Music: Sanctus. Jools Holland

Having been forced to cancel our skiing holiday, and on semi-lockdown for a couple of months, we took a trip to the 10,000 Buddha temple at Shatin 沙田. At that point Hong Kongers were congratulating themselves, albeit cautiously, on having stemmed the rampant, all-conquering Covid-19.  Memories of SARS are still fresh here and that outbreak is built into the architecture of this place. Public toilets are readily available and kept clean. Taps and loo flushes often work by motion sensors; door looks can be operated with an elbow; basins have soap, paper towels and bins readily to hand.  

The masks came out, ran out and were replaced fairly quickly. Everyone knew the drill: wash your hands; wear gloves if you must; don’t touch. We’d relaxed sufficiently to feel comfortable travelling on the MTR which, though still crowded in parts seemed much more quiet, more serious than usual. The following week students and other travellers rushed back to beat the compulsory 14 day home quarantine order, bringing with them a second wave of virus from Europe and North America. 

Arriving at the 430 step walk between two lines of Buddhas, all different, we realised that there was hardly anyone else there at this place that would normally have been packed on a Saturday. On the same day, as we returned home for fish and chips, a newly-returned traveller was a guest at a wedding banquet in our town and brought the virus almost to our door. It’s no longer something to joke about.

I don’t know. It seems almost indecent to publish a post on travel and tourism and a sunny afternoon out when surrounded by misery and death, when so many billions of people are shut inside on lockdown for their own safety and the safety of others and yet the virus rages on, heedless. Perhaps, though, it’s even more important now.