The Rice Terraces – Part 1: Before Sunrise

"Come," said Wayan. "Before the sun."

"It's five in the morning."

"That is when the best part happens."

Theo, thirty-two, a London lawyer on a month's enforced leave, stood in the doorway of his bungalow in yesterday's T-shirt and decided there was nothing left to lose. He pulled on his sandals and followed a lantern down a muddy path, between walls of dripping green, to the edge of the terraces.

Below them the valley stretched in long curving steps, each pool of water silver in the dim light. Frogs sang. A mist hung over the palms. Slowly the sky lifted from grey to pink to a ridiculous gold, and the terraces lit up one by one like a staircase of mirrors.

"Oh," said Theo.

"Every day, the same," said Wayan, softly. "Every day, I am still surprised."

Wayan, thirty-five, farmed three terraces his grandfather had planted. He was lean and brown, with a gentle voice and a shy smile. He taught Theo to plant seedlings, to wade ankle-deep in the warm mud, to tell the day's weather from the mist. They worked in the cool of the morning and rested through the afternoon heat.

By the second week Theo had stopped checking his phone. By the third he was laughing without thinking. On the evening of the twentieth day, as they sat on the stone wall watching the sunset turn the water to copper, Wayan went quiet.

"Theo."

"Yes?"

"I would like to say something and I do not have the English."

"Try me."

Wayan looked at him, serious and shy. "You are the best part of the morning. And I would like to kiss you, if you would like that also."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Green Hours.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Green Hours.