Shafts of sunlight stream through dense emerald canopy. Behind a curtain of tangled jungle, a surreal vision presents itself: the gloriously dishevelled reminder of ancient shrines, galleries, libraries and pleasure pavilions, now bound by the knotted tentacles of centuries-old trees and a lush web of vines. Ascending fractured staircases that have been shaken and stirred by eight centuries of the earth’s agitations, we clamber over mounds of massive stone blocks, passing walls smothered by blankets of moss and lichens so spongy and incandescently green, they appear poised to walk off. A labyrinth of interlocking corridors and false doors — a form of celestial trickery designed to bamboozle dispensers of darkness — remain resolute in their capacity to confound. But for the birdsong spilling from overhanging branches, we are wrapped in the splendour of silence.

Such untrammelled wandering is the stuff of almost cinematic fantasy: of khaki–clad heroes, hidden treasures and dramatic climaxes. Happily, this is the reality of a visit to Beng Mealea, a temple almost the size of the mighty Angkor Wat, now practically swallowed whole by the jungle.

A more auspicious start to exploring one of the world’s most dazzling archeological marvels would be hard to imagine. It’s only when magic becomes manifestation — when you have gasped at the almost implausible vastness of these sacred structures, run your hands over the hoary, rutted rocks and drunk the dampness of the enveloping jungle — that you come to grips with the spirit of these most magnificent of monuments, conjured to entice divinity down to earth.

Hollywood may have catapulted Angkor’s allure into the popular consciousness; however, movies such as Lara Croft: Tomb Raider barely hint at the breadth of Khmer aspirations. At the whim of increasingly status–conscious kings between the ninth and 14th centuries, thousands of slaves and artisans fashioned almost 100 temples, scattered over hundreds of square kilometres. These grand temples formed the spiritual heart of what was regarded as one of the most artistically evolved, enigmatic and powerful of Asia’s kingdoms, an empire that stretched from present-day Malaysia, Vietnam and Yunnan province to the Bay of Bengal.

While the grandeur of the major temples is undeniable, the lesser-known sanctuaries offer a particularly poignant style of enchantment: the deliciously secretive pleasure of savouring these sacred structures cloaked within silence and solitude.

The genesis of this Khmer golden age lives on at the Roulos temples, situated a very scenic 13km west of Siem Reap and imbued with a strong sense that not much has changed since the 800s. Afternoons are especially evocative here, when the sentry of stone lions and elephants glow golden and the ancient clay bricks resonate with the chanting of monks from the abutting monasteries.

Perched upon the central pyramid of the most imperious of these temples, Bakong, we watched the sun kiss glistening rice paddies and relish the fact that the loudest sound was the bells of homecoming buffaloes ringing out across the plain. Descending, we joined a group of monks playing with puppies and, like them, sat smiling and silent. To speak would have seemed sacrilege.

More regal moments and soulful silence awaited us at Amansara, our temporary home. Secluded, super–quiet and über–cool, this gracious abode, formerly Prince Sihanouk’s guest house, provides an inimitable opportunity to absorb Cambodia’s modern history. Diving into our plunge pool, slipping into a bath sprinkled with frangipanis and losing myself in treasures from the library meant that exploring Siem Reap’s galleries and handicraft markets would have to wait one more day.