I still remember the anticipation before he picked me up. What was I doing waiting at a tiny shop in Northern Thailand to go and live with a man I’ve never met. An ex monk no less! He pulled up on his scooter and spotted me immediately, The only non-Thai person in the small cafe shack. After a quick introduction I was on the back of his bike, helmet-less and clinging on to him for dear life.

Was I allowed to touch an ex monk? This thought quickly evaporated from my head as we accelerated over undulating hills and swerved across tight bends. I held him tighter.

The rain started softly and was refreshing on my hot and weary body. The sensation quickly turned to pain as the rain bucketed down from the sky. Each drop feeling like a needle on my face. I prayed for window-wipers for my glasses so I could at least see where we were going. Why wasn’t he at least slowing down?

We came to a stop at his house. A main open plan house with a large outdoor kitchen surrounded by small huts. I was to live in hut 2 close to the house. My neighbour was a very aggressive fighting cock the ex monk would prod every morning until it attacked him. Could ex monks support a sport as cruel as cock fighting?

I had so many questions swirling around my head when a small face peered around my door. “Hello lets go and play!”, it was the ex monks son. I can”t remember his name so let’s call him Aat.

He sweetly grabbed my hand and led me to a fast flowing river. He started deftly jumping around on sharp rocks in the way that only small children can. At first i had fun watching him but It slowly dawned on me that I was not responsible for this reckless 4 year old who seemed to have no knowledge of safety. I called him to come back as he started to wade deeper into the thrashing river. He now conveniently decided to pretend not to understand English. I could not physically reach him so decided to go back to camp.

The ex monk was sat cross legged in his open plan living room. Half of his nutmeg face lit up by a shaft of sunlight. I told him about his son and he waved his hand dismissively at me and said, “no worry”.

I wish I had the heart not to worry about children wading through rapturous rivers, but I did. 6pm was dinner time and I made my way to the main house to see hippies sitting cross legged at the long, low level dining table. My brunette curls felt out of place amongst the mounds of dreadlocks and my Craghoppers clothes felt brash and utilitarian amongst the neutral earth tones and expensive organic fabrics.

“Welcome to Happy Healing home!”, they muttered as they saw me sheepishly sit down at the end of the table.

What the hell had I got myself into?