Early morning we head into the hills to Ubud, the artisanal heart of Bali.  A good friend of mine, who is married to a Balinese and lives on the north coast of the island, says, “You are leaving the Dark Side for Middle Earth,” warning me that what I will find along the Ayung River and in those gorgeous rice fields of Sayan is only marginally better than the crush of the coast.  We head off at 8:30 under our first really blue, clear sky and rejoice in roads that are virtually empty.  As we leave the motorcycles and trucks of the coastal strip and ascend through thick bamboo stands and perfectly carved rice terraces that shimmer in the sharp morning light, a great sense of well-being rolls over us. I cannot remember another place whose vegetal profusion is matched by such cultural elaboration. Family compounds and temples, enclosed by low brick walls covered with emerald lichens, line the country roads.  But there is nothing simple about these walls.  Some are solid and capped with fantastic volcanic stone figures, others have brickwork as delicate as lace,  and there are those with bas relief tales running their length.  Bali has always been thus – a dizzying combination of fantasy and ritual, disorder and discipline, played out in daily life.

We made a few stops along the way, the first being to the family compound of Ida Bagus Tilem, the great wood carver.  While his and his son’s carvings are masterful and always worth seeing, there is much more to this stop than watching his quiet carvers at work.  The compound, itself, is a glimpse into a Bali that seems very far away and not easily within the grasp of the average visitor.  If you arrive early before other tourists, you can wander the compound quietly, accompanied by the easy talk of the women on the verandah and the singing birds in their oh-so-beautiful, antique bird cages.  Peek through a door to see a lovely – and valuable – painting of Bali’s own master, Gunarsa, under which, in a morning sun ray,  sleeps Chino, some mixed breed charmer who is very old and very deaf.  Glass fronted cupboards are stacked with Ming dishes and bowls and, through the window of the gallery, you glimpse famous pieces of father and son – the mudra hand, the yogi, the dancing Balinese girl, the fisherman with his net.

In the family temple, relatives are bringing the ancestors fresh offerings of  marigold petals, sticky rice and incense.  The ritual is timeless and striking in this age of fast commerce, mass tourism and facebook.