Lantau Island, Hong Kong: Every tourist goes there, but few see it.

It's classic Oriental mountain country - dark green, steep sloping ridges stacked one behind the other, each a little more hidden in a heat haze, gradually fading and ultimately blending into the grey nothingness of the sky.

In the foreground is a lake-filled valley, mirroring the hills, creating the type of scene repeated a million times on wall hangings and tile decorations in Chinese restaurants around the world. Ahead, up in these mountains, lies the temple complex of the Precious Lotus.

The scene is real. But the picture it creates is wrong. The lake is a water reservoir, and behind us, out of sight, lies the concrete and ribbon-wire complex of a high security prison.

This is Lantau Island, a place of contrasts, where the most modern of Hong Kong meets the most traditional: at one end, the Chek Lap Kok, where the tops were knocked off islands and the land between reclaimed to build a huge ultra-modern airport to serve Hong Kong; at the other, lies a tiny fishing village where locals lead a life still pretty much undisturbed.

There was a time when very few visitors would go to Lantau Island, the largest of the former colony's 256 islands, and twice the size of Hong Kong Island itself. Now, thanks to the new airport, nearly everyone does, although they normally rush to get off by rapid transit link by train or fast taxis and buses over futuristic bridges and tollways.

Silvermine Bay

The old fashioned way is to use a ferry, preferably a slow-moving triple-decker where the locals play cards to pass the time and outsiders can watch the incredible variety of harbor craft, from big modern container ships to brown varnished chugging wallah-wallah boats. It's a relaxing 75 minutes to the harbor at Silvermine Bay (yes, it was so named because of nearby silver mines).

Long before you arrive, you realise just how mountainous is most of Lantau, peaks close to 1000 metres and much of it declared a national park, with walking trails and camping facilities. And, even despite recent developments, this means such a change from the hustle and bustle of Kowloon and Hong Kong.

From Silvermine Bay, a winding, narrow road, with glimpses of small villages in valleys leads to Cheung Sha Bay, a huge sweep, around four kilometres long yellow-white beach, frequently deserted during weekdays, but popular with Hongkongers at weekends.

Signs warning of submerged rocks are redundant at low tide. A concrete lifeguard post looks for everything like an airport control tower. Offshore is the outline of Turtle Island, a name that relates to its shape, not its wildlife.

Po Lin Monastery

Later, turn inland and climb along a twisting, hairpin road which follows the ridgelines, and leads to Buddhist Po Lin Monastery, high in the mountains, about 1000 metres above sea level.

It is a remote, isolated, gold, green and red buildings of a large complex perhaps part hidden in swirling cloud, offering tantalising glimpses of rugged, green hills and deep valleys. This isolation makes Po Lin, the Precious Lotus, different from most temples seen by tourists to Hong Kong or other Asian cities.

But in the complex island that is Lantau, another thing that makes Po Lin different is man-made: what's said to be "the biggest outdoor and seated" Buddha in the world, 33 metres tall and reached atop a hill by 300 steps.

Like the beach, Po Lin can frequently be crowded, the souvenir stalls in its car parks and courtyards crammed with customers, and elsewhere, among the large cast iron incense -burners diners may sample the same vegetarian food as is served to the monks - pretty ordinary and pretty bland, not exactly the sort of stuff you would be served at the famous Kung Tak Lam restaurant in Hong Kong.

Tai O Village

Pressing on, further into Lantau - in fact, all the way to its western shores, where, after passing through the diappointing modern face of a public housing complex, we reach the tiny village of Tai O, not exactly a time-capsule of ancient Chinese life, but certainly a place fisherfolk and rice and duck farmers still go about their business reasonably untouched. Then we can walk the alleyways of narrow fronted shop-houses - "the oldest apartments in Hong Kong" is how a proud local describes them to me. These little lanes are barely two metres wide and colored canvas awnings almost touch overhead to provide a complete canopy.

Small stores are a blend of old and new, plastic buckets and electric kettles, or traditional medicinal herb and coffin makers. Shining black and silver dried fish, presented like bunting, hang outside on poles, a reminder that Tai O once had an export market in both fish and salt.

Ramshackle shanty houses on stilts, some you'd swear at a precarious angle, are built over what appears to be a creek, but is actually the small sea channel dividing Lantau mainland and a small island on which part of the village lies. Crude ladders lead to small fishing boats. Among them some larger vessels, permanently moored, serve as homes.

There's always movement here, as people punt and row there way to and fro, going about their business.

It's not so long ago that the only way across was a little ferry, pulled back and forward using rope power by a little old lady with a huge grin beneath a bright lampshade hat.

Now there is a bridge. It's not the same. But it is a reminder that nowhere, not even in Tai O, does time stand still.

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Published on 2/13/02