Donald has been missing in action for so long that he and the weasels have bypassed the last week’s experiences. They don’t know that Cambodia has brought me to my knees emotionally. They’ve no idea that I awoke in tears for two nights from seeing life through the eyes of my last guide, Som, who is probably the kindest and most gentle man I’ve ever met.

I made a deliberate choice before I left home not to visit the Killing Fields because I thought it would be too distressing. How shallow I’ve since felt. Som was six years old when Pol Pot arrived on the scene. For four years, he survived on grass and leaves and bark and never thought about the following day. He lost his mother and father, and his sister died of starvation. In the dark of night, he taught himself English – to be discovered doing so would mean the end, and children were killed by being beaten against trees or simply hacked to death in front of their parents.

In my ignorance, I’d thought that the genocide only happened in and around Phnom Penh. Not so: Sorya, my current guide, today pointed out the Killing Fields of Siem Reap. The terror lived throughout the country and Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge simply moved to the mountains of the north when their time was up. After it finished, Som went into a monastery for six years to learn how to recover and how to come back to life, with grace and with calm.

Now, here’s the thing with Cambodia: it’s as if the whole country is in a permanent state of recovery from the unspeakable darkness that engulfed them. It’s a recovery that embraces inclusivity and stillness. A place where farmers waiting to harvest their rice happily drive tourists around on cyclos or ox-carts with graciousness. A place that relishes the traditions that Pol Pot tried to erase. A place like a phoenix rising, full of the loveliest people imaginable. It’s inspirational and I am in love.