down the bank, thatched rooftops of the hidden villas peered through the trees. A crowded lily pond, the likely source of last night’s frog party. At the foot, barely visible through the trees, a natural spring swimming pool, carved out of the rock face, with a handful of hotel guests choosing spots for a restful day in the sun.

Hypnotised by the unprecedented natural beauty and the possibilities for new adventures and experiences ahead, the fact that we’d left our room unlocked for several hours somehow no longer mattered. We were nature’s guests and not vice-versa. Who were we to shut the doors on it?