Ubud: Where We Learned the Art of Taking an Hour to Drink a Cup of Coffee

There are places that announce themselves in a peaceful and tranquil way. You drift in almost unnoticed and find yourself whispering so you do not disturb the calm. As Bali’s spiritual centre you expect peace and tranquillity, the tinkling of bells, the sound of bamboo wind chimes blowing gently in the hot breeze and the smell of incense from the offerings placed on the doorsteps. Ubud however seems to have missed the memo. Ubud announces itself from about 20km out as you sit patiently in the traffic edging its way into the centre surrounded by trucks and scooters, creating the backdrop sound and smell for the town. Sure you get the tinkling of bells and wind chimes mixed in the blaring of horns, one toot to let you know I am coming by, two toots to let you know I want to come by, cockerels and dogs being vociferous and not caring about the time of day (or night), you get the aroma of incense and the smell of clove cigarettes drifting up from the street, along with a less healthy lung full of diesel fumes. You arrive expecting stillness and get sound instead. That said, move 50m from the road and the traffic sound becomes a distant rumble, a backdrop to the birdsong (yes including the cockerels), sounds of insects and running water from the tranquil gardens that have been landscaped to fit in with the traces of jungle laced throughout Ubud.

Walking the streets of Ubud is like stepping through a minefield. Offerings, little trays of rice and flowers line pavements and shop thresholds, are placed not to impress or explain, but because that is what is done. The gods, politely, are fed. It is bad etiquette to disturb the offerings and with incense sticks burning around your ankles you might get a gentle reminder that you are stepping too close to one whilst trying t o take in some of the other things you need to be aware of. The pavements in Ubud are really just covers over the open drain. They are not always in the best condition and often cluttered with just about anything and awnings and signs are not placed necessarily at a height where you are going to be walking underneath them with ease. I am sure it is deliberate to make you look up occasionally from where you are trying to place your feet.

Balinese Hinduism and spirituality don’t shout their presence here, it isn’t packaged, it’s woven into daily life in a way that feels incidental, and with that in mind, something settles and you quickly adapt. Plans dissolve. You learn quickly that Ubud does not care about your itinerary, so we have learnt something new that we have seen people do particularly in France and northern Spain, step off the pavement go into a café/ warung, buy an iced coffee and just watch the world rush by. The traffic is manic, Indonesians do not walk anywhere, tourists push by on the pavements looking harassed as they manage the obstacle course in high heat and humidity, without having had the luxury of the time we have had to adapt.

One of the advantages of staying in one place for a few days, I think we are here for six nights, is you can get your washing done. For IDR 20,000 (£0.84) you can get 1kg of washing done and even though not in the price, you will get your shirts pressed. She also washed the socks Jay had packed wet from walking to the waterfall in Senaru and forgotten about, no wonder the dogs have been barking at her!

As I said in the travel plans section, the aim of the stop in Ubud was to visit some places we missed last time we were here, as well as take a trip down memory lane, heading through the monkey forest to the south side of town.

The last time we were here the path through the Monkey Forest was manic. It was full of scooters and motorbikes heading in either direction with seemingly little care for the pedestrian traffic with the monkeys lining the fences. Since then, barriers have been erected to manage the traffic so only those living in the community south of the forest can use the path making it a pleasant walk and making the area very quiet. Possibly because of the reduction in traffic there was also less monkey activity, so even Jake (who got mugged last time) would be safe. The area immediately to the south of the Monkey Forest has changed quite a bit in some ways but in others still very familiar. There are many restaurants that were empty last time and still have not worked out how to draw customers. The place we stayed seems to have changed little other than building a money exchange kiosk in what was the car park. The warung we were going to and yes Jay we went there twice last time, was not as busy, but then we were a little earlier, but the food was as good as we remembered. It is okay not having the traffic going through the Monkey Forest but my goodness it was a dark walk back to town knowing you were being watched!

Pura Taman Kemuda Saraswati: A Gentle Pause at a Long-Lost Palace

When we were in Bali in 2024, we visited the Water Palace and, quite frankly, left a little disappointed. It looked nothing like the photos plastered all over the internet. We assumed it must be closed for a ceremony or something equally reasonable and moved on.

By sheer chance—and an entirely wrong turn—we found ourselves peering through a warung at a spectacular temple we knew nothing about. A quick check confirmed we had stumbled upon the long‑lost (to us, anyway) Pura Taman Kemuda Saraswati, a sacred space dedicated to Dewi Saraswati, the Hindu goddess of learning. The Water Palace. So, naturally, we paid our rupiah and went in.

The first thing you notice is that you don’t so much arrive as gently realise you’ve stopped rushing. Despite being just off the main road, with its constant traffic and noise, the temple feels calm and contained, the sort of place that makes you forget you had somewhere important to be (mmm, ice‑cream). Much of the temple is off‑limits, so exploration is largely confined to the outer courtyard, though there are occasional gaps offering teasing glimpses of the inner sanctum.

Mamu found one of these gaps and promptly became the centre of an impromptu photoshoot. A group of Japanese tourists briefly abandoned the temple to photograph him instead, an experience we’re fairly certain he enjoyed far too much.

From the entrance, a perfectly straight stone path runs between lotus ponds whose inhabitants float with the calm assurance of things that know they’re being photographed—rather like Mamu himself. The temple was designed in the early 1950s by I Gusti Nyoman Lempad, and while modern tools like Magic Eraser exist, the real challenge is capturing the main gate without someone else standing awkwardly in front of it, mid‑pose.

Across the lotus ponds runs a series of ceramic stepping stones, each decorated with a lotus motif and laid with care. They invite you to proceed while quietly suggesting you mind your balance—both physical and spiritual. Mamu ventured across confidently. With my long sarong and Jay’s uncanny ability to trip over absolutely nothing, we took the sensible route around and met him on the other side.

Throughout the site, intricate carvings, statues, and water features appear at every turn, some enhanced by drifting dry ice that lends the whole place an unexpectedly ethereal ambience. It’s a small space, but one that lingers far longer in the memory than we ever expected.

Taking my own advice (see Travel Guides and Resources), we arrived early and were rewarded with minimal Instagram traffic, though it was beginning to build as we left. We sat long enough for Jay to start getting annoyed, which rather broke the tranquillity of the moment, so it was time to head back towards noise, scooters, and reality.

Detours, Ducks, and Time Well Lost

Yet again, we missed the turning. This time, however, the road was closed and new pavement was being laid, so it was not entirely our fault. Instead, much further down the road, we spotted a sign for rice fields and decided to take it.

The rough path led us past several derelict buildings splashed with street art, across stepping stones through grey water, and over a bridge so rotten you half-expected it to disintegrate beneath you mid-crossing. Just as we were debating whether to turn back or at least message the children with our location to assist any future search and rescue, the path suddenly improved and the rice terraces opened out in front of us.

Yet again, just minutes from the hubbub of central Ubud, we had found ourselves in a place of calm and tranquillity. The loudest sounds coming not from traffic or scooters, but from ducks methodically rooting through the paddies, feeding on insects and snails and going about their work with almost quiet efficiency.

Now, I know you’re all keen to hear that Balinese rice production is a cornerstone of the island’s culture, economy, and landscape, managed through traditional community‑run irrigation systems known as subak. Using terraced, gravity-fed water channels from volcanic lakes, farmers are able to harvest two to three crops a year, producing over 530,000 tonnes of unhusked rice in 2025.Do you want to know more detail about growing rice? I know lots about rice diseases; it is really quite interesting. Oh. Okay then. Here are some pictures, taken in the Kajeng rice fields and in the fields to the east of Ubud.

Puri Saren Agung: Royalty, Right There on the Pavement

If you weren’t paying attention, you could walk straight past Puri Saren Agung and never realise you’d just brushed up against Ubud’s royal seat. No gates closed defensively against the masses, no grand approach, no warning that you’re about to enter a palace. Instead, you step off the pavement, and there it is. Unassuming, dignified, and entirely unconcerned with impressing you.

This is the Ubud Royal Palace, still home to members of the royal family and sitting squarely in the middle of town, opposite the art market and amid the daily shuffle of scooters, shoppers, and people wondering where they’re going to get dinner. Dating from the early 19th century, it has long been a centre for Balinese art and culture rather than a loud demonstration of raw power.

Only the outer courtyards are open to visitors. You’re allowed in just far enough to understand the place, but not far enough to forget that it still belongs to someone else. Ornate stone gates frame quiet courtyards where carved figures appear locked in philosophical disagreement, while frangipani petals fall as they have been doing for centuries, without fuss or ceremony.

The visit doesn’t take long. Fifteen minutes is enough; twenty if you linger. When we first arrived, the palace was closed for some ceremonial event, so we returned later, and managed to catch it at perhaps its busiest. We gave everyone ample time to secure a few carefully composed Instagram shots by the ornate doorways before quietly inserting ourselves into the background to explore and stop Mamu disappearing behind some half-opened door.

The reward here isn’t scale but contrast. Beyond the palace walls is the constant negotiation of Ubud traffic; inside, order and symmetry hold effortlessly. The royal family still lives deeper within the complex, and the invisible presence of ongoing, everyday life lends the place its quiet authority.

Peliatan Royal Palace: In Case One Royal Family Was Not Enough

Having just brushed shoulders with royalty at Puri Saren Agung, Ubud shows that it is unwilling to put all its aristocratic eggs in one basket, offering a second royal palace just down the road. The Peliatan Royal Palace, Puri Agung Peliatan, sits a short distance east of central Ubud, quietly occupying its own corner of town and resolutely refusing to compete for attention. Where Ubud Palace feels embedded in the daily choreography of markets and traffic, Peliatan feels slightly removed, as though it has taken a half step back to observe how things have turned out.

Founded in the 17th century, this was once the seat of the Peliatan kingdom, one of several small but serious powers that carved Ubud into manageable parcels. Politics has moved on, but the palace remains, still home to royal descendants and still very much involved in the preservation of Balinese culture, particularly dance and music, it is where the Legong Peliatan dance was developed.

Architecturally, it is classic Balinese restraint with hints of confidence: carved stone gateways, layered pavilions, and shaded courtyards that invite quiet behaviour without posting instructions. You’re admitted only to select areas, but once again, that feels appropriate. This is not a museum. It’s a functioning place, and you’re a visitor in the margins.

Compared to Ubud Palace, there are fewer people, and fewer attempts to capture the perfect shot. The atmosphere is less performative and more quietly assured. You’re not here because you were told to come; you’re here because you wandered far enough to find it. Our notes told us that the best time to visit the Peliatan Royal Palace was in the late afternoon because in the morning some areas are closed and by lunchtime it is really busy with tour parties. As we were the only people there it seemed we got the timing right, even getting our own guide who was keen to get us posing for the camera.

It doesn’t take long to walk through. As with its royal cousin, fifteen or twenty minutes is enough to absorb the essence. The pleasure lies less in grandeur and more in accumulation: another layer of Ubud’s story, another reminder that this town did not suddenly become cultural by accident.

Goa Gajah: Where Mamu is the Elephant

After palaces tucked into pavements and royalty hiding in plain sight, Goa Gajah takes a different approach entirely. Here, the history doesn’t wait to be noticed—it opens its mouth and swallows you!

Known, somewhat misleadingly, as the Elephant Cave, Goa Gajah sits just outside Ubud, reached by a steady descent from the road that feels deliberately theatrical. You walk down steps into a temple area where ruins of an unknown past are carefully stacked, past bathing pools, uncovered only in the 1950s, where sculpted figures pour water eternally into fish filled pools until you’re presented with a stone face carved into the cliffside, eyes bulging, mouth gaping wide. It’s less “welcome” than “go on then”, and you step inside accordingly.

The cave itself is small, dim, and heavy with incense. Inside are niches cut into the stone and sacred objects associated with both Hindu and Buddhist practice, a reminder that this site, dating back from between the 9th and 11th centuries, was a place of spiritual retreat rather than spectacle.

What many people miss, either through lack of enthusiasm to explore, fatigue, or a firm belief that the cave was “the main thing”, lies further down into the valley. Past the bathing pools the path continues, narrowing and dropping into a cooler, quieter part of the site where the jungle closes ranks and the ground becomes damp underfoot.

Here, the ruins stop posing. Broken temple stones lie tumbled into the river, half‑submerged and slick with moss, as though it simply ran out of energy mid-collapse and left things where they landed. There’s no grand explanation offered, no protective barriers or helpful arrows. You’re left to understand, intuitively, that this is what happens when centuries carry on regardless of human plans. Standing by the fallen stones, it becomes easier to imagine this site not as a destination but as a working landscape: a place where rituals happened, structures failed, floods came, and life moved quietly around the remains. The jungle has not reclaimed the space aggressively; it has simply assumed responsibility for it.

A small waterfall spills into the ravine at the bottom of the valley, a small spectacle, that makes the journey worthwhile and if you unlucky there might be someone else down there, but to be honest that is quite unlikely. The crowds thin out. The place feels less like an attraction and more like something accidentally re‑encountered.

If the cave is confrontation and the bathing pools are ceremony, this lower section is reclamation. Things fall. Water flows. Nobody tidies up after a millennium. And when you eventually climb back up towards the car park, blinking into sunlight and souvenir stalls, it’s this part, damp, broken, and passive rewilding, that stays with you longest.

As with many places around Ubud, Goa Gajah doesn’t demand much time. An hour is enough to see everything; a little longer if you find a shaded spot and let the setting do the work. The experience isn’t about scale or grandeur but about contrast, harsh stone softened by water, fierce carvings offset by quiet greenery, ancient intent colliding gently with modern curiosity.

There are no elephants (except Mamu), no elaborate storyline, and no urgent reason to stay longer than feels comfortable. Yet, once you leave and climb back up towards the road, Goa Gajah lingers. Not as a checklist item, but as one more reminder that Bali’s history isn’t arranged neatly behind glass—it’s carved into cliffs, half-hidden by jungle, and occasionally waiting with its mouth open.

Walking back into town, we stopped at Layana Warung for one of our newly discovered long iced‑coffee breaks, a practice we have adopted with surprising seriousness. We sat facing the Skcript Waterfall, condensation running down our glasses, and settled into the business of doing very little.

The waterfall performed quite nicely, unaware it might be observed. The iced coffee sweated gently beside us, giving us time to look at the beautiful undisturbed valley. From our position, it felt unnecessary to even watch the world go by. The sound of falling water flattened thought and absorbed urgency.

Scooters and trucks passed somewhere behind us; people undoubtedly with plans. From our position, none of that seemed relevant. This wasn’t a place for productivity or even reflection, just pause. Time didn’t stop; it simply lost interest. Eventually, as these things do, the break ended. Ice melted, glasses emptied, legs remembered they had a purpose. We stood up and rejoined Ubud’s movement, but for a while, iced coffee in hand, waterfall doing its thing, we had let the day reorganise itself without our involvement.

We took a turn off the main road on the way back into town to look out over the rice fields (see pictures above). The view was familiar and reassuring, terraces stepping away from us, water glinting where it caught the light, ducks doing what ducks do. However, scattered along the road and through the fields, were signs of change: concrete foundations, half‑finished villas, neat rows of identical holiday accommodations either recently completed or in the process of becoming so. It’s a little alarming how many have already appeared, and how many more seem inevitable. It’s hard not to wonder about capacity, not just in terms of tourist numbers and infrastructure, (water, traffic), but of balance. Rice fields are not decorative features; they are working landscapes, supported by systems that assume continuity rather than replacement. Seeing them gradually reduced to the views from accommodation rather than the reason for the view at all gives pause.

We stood there a while longer than planned, letting the scene settle, unsure quite where the line is or when it was crossed. Then, as so often in Ubud, we carried on, grateful the fields were still there, and quietly hoping they’d be given the time and space to remain so.

So Ubud slowly loosens its grip. We had arrived expecting tranquillity and learned instead the art of finding it, fifty metres from the road, one wrong turning at a time, or by committing fully to taking an hour to drink a single cup of coffee. Having paused, wandered, doubled back, and sat still for long enough, it began to feel right to move on. The road north towards Bedugul promises cooler air, wider horizons, and fewer decisions, a shift from layered detail to open space. Ubud had taught us how to stop. Bedugul, we suspect, will teach us how to breathe.

Ubud is supposed to be tranquil, or so the reputation goes. Bali’s spiritual heart, should greet us with whispers, wind chimes, incense, and the gentle suggestion that all haste has been left behind. Instead, Ubud announces itself loudly and unapologetically, beginning some twenty kilometres out where traffic thickens, engines idle, scooters swarm, and the idea of serenity sits patiently in the back seat. This, it turns out, is the first lesson. Ubud is not calm in the way postcards and blogs promise; it is busy, noisy, fragrant, chaotic, and deeply alive. And somewhere between the horns, offerings at your feet, incense at ankle height, and the startling realisation that pavements are more suggestion than infrastructure, the rhythm shifts. Plans falter. Time stretches. You stop trying to conquer the day and learn instead to step aside, order an iced coffee, and enjoy it.