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goes, so I could understand why the monks feasted so readily upon the creamy flesh of the fruit. I, however, was delving in much more hesitantly, trying to invisibly hold my nose to avoid the pungent smell naturally produced by this fruit that is for some reason very popular through many areas of South East Asia. I had been told before leaving the UK that eating the fruit was something that should be on everybody's must-do list when visiting Singapore. I was not sure whether this was because it was so horrible it had to be tried to be believed, or whether my friend back home had actually liked it. Others I have met travelling have also said that as long as you get past the smell, the taste is good. However, for me, nose held or not, the fruit is unbearable. Unfortunately though, when one is given food by people so poor they are literally giving you all they have, it is impossible to say that you'd actually prefer to have nothing at all. So I went through the pretence of enjoying it and being too full for more. They smiled broad and circular, filling their faces with teeth at my grin of stomach-filled satisfaction. Then they offered to show me round, though there was not much to show. The room of worship was calm. Open faced in the woods, a speck of tranquillity in the jungle. Filled with incense smoke and flower perfume, statues and candles. It was an unexpected and beautifully surreal forty-five minutes of stillness in the middle of pedalling along the hot clammy paths and through the vibrant jungle.

Leaving the temple I was forced to return along the same path to be able to explore the other side of the island. The scenery is quite different on the north and east paths. It is more obviously inhabited, with fields of fruit, including the notorious Durian, and rubber plantations sprinkled in the grasslands emerging from the woods. Clearings have been made, crops grown, animals kept, gardens planted and a few small homes built.

The north path brought me out onto a beach which at first seemed deserted, its sand dust-coloured from the mangroves along the shore. But there was a small array of tents peppered along the tree line, with not a person in sight. There are no real amenities there for campers, but you are rewarded with a breathtaking view of the sea, and as much solitude as you can desire.

After a stroll it was time to head back to the village square for what I had heard were the best chilli crabs in the world. And they were. Meaty, juicy and delicious. Highly recommended. Sitting in the square that was waking a little in the early evening cool, watching the dogs run back and forth, people shuffle through, and eating the mountains of food in front of me, it felt like it could almost be tucked away on Singapore Island itself. It was only looking up and into the jungle I remembered I was on Pulau Ubin, living life as it probably was in Singapore in the 1960s; sleeping hamlets on a jungle island. This must be the last true kampung' (village) of Singapore. Harking back to the days when Singapore was a Malay fishing village, Pulau Ubin is the antithesis of the bustling, modernised city of Singapore.

Learn more about this author, Sarah Harrison.
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