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Leaving Phnom Penh we follow a long winding river that eventually faded into a confusion of land and water, like mangroves, channels between tangled green chunks of earth, interspersed with small fishing communities. The boat roars along, a high wake spreading behind us, and then suddenly we are spat out in to the lake proper, the vast blue expanse of Tonle Sap. The mountains to the north fade away to leave the horizon in all directions uncluttered and unbroken. The only drama to enliven the journey occurs as another identical boat approaches in the opposite direction at similar breakneck speed, and it soon became obvious that there are no guidelines for which side a vessel should pass on. Edging to the left, then to the right, back to the left, finally someone makes a decisive move, and we sweep past each other in a whirl of spray, so ending today’s game of water-borne chicken.

Arriving towards Siem Reap among more clustered fishing houses, we edge along a narrow channel until we pull up to a dust-blown rocky bank. A crowd of taxi drivers and hotel touts await us, signs drawn on scraps of paper held aloft. I spotted my name, a deal from my earlier hotel that they would cover my transfer in to town if I would go to see their sister hotel - no obligations. So I grab my bag, which my driver then wedges between his thighs, hop on the back of the motor-scooter, and we head in to town.

As we bump along the raised embankment, overlooking paddy fields and palm trees, Chan Bun Loen introduces himself, and offers to be my driver for the duration of my stay. The price is acceptable, and he appears to be a decent guy, albeit with limited English – given that my Khmer is non-existent, I didn’t anticipate any insightful information on the ruins forthcoming, but no matter, I was happy to play it by ear.

I check in to the hotel, comfortable enough and central too, and acting on advice, take a pause until about 4pm. Visits to the temples require a heavy duty ticket which is payable in dollars, lots of dollars, and has your photo laminated to it. After 4.30pm however, the need for a ticket is waived for the rest of the day, so we time it to get to the gates just after the deadline. Driving out along the road to Angkor is a veritable convoy of motor-scooters, waves of tourists clinging precariously to the pillion seats behind their diminutive local drivers – an indication of things to come. We pass vast new hotels, all upscale, and the building sites of more to follow – if they succeed in filling them all, you won’t be able to see the temples for the crush of people. More valuably, there was also an American funded children’s hospital that Chan explained he could bring his children to for free.

First sight of Angkor is not impressive to me – at a distance beyond the moat and through the hazy evening air, and difficult to fully appreciate while battling the traffic – it seemed the world and his wife are here for New Year's, since this is already December 31st. We head past the entrance to the temple, towards a nearby hill that guidebooks recommends as good for the sunsets. Scrambling past the elephant rides the path up the hill is little more than a near vertical, boulder strewn dry river course and I am bemused to watch many of the female visitors trying to tackle it in heels.

At the top is a ruined temple, silhouetted against the light and swarmed by people, like ants on a biscuit left out; tourists – young, old, fat, thin, wielding cameras, tripods and video equipment, and throughout are the vendors, selling t-shirts, cold drinks, temple rubbings and Khmer scarves. I I climb to get a better view, and there through the trees is Angkor Wat. I find a niche in which to sit for a while, but could not get comfortable and soon realize what is bothering me. Apart from the tourist hordes, which are distraction enough, I notice that while Angkor is to the east, the sun is setting to the west, and it is impossible to enjoy both. I can't see what all the fuss is about, so I made a quick decision, tumble back down the hill to Chan and have him drive me down to the temple proper.

Walking along the entrance causeway, and through the first gate, my first impressions of this fantastic monument close up are a disappointment. I have wanted to come here for years, each previous effort meeting failure, and now that I am finally here, so are thousands of others. Not that I have any more right to be here than they, but it was not as I have so long imagined it. I press on however, down the massive flagstone entrance path, noticing the first of many beggars that I will see missing limbs – a legacy of the countless mines dropped on this country during the Vietnam war (they call it the American war here) and by subsequent occupying forces. Cambodia has suffered much like neighboring Laos, which has the distinction of being the most heavily bombed country on earth. Two million tones of bombs were dropped during the Vietnam war, equating to one plane load every five minutes, around the clock - for 9 years. And all on to a country that no-one was officially at war with.

But I digress. Once inside the Angkor complex, I quickly become aware of it’s massive size, and the large knots of people start to disperse, spreading out through the grounds, to different levels of the building. Anxious that the sun has almost set, I hurry through, climbing swiftly the precipitously steep stone stairways, block work worn smooth by the passage of countless feet, by time and wind and rain. Breathing hard from the exertion, I am able to join a small group, sitting quietly on the upper levels, peaceful witness to the end of the daylight.

As the warmth of colour fade out of the ancient stone, I make my way cautiously down the cliff-like steps, cautiously leaning in to the building and holding on with both hands. Local children run past in a game of chase that is terrifying to watch, upwards and down again, nimble as cats and seemingly unaware of the great empty drop to the flagstone courtyard below.

Due to a large performance of some kind due to take place in the temple grounds, the fabulous towers and façade of Angkor are spot-lit in amber against a deepening indigo night sky. As I head away out of the grounds, looking more back over my shoulder than where I am going, I nearly stumble into two heavily armed men dressed in combat fatigues – the evening patrol. Mumbling apologies I hurry along on to the roadside, where I have no choice but to wait in a shaft of light and wait for Chan to spot me. No way that I can pick him out from the 50 or 60 moto-drivers lounging against their bikes in the darkness.

Back at the hotel, Chan asks me what time I want picking up in the morning, and so I formulate an idea. Yes, it is New Year’s Eve, but I don’t know anyone here, I am tired from the traveling and running around, and besides, I have a sneaking suspicion that if I make the effort to get up really early, I might be one of very few people out there. “Six o’clock” I say, “and we’ll go to the Bayon”. I amin bed and asleep by 10.30pm.

Next morning I shiver as I try to huddle behind Chan’s diminutive frame, a fresh breeze whipping through the light clothes that I have worn. All the other traffic we see on the road is local, people heading in to Siem Reap for market, or for work. After a long straight road, with occasional monuments and temples appearing occasionally out of the gloom on both sides, we arrive at a large circular clearing in the trees. At the center of which is a large tumbledown building, it’s broken black and grey stone towers jutting into the shadow-laden sky. Driving around to the entrance of the Bayon, Chan drops me off, and I take some awe-struck steps inside.

Alone, and in the absolute stillness of this moment, I look upwards to the great carved faces that adorned each side of these 54 towers. Fashioned from several stone blocks, worn by wind and weather and in some cases host to growths of lichen, they still exuded an almost tangible serenity. The eyes are closed as if in peaceful contemplation or mindful meditation, and beneath a broad, flat nose the full lips turn upwards in quiet contentment.

For two hours I am lost to this incredible place, finding stairways and passages, scrambling on collapsed heaps of block-work, taking photo after photo, and then again once the sunlight filtered through the trees and breathed some life into the ancient masonry. Feeling smug at having had this place to myself for so long, I am well sated by the time the first tour group mini-vans arrived, and head to a nearby stall for a bowl of spicy noodles.

From then on, it is a 3 day whirl of temples and monuments, each astounding, and different from what had come before – Ta Prohm, its beauty in it’s unrestored state, a victim to the vociferous jungle and left just as it looked when discovered by French explorers a hundred years ago. The shattered walls are held immobile by monstrous roots, and a shady gloom permeates the air as the light is blocked by a dense canopy of foilage. Banteay Srea, tiny by comparison to the other big sites, but in a class of it’s own for it’s stunningly ornate and intricate carved sandstone, large tableaux depicting tales of legend. Preah Khan, an amazing palace like construction of cool rooms and narrow, shady corridors. More well preserved than Ta Prohm, but in a significant state of disrepair nonetheless. International teams are working at reconstruction, lifting immensely heavy blocks by a series of ropes and pulleys to place them exactly back in to position – surely one of the world’s most complex 3D jigsaw puzzles. Smaller temples, less prominent, a return to Angkor to explore further and see it in a different light, a swift trip back to the Bayon, because I could not resist, and all the while marveling at the culture that could have created them. The stone buildings here were meant for the gods, the wooden dwellings of this once mighty million strong empire just dust on the wind......