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As I savour my beef noodles, I contemplate the journey ahead of me, my destination: Shaolin Monastery. Founded in 495 AD, during the Northern Wei Dynasty, the temple has given rise to some of the most fearsome martial arts on the planet, serving as inspiration for hundreds of songs, books, even video games. It's also the cradle of Chan Buddhism (though many Western readers will be more familiar with the Japanese term, Zen). How much of the buzz surrounding Shaolin is myth and how much is history? Is it just like the place we've seen so much of in Hong Kong Kung fu movies? I'll have a chance to find out once I finish this bowl of noodles. 

I wait around in the car park of Zhengzhou East railway station and contact the cameramen who flew in from Guizhou province this morning. Xiao Du and Lao Wu arrive in a champagne 6-seater Buick. the back of the car is filled with camera equipment: lenses, tripods, a drone. I get in and the sat-nav brings us closer and closer to our final destination: 登封 (dēngfēng). This is where Shaolin Monastery is located. The temple sits on the picturesque slopes of Shaoshi Mountain. Legend has it that 少室 (shàoshì) was the name of the mythical ruler, Dayu's concubine. Shaoshi Mountain is covered in forests: 林 (lín), and so the temple on Shaoshi Mountain, surrounded by forests was named: 少林 (shàolín).

The road leading to the temple is lined with martial arts academies, and they all seem to use the word Shaolin quite liberally. Their names blend into each other, ersatz doppelg?ngers on the road to the real deal. But who knows, maybe monks from the temple find employment in these institutions if they decide a life of sutras and celibacy isn't what they wanted after all.

We find a place to park and arrive at our first shooting location: 少林藥局(shàolín yàojú), the Shaolin Medical Bureau. A huge screen wall obscures the view into the courtyard, and I notice the date: founded in 1217. That puts it somewhere in the Southern Song dynasty, although this far north, the territory might have been in the control of the Jin. Regardless, it's been around for a long time. As we step past the screen wall and into the courtyard, I meet with Shi Yanyuan, who is responsible for contact with the world outside the monastery. You might not be aware of this, but all Chinese Buddhist monks go by the same surname: 釋(shì). 釋迦摩尼(shìjīamóní) is the Chinese transliteration of the Sanskrit name, Siddhartha Gautama, who is commonly referred to as Shakyamuni or Gautama Buddha. As followers of Shakyamuni, Chinese monks all use the first character of his Chinese name, 釋 in their Dharma names. It's also common practice for monks of the same generation to use the same second character, so the names of all the monks I meet on this trip have the same second character: 延 (yán). 

Shi Yanyuan takes me on a tour of their pharmacy. In the north of the courtyard, a long stone staircase leads to a traditional Chinese building with flying eaves. Behind the heavy counter, a huge wooden medicine cabinet with hundreds of draws towers above us like a monolith. Each is labelled with the name of the Chinese herbal medicine it contains. Some of them have an extra label, 少林十三味 (shàolín shísān wèi), or the "13 Medicines of Shaolin". Yanyuan tells me that these medicines are typically prescribed together and are particularly useful in healing injuries to muscles, ligaments and tendons. Usually, they are made into a paste or tincture that can be applied to the injury. Yanyuan jokes that only a fool would practice martial arts without knowledge of medicine：練武不用藥，就是瞎胡鬧 (liàn wu? bú yòng yào, jìu shì xīa húnào). It makes sense for the monastery to have a pharmacy and doctors: after all, monks living in an isolated monastery in the mountains would have to rely on themselves for everything, and that includes healing the injuries incurred by training for superhuman strength and endurance. After a tour of the pharmacy, we return to Yanyuan's office, a humble building in the east of the courtyard. A dazzling azure 琉璃 (líulí) glass sculpture of the Medicine Buddha 藥師佛 (yàoshīfó) is surrounded by candles on an alter, and the walls are lined with books about medicine. We chat and I reveal an injury I suffered when trying to learn a 'carp kip up' in my twenties. He says that one of their doctors, Shi Yanmian could take a look at it, so I set off with my team of cameramen for a diagnosis.

It's difficult to describe, but Yanmian has the most innocent yet perceptive eyes you can imagine. He listens attentively as I describe my symptoms: my back hurts after long journeys sitting down; when the weather gets cold; and if I haven't slept well. Yanmian ushers me into a warmer room with two massage beds and asks me to pull up my sweatshirt so that he can take a better look at my spine. He seems to see through the flesh as his fingers trace a path down the meridians he has learned by heart. "Is it here?" he asks, prodding the fount from which pain emanates. "yes" I reply, "that's it". "I'm going to use acupuncture to cure the injury", he says "but it will be different to any other acupuncture you have experienced before." I feel like he knows what he is doing and I trust him, so I consent. You can't just let anyone stick needles into your body close to your spinal cord and hope for the best. "You will be standing as I perform treatment," he explains. For those of you who are unfamiliar with traditional Chinese medicine, it is customary for acupuncture to be executed with the patient lying down, the exposed flesh covered with a blanket or kept warm by heaters.

"Have you ever done a hula hoop?" he asks.

"Sure".

"Well after I insert the needle, I want you to pretend you have a hula hoop and make small rotations with your hips".

"Okay. let's do this."

I'm feeling both ridiculous and confident at the same time. I pull my sweatshirt up past my midriff. "Just stay still and relax" he coaxes, as he readies the needle for insertion. I hardly feel anything as it enters my body close to the lumbar spine. "Is it in there?" I ask..."Yes. you can put your sweatshirt down now." A little hesitant at first, not knowing if I will be paralyzed or struck by white knuckle, mind-searing pain, I start rotating my hips in a clockwise direction. Nothing? Okay. I make the movement a little larger. So far so good. Suddenly I have a sensation like a harp string being plucked, and the sensation is repeated each time I complete a circle. The intensity of the sensation (I wouldn't say it was painful, just a little odd) decreases with each rotation, and soon I am making big sweeping cycles with my pelvis, the cameramen find it difficult not to chuckle. "Am I cured now?" I ask, a little incredulous. 20 years of nagging pain, gone in an instant? Yanmian speaks plainly: "Some people aren't willing to move as freely as you are. For them the treatment takes longer. Your injury is old, so maybe two or three sessions will be enough to sort it out". He removes the needle. From diagnosis to treatment, the whole process takes about 10 minutes. I thank him and leave the room with a spring in my step.

The next day, our crew assembles in a small building on the western edge of the temple. This is a museum of sorts, whose walls and various display cabinets are adorned with the 18 traditional weapons used by Shaolin Monks. The earliest of these artefacts date back to the Ming dynasty. One stunning example of metal work is epitomized in the 七星劍 (qīxīng jìan) or "seven-star sword" whose blade is inlaid with brass circles that represent the big dipper. Of the 18 traditional weapons in the Shaolin arsenal, nine are long-range weapons, like the spear, staff and halberd; the other nine are for close combat: weapons like the sabre, axe and hammer.

In addition to these traditional weapons, I see items that might otherwise be considered everyday objects: a pipe, a calligraphy brush, and a flute. The only thing conspicuous about them is that they all seem to be made out of copper or iron. One item is particularly ornate, an exquisite 如意 (rúyì) inlaid with mother of pearl. The ruyi is an S-shaped sceptre resembling the stem of a lotus, the sacred flower in Buddhism. It seems particularly fitting that in the hands of a Shaolin monk, it could be transformed into a lethal weapon. Master Yanchan, a jovial monk in his sixties, explains that weapons like these could be carried in plain sight without attracting unwanted attention. 

We move to a quiet courtyard and continue our interview sitting cross-legged on straw mats under the eaves of a shrine to the Medicine Buddha (it sits just a little north of the pharmacy). Master Yanchan has been learning martial arts since he was 11 years old, and it seems like he has spent most of his life in the monastery. I ask if he has ever been abroad. "Sure, I've been to countries in Africa, Europe and America." he replies. "Where do you like the most?" I inquire."Wherever we travel, I find that nowhere can compare to our monastery. I like here best." I should have asked more. Questions like what makes Shaolin so special? The vegetarian noodles? The crisp mountain air? The fact that you can actually see the constellations at night because there is no light pollution, the skies ablaze with the glow of different heavenly bodies? Maybe all of the above. Master Yanchan is 60 years old, but he still practices kung fu every single day. I ask him: "In all these years of training and teaching kung fu, is there any one experience that has left a lasting impression on you?" I wait with bated breath for a harrowing tale of grievous injury or a rebellious student, perhaps a betrayal or something sinister. He gathers his thoughts for a while before telling me: "One fine summers day, I climbed the mountain above Shaolin Monastery. On a big rocky outcrop, I practised kung fu. I could see far into the distance, the monastery, the trees, and everything up to the horizon. I could feel the wind on my face and the sun on my back. I remember that day."

Master Yanchan taught me that not everything memorable has to be fraught with conflict and drama. Searching the recesses of my mind, I can remember days like that too. Looking out past the Devil's Chimney in the Cotswolds, across Er'hai Lake in Dali, across the stark Danxia rock formations in Gansu, in the frigid seas of the North Atlantic, and the stinging sun of the South China seas...these are moments when I've felt completely at one with nature: as if my soul was sure that one day, reunited with the oneness and nothingness of the universe, all would be well. So much beauty escapes us. Master Yanchan reminded me to take a step back, take a breath and look. 

When he mentions the new grading system implemented by Shaolin Monastery in 2018, Master Yanchan's eyes light up. We're all familiar with the grading systems of Tae Kwon Do and Karate: you start with a white belt and work your way up learning new skills and techniques until you reach the highest level (usually a black belt), which proves to other practitioners of the discipline that you have attained a certain level of mastery. Shaolin never really had a comprehensive grading system, until now. It starts off with 段 （dùan）or "belts" and then, once you've reached 九段 (ji?udùan) the ninth belt, you can start earning additional 品（pi?n）badges or insignia. Theoretically speaking, the highest rank possible is that of 九段九品, ninth belt ninth badge. Traditionally in China, yellow was the imperial colour, exclusively reserved for the emperor. The tiles on the roofs of the Forbidden City are yellow, and the emperor's imperial robes are yellow. The colour is also significant for the monks of Shaolin, because in Shaolin Monastery only the 方丈 (fāngzhàng) or Abbott is permitted to wear robes of that hue. That's why in the Shaolin grading system, the ninth belt is yellow, not black. The system has been in place for five years now, and according to Master Yanchan, the highest grade achieved by anyone abroad is the sixth belt... 

On day three of our shoot, we set out early in the morning. Sorry, that's an understatement. I mean EARLY: 4:30 am when the big dipper is still burning bright above the silhouettes cast by flying eaves, and stay cats prowl the spaces between shrines. At around 5 am, the monks begin to leave their dormitories. Some of them move to a candle-lit shrine to chant morning sutras, prayers accompanied by bells and drums. Others run up and down the slopes of the monastery, warming up for the first training session of the day. The temperature is close to 0 degrees, but none of the "warrior monks" or 武僧 (wu?sēng) wears a padded jacket. A Spartan endurance for pain is part of their daily ritual.

I meet with a monk famous for his ability to support the entire weight of his body on only two fingers, Yanqian. When we meet, he is training two young apprentices. One of them is already able to perform the feat known as 二指禪 (èrzhi?chán) or two-finger chan, the other has mastered the art of two-finger pushups. Yanqian reveals the secret to attaining such superhuman fortitude in the fingers: one must begin as with calisthenics, training less demanding variations of the same movement, and gradually increasing difficulty over time. So for two-finger chan, the progression would begin with the subject using two fingers to support himself against a wall, and then gradually lowering the angle from 90 degrees to 85, 85 to 80, 80 to 75 and so on in small increments until they could support themselves in a full push up position. from there, the subject would perform variations of pike push-ups until his fingers were strong enough to support his entire weight. 

I asked how long the students had trained. Aside from having a solid foundation of around a decade under his belt, the student who could perform a full handstand had dedicated two years to mastering the move. There were times in those two years when he couldn't find the strength to lift his chopsticks, and he had to eat with the help of other monks in his dormitory. In addition to training the progressions listed above, they apply a tincture of the 13 Shaolin medicines after each training session, and use a grip strength tool with strong springs. Needless to say, it takes strength of mind and willpower to succeed (practitioners must maintain a low-fat ratio, as each extra pound could be the proverbial straw that breaks the camel's back).

Yanqian lives in a two-person room in the monks' living quarters inside the temple. These are known as the 僧寮 (sēnglíao). His bookshelf is lined with books on kung fu theory and some copybooks from famous Chinese calligraphers, like Wen Zhengming and Zhao Mengfu. When he isn't wowing audiences with superhuman feats, he likes to drink tea and chat with his roommate. I ask him about his trips abroad. "They're all a bit of a blur now, there have been so many". He tells me about his first trip out of the country, when he visited Cameroon. "It was like I was a movie star, everywhere we went there were people following us, wanting to take photos with us." "How did you cope? Did all that success go to your head?" I ask. "At first, yeah. but then we just got used to it." I ask if there was anyone he had met on his travels that made a lasting impression on him. "Marián La??ák from Slovakia," he says "in 2019, we started preparations for a Shaolin Center in Slovakia. Marián had learnt Kung Fu in China before, and speaks fluent Chinese. He wanted to open a branch of Shaolin in his hometown, so the monastery sent me to supervise. Then the pandemic struck so we had to hit the pause button." It seems that the bright lights and glamour of the stage hold less appeal to the two-finger chan master than the down-to-earth brass tacks of cultural exchange. Apparently, the Shaolin Center in Slovakia is still in progress, so he may be making a trip back there soon. 

In the evening, Yange, the monk in charge of coordinating our activities inside the monastery ushered us inside a warm room where a kind-faced colleague served us freshly brewed tea. A welcome treat after shooting in the cold winds outside. It was here that I received a special invitation to take part in a meditation session, an honour even among ordained monks who have taken their vows (受戒 shòujìe). Female crew members would be forbidden from this venture into the inner sanctum of Shaolin Monastery. Even the cameramen would be asked to leave after the initial tea ceremony. "This is an experience we would like to offer you...if you want." said the monk, his expression inscrutable. I looked over to our director. If the cameramen couldn't shoot it, there wouldn't be any footage, so as documentarians, what would be the point? The director sipped her tea, a mysterious smile on her face: "You can do this if you want, but we won't force you." I was a little apprehensive at first: after all, I know nothing of the proper protocol inside a 禪堂 （chántáng is sometimes translated as zendo, transliterated from Japanese, and the closest term in English is probably meditation hall). I was assured that as long as I was silent and avoided prying, following the lead of other monks, there wouldn't be any problems. "of course, you'll have to change your clothes" said the monk: "everyone inside the meditation hall must wear a haiqing". A 海青 （ha?iqīng), literally an "ocean blue" is a dark blue-greyish robe worn by Buddhist monks. "How tall are you?" "1.83m" I reply. "Good. I'll have them prepare." It seemed that by telling him my height, I had agreed to partake in this meditation session which I knew absolutely nothing about.  Kismet, I thought. 

We finish our tea and leave the lady members of our crew in the warm room with plenty of snacks. Lao Wu, Xiao Du and I follow Yange into an area which is restricted to outsiders. Before changing clothes, I chat with a monk who seems happy to see me. I soon understand why. He has spent much time overseas and speaks fluent English. He is friends with Jonathan Kos-Reed, an American actor who is famous in China for his flawless Beijing accent. Before coming to Shaolin Monastery and taking his vows, the monk was a film director in Beijing. How fascinating, I think to myself: the life of a Beijing film director and a Shaolin monk seem like polar opposites to me. What made him want to come here? Why did he decide to pursue a life of silent meditation and celibacy leaving behind the bright lights and temptations of the big city? Will he regret his decision? Before I can say anything, our conversation is cut short. "It's time to change!" hisses one of the monks. I'm ushered into a small storage room where I change into a Haiqing robe. As I leave the room, I see that monks are entering a large chamber whose cavernous entrance is obscured by a huge bamboo curtain. This is it: the meditation hall. Monks filter inside, single file, via a gap in the curtain on the left side of the entrance. Inside the hall, monks walk in circles around a square pillar. The pillar is in fact hollow, a shrine which houses a statue of the Buddha, facing the bamboo curtain. I join the ranks of monks circling the pillar and take in the environment. The walls are devoid of any kind of decoration and we walk on bare flagstones. Circling the outer perimeter of the room are two monks. One holds a strip of bamboo which must be at least two meters long. He slaps the bamboo onto the hard flagstones, and a sound like the spark of static electricity startles the monks circling the central pillar. Everyone begins walking just a little bit faster. The other monk holds a short wooden sword, and his face is twisted in a grimace, his eyes ever vigilant for anyone who might happen to step out of line. I later learn that the instrument of corporal punishment which he brandishes with such vigour is called a 香板 (xīangba?n) literally 'fragrant board'. In English, most people call it a meditation stick. According to some, the tradition started back in the Qing dynasty during the reign of the Kangxi emperor, when the Yongzheng emperor was still a young prince. The story goes that an old monk found enlightenment after having been menaced by the young prince's blade. From that time on, meditation halls have had a monk with a meditation stick who is charged with keeping order, ensuring that everyone is on their best behaviour. "Bang!" the long strip of bamboo strikes the ground again. The practice of striking the stick on the ground is called 桌像 (zhūoxiāng). We move even faster, almost reaching a jog. The sharp whack of the stick is meant to cut through habitual thinking and draw individuals into a state of immediate awareness. It feels like we're all late for work on line 6 of the Beijing Metro, each of us moving in circles, my mind thinks of the whole spectacle as a metaphor for the meaningless rat race which most of us are caught up in, with no chance of escape...

Suddenly a drum sounds and everyone stands still. Is this a game of musical statues before the meditation begins? As people start finding places to sit on the raised platform surrounding the walls, I see that the circumambulatory portion of the night's revels is over. I sit (cross-legged of course) on a platform to the right of the entrance. One of the monks takes a wooden mallet and strikes a wooden block and a big brass bell. By this time everyone's breathing has returned to normal.

Two monks appear. One carries a tray full of ceramic cups, and the other has a large metal teapot. I recognize the monk with the teacups as the stern monitor who was holding the meditation stick. His grimace is gone and he looks at peace with the world. He moves around the room in a clockwise fashion, beginning with the monks at around 6 o'clock and handing out cups to everyone. Tea is also poured in this fashion. I receive my cup as graciously as possible (speaking is forbidden, so I cannot thank my hosts, but I nod sincerely). The monk sitting to my left gestures to my hand, and I look at how he is holding his cup in three fingers. I adjust my grip to mimic his, but it seems there is still something amiss. The monk to my right uses his right hand to point to his left, and I discover the error of my ways. I am holding the cup in my right hand, and everyone else is holding it in their left. I wonder why, but this is no time for questions. I quickly swap hands before the monk pouring tea materializes before me. The tea is refreshing and a little sweet. I learn later that it's a special herbal blend to improve the immune system and strengthen the body against the cold. I sip slowly, savouring each mouthful, sometimes closing my eyes as the rest of the monks in the room seem to be doing. Time passes, although in the absence of a watch I couldn't say how long. The tea isn't cold. The monk to my left makes the universal 'bottoms up' gesture, and I drain the cup. Everyone puts their cup on a cross-section along the same line of flagstones, making a small circuit of cups around two feet away from the raised platform where we are sitting. This means that the monk in charge of tidying up doesn't have to move backwards and forwards as he collects the empty cups.

The bell is rung once more and monks start filtering out of the meditation hall. I feel a little puzzled. Is that it? It was very quick. I step outside and a monk informs me that I cannot leave without making a circuit around the central pillar. However, when I return, the ritual circumambulation has begun again, and I feel obliged to join. I think perhaps the tea might not have been as innocent as it looked: as we speed up, the room spins at a marvellous pace, but the backs of the heads I follow remain ever stationary, always equidistant, not moving at all. The effect makes me feel a little dizzy.

It isn't until later that I learn this process of circumambulating the 佛龕 (fóka?n) or Buddha's shrine is called 行香 (xíngxiāng), literally 'incense walking'. The process of sitting down to meditate can be referred to as 'incense sitting' or 坐香 (zùoxiāng), because the timing of sessions relies on the time it takes to burn a certain amount of incense.

"Boom!" goes the drum, and we all stand still. This time I sit on the far side of the meditation hall, facing the entrance. Each space has a small blanket which the monks use to cover their legs and waists, protecting them against the savage winter wind. I follow their lead and prepare myself for at least an hour of silence. The cameramen are asked to leave, and the bamboo curtain is secured. I watch as a monk performs a ritual, folding a ceremonial robe and chanting a few words in front of the altar. The ritual is brief and after it ends, 'click!' someone flips a switch and the room goes pitch black. Now we are cut off from the outside world, a few dozen monks and their English guest, sitting alone in the darkness. A few moments pass before I hear a second 'click', and a warm, flickering light emanates from above the altar. I can make out the faint shadows of other monks sitting in the room, but not much else. How are they sitting? Are their backs straight? What do they do with their hands? A flood of questions is answered by taking a few cursory glances across the room. Some sit straight, others are a bit slouchy. Some have their eyes opened, the others have their eyes closed. Some have their hands on their knees, others hidden in the sleeves of their robes. Evidently, there is no "one size fits all" approach to gaining enlightenment. I close my eyes and attempt to empty the mind of distractions. 

I've been told that while meditating, many people chose to concentrate on the phrase: 誰在念佛 (shéi zài niàn fó) "Who is thinking of the Buddha?" (I suppose this phrase could also be interpreted as meaning: "Who is learning about Buddhism"). This is supposed to lead to questions about the nature of the mind. What am I? I am a thinking thing. Is it really you doing the thinking? What is YOU? Is the mind just a randomly configured network of neurons that will make decisions based on the stimuli given to them? Does the mind choose which stimuli it accepts or not, thereby sculpting itself in a certain way? Who would have guessed that so many questions could stem from four characters? I decide to move away from this line of questioning and think about why my legs have gone numb...

I rock gently backwards and forwards, attempting to wriggle my toes and get some blood flowing into my legs. My back begins to ache and I notice that I am not the only person in the room who isn't completely stationary. I may be a visitor to this inner sanctum, but I can see I'm not the only one who hasn't attained enlightenment. The feeling slowly returns to my legs and I return to introspection.

Sitting in silence in a room full of people can be an incredibly liberating experience. Nobody feels an obligation to talk to you, and you don't feel obliged to make conversation with them because there is an express rule forbidding it. There are no tik-tokesque smartphone distractions, no notifications, and no headlines. All that remains is silence. In the absence of distractions, silence is a void, an emptiness that can be filled only with self-reflection. It forces you to be alone with your thoughts and to take a good hard look at them. Socrates said, "The unexamined life is not worth living", but how many of us take that time to take a step back and examine our beliefs, convictions and opinions? Do they all bode well together? Are they consistent? Many people think ill of Ayn Rand, a controversial character to say the least, but she waxed lyrical about Socrates' concept of an 'unexamined life' in her 1970s book "Philosophy: Who Needs It". She warned of the dangers of accepting ideas without having gone through them with a fine-toothed comb:

"[y]our only choice is whether you define your philosophy by a conscious, rational, disciplined process of thought and scrupulously logical deliberation—or let your subconscious accumulate a junk heap of unwarranted conclusions, false generalizations, undefined contradictions, undigested slogans, unidentified wishes, doubts and fears, thrown together by chance, but integrated by your subconscious into a kind of mongrel philosophy and fused into a single, solid weight: self-doubt, like a ball and chain in the place where your mind’s wings should have grown."

Refusing to meditate is a little like refusing to tidy up your workshop. You live in a hodgepodge mind, tripping up on ideas that you forgot you had even read about. You believe things, forgetting why, building plans on conclusions that you never even bothered to think through yourself, letting others do the heavy lifting for you. You can't find the tool you want, so you buy another, only to discover too late that it is the wrong size. Maybe it's only by submitting to this process that I discover the priceless value of....

My neck aches...

The session continues and our spiritual awareness gradually rises, albeit hindered by occasional lapses of bodily discomfort. What seemed like gloom before is now clear: our eyes have become accustomed to the darkness, proof that everything is relative. An hour and a half passes and the session ends sonorously with the chimes of the big bronze bell hanging next to the entrance. The monks put on their shoes and begin leaving through the bamboo curtain. I follow them and am pleased to meet the Beijing filmmaker on the stairs leading up to the meditation hall. We chat about the experience of meditating, and how it is difficult to meditate without a set regimen, without the collective experience provided by a monastery. He tells me that soon he will join a select group of monks for 打七 (da?qī), a process of 49 days of intensive meditation through the winter months, sitting still for around seven hours each day. Imagine a ten-hour flight, where there are no air stewardesses to offer refreshments, no reclining seats, and no inflight movies to kill time. Simply sitting still can be incredibly physically taxing, so a commitment to 49 days is not for the faint of heart. One of the senior monks informs us that our conversation has gone on too long, and is disturbing the monks inside their chambers,  so I bid my friend farewell and return to the room where the director and her assistant are waiting.

Naturally, they are curious about the experience, so I explain as best I can: "I'm not gonna quote William Blake and say that I held infinity in the palm of my hand and eternity in an hour, but I will say that sitting silently in a room of people where no one feels obliged to talk to anyone else is a truly liberating experience, because the silence forces you to be alone with your thoughts, and THAT is a powerful thing".

We are served some vegan noodles with a very tasty sauce before returning to our hotel. The meditation was more taxing than I imagined so I was surprised at the strength of my appetite. Hats off to anyone who attains Nirvana on an empty stomach. 

On our final day of shooting, we arrive before the temple opens to the general public. In the courtyard outside the Abbotts rooms,  sunlight filters down through the golden leaves of ginkgo trees, through the morning mist and onto the ancient flagstones. In the distance, someone is sweeping up leaves. The dougong-style buildings, with mythical creatures decorating their eaves, seem to breathe with me, absorbing the calm. As an art history student, I can't resist a quick journey to the Stele Gallery, which is in the southeast corner of the temple. I look at the inscriptions on various steles, dating back to the Tang dynasty. I hear that one is particularly famous: 達摩一葦渡江 (dámó yìwe?i dùjiāng), or Bodhidharma Crossing the Yangzi River on a Reed. Both the Metropolitan Museum in New York and the Cleveland Museum of Art have versions of this picture in their Asian collections. The story goes that after an unsuccessful meeting with Emperor Wu of the Liang dynasty, Bodhidharma travels north. Upon reaching the banks of the river Yangtze, he breaks off a single reed and uses it as a boat to carry him across. After reaching the northern bank, he continues until he reaches Shaolin Temple, which is the cradle of Chan Buddhism.

In Japan, 禪 (chán) is pronounced 'zen'. Zen has become the most prominent school of Buddhism in that particular nation. The picture of Bodhidharma Crossing the Yangzi River can be seen hanging in tea houses across Japan, together with the characters: 禪茶一味 (chán chá yī wèi) meaning: "chan and tea have the same taste". The saying comes from a legend that during his time at Shaolin Monastery, Bodhidharma spent nine years facing the wall of a cave in meditation. One day, a sapling grew out of the ground in front of him, so he picked one of the leaves and placed it in his mouth. In that same instant, he was enlightened! The sapling, of course, was a tea tree (Camellia Sinensis). The story may be a legend, but Chan Buddhism and tea go way back. Monks need to keep their minds clear and avoid falling asleep. They discovered long ago that tea was the perfect beverage to maintain lucidity and nurture the spirit. I wonder how many of the tourists in Japanese tea houses know that the story can be traced back to Shaolin Monastery.

Sitting on the two-hour train from Zhengzhou East to Beijing West, I think about the past four days and all that I've learned. Shaolin Monastery is truly special, and so it's no wonder that hundreds of images, books, articles, songs, films and video games have gleaned inspiration from its rich history and the wealth of its traditions. I do have to say though: the temple will mean something different to everyone who has the good fortune to visit. Medicine, Martial Arts, Meditation, regardless of where you come from, Shaolin Monastery is well worth a visit, just be wary of any monks holding calligraphy brushes or iron flutes.

--

Daniel Newham, a British, born in Britain in 1980, is a host of the China?Broadcasting?Network?International Now. He had studied Chinese in the Renmin University of China for a year as part of the overseas study plan for Chinese language study specialized bachelor's degree of the Durham University, Britain. Later he had also studied in the acting department of the Nanjing University of the Arts for one year. He has been studying Chinese in the Renmin University of China since 2002 to present.