Standing in the Shadow of the Lady Buddha
Yesterday, my German friend Michael from Hamburg and I shared a taxi out to the Son Tra Peninsula to visit the Lady Buddha.

It's funny how travelling works. Two people can make exactly the same journey for completely different reasons.

We chatted on the drive up, watching Da Nang slowly disappear behind us as the road climbed higher into the hills. Scooters buzzed past, monkeys occasionally appeared at the roadside and every bend revealed another glimpse of the coastline below.

Then she appeared.

You see the Lady Buddha long before you reach her.

Standing sixty-seven metres high above Da Nang Bay, brilliant white against the deep green jungle, she seems less like a statue and more like a guardian watching over the city. Looking out across the East Sea, she has become one of Vietnam's most recognisable landmarks, but photographs don't prepare you for standing beneath her.

Once we arrived, Michael and I wandered off in our own directions.

There was no need to stick together.

Some places are better experienced alone.

I watched him disappear towards one of the gardens while I took my time exploring the pagoda at my own pace.

Almost immediately, the noise of Da Nang disappeared.

Down below, the city carried on as normal. Millions of scooters. Construction cranes. Car horns. Busy lives.

Up here, everything slowed to a different rhythm.

Temple bells echoed softly through the trees.

The scent of incense drifted across the courtyards.

Locals quietly knelt before the shrines, placing flowers, fruit and prayers before the altar. Some bowed their heads. Others simply sat in silence.

Nobody hurried.

Nobody disturbed anyone else.

I found myself standing at the foot of the Lady Buddha, looking up until my neck began to ache.

The scale of her is extraordinary.

You suddenly feel very small.

Whether you're religious or not almost becomes irrelevant. Places like this have a quiet power about them. They remind you that there is more to life than deadlines, mobile phones and the endless rush we seem to create for ourselves.

Local people will tell you that since the Lady Buddha was completed, the worst of the typhoons seem to pass Da Nang by, protecting the fishermen and their families below.

Whether that's faith, folklore or coincidence doesn't really matter.

Standing there, looking out across the bay, it's easy to understand why so many people believe it.

Eventually I wandered over to one of the outer walls overlooking the sea.

The view stopped me in my tracks.

Da Nang stretched out below like a giant map.

The curve of the coastline.

The beaches.

The bridges crossing the Han River.

Tiny fishing boats heading out across water that seemed to merge with the sky.

I sat there for quite some time with a cold drink, doing absolutely nothing.

No photographs.

No phone.

Just looking.

Sometimes that's enough.

When Michael and I met again later, neither of us asked, "What did you see?"

Instead, we asked, "How did you find it?"

There's a difference.

We had visited exactly the same place, yet we'd each taken something different away from it.

That's one of the things I love most about travelling.

You can share the journey without sharing the experience.

Everyone brings their own memories, beliefs and questions to places like this.

The Lady Buddha simply gives you the space to leave with your own answers.

If you find yourself in Da Nang, leave the beach bars behind for a few hours and make the journey up the Son Tra Peninsula.

Go for the views.

Go for the history.

Go for the remarkable craftsmanship.

Or simply go for the silence.

Sometimes, in a world that never seems to stop talking, silence is the most valuable souvenir you can bring home.