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“What’s that?” I say, squinting towards the blur of on-coming traffic. As far as traffic goes—pedestrians, cars, buses, bikes—this is utterly uncharacteristic. Shin-high and quacking, as the shadows approach I make out the group of ducks waddling along the road adjacent to the rice-fields. “Hi Uncle,” Dayu calls to a man strolling in-front of the group of gossiping ducks, with a bamboo pole. He grins a toothless smile at me, so large that it threatens to consume his face entirely. “My uncle is taking the ducks for their exercise.” Dayu explains. “He sells them to the local restaurants.” I shake my head in disbelief. This is as free-range as it comes. The ducks are passing us now, completely un-phased by our presence. I sidestep out of the way as one almost collides with my foot. Their shadows play in the shallow water of the rice fields. Every now and then, a tadpole distorts these reflections. Dayu’s uncle leads them down a pathway. I watch as they disappear in a storm of webbed feet, following him like dogs on a leash. We are left in silence. The sun is beginning to set, the sky turning a moody indigo. A few workers remain out on the fields, baskets on their heads, picking at the stems of incandescent green. Apart from the gentle breath of wind, all is calm. I inhale the bitter smell of cut rice stalks. “Come, I’ll show you my home.” Dayu flicks a stream of dark hair behind her shoulder and elegantly sits on the scooter, keeping her sarong intact. I smile and climb onto the back. I’d met Dayu last night when she’d waited on me at Laka Leke: a traditional Balinese restaurant located just steps away from Ubud’s enchanting Monkey Forest. Striking up an instant bond she’d invited me for a meal at her family home, collecting me this morning by scooter. After snailing our way through the lively hub of Ubud, past shops reflecting the artistry of the area—batik, jewellery and wood carvings—we turned down a cobbled side-road, entering a space that felt unchanged by the passages of time. Trundling down a rubbly path, leading to Dayu’s home, we pass chickens milling in scrub, tamarillo plants, and bamboo structures. Dayu’s mother stands at the entrance of a white-washed clay house. She is staring at me with intense curiosity. As Dayu parks the scooter, her mother takes my hand and squeezes it gently. Her eyes sink into the folds of a warm smile, before she gestures for us to follow her into the home. There is no artificial lighting but the embers in the fire-pit cast the kitchen in a dim glow. A coffee table sits atop bamboo matting, set with a terrific feast. Dayu’s mother indicates for me to sit. I take in the food in-front of me: steamed fish wrapped in banana leaves, and a mixture of green beans with shredded coconut. As Dayu and I eat, her mother settles into the corner of her home to weave offerings out of palm fronds: a daily ritual for the Hindu gods and goddesses. Dayu tells me how her brother lives here with his wife and children and that her mother and father live next door. Her own bedroom is located up the garden. She speaks and I listen, absorbed also with my tastebuds having a field day. As Dayu talks, I notice that she emulates a great sense of inner calm and I can’t help feeling that this way of living seems right. No wonder there are issues with loneliness in western society when it is commonplace to isolate ourselves. After lunch her mother teaches me to weave offerings. We have no common language, but as she guides me, I forget all my worries, completely mindful of the task at hand. With a full belly and heart, I ride home on the back of Dayu’s scooter and notice that the moon is full also.