Down the hill to Kothi to visit the temple. It's beautiful as expected quiet, birdsong and the sound of flags fluttering in the afternoon wind; children's voices as a game of cricket is played on a small patch of concrete, the rhythms of hammer upon wood. 
The temple itself is a thing of beauty, carved crocodiles and peacocks, flakes of colour clinging to their weathered wood, stained and worn by the centuries, horizontal and vertical axis now sloped, the walls slightly pot bellied. 
And yet, six centuries passed, this wooden structure remains the intricacies making the statement that this is a holy place. 
A little removed another temple, a pool, sacred fish but, today, a closed door. It's enough to look though, to return to those thoughts regarding the sanctity of mountains and the gods and monsters which inhabit them. 
And then an hour sitting in the temple grounds listening to a woman singing praises to the gods, her face illuminated by her connection with the words, flowing over me, offering transportation towards the place she inhabits. And then opening my eyes I find them filled by the temple and the mountains beyond and closing them once again I return to that place of gods the song inhabits. Walking black into Rekong Peo, a couple of treats to taken back up the hill to share but it's a distracted journey, the song accompanying me into the quiet night of Kalpa.