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Shreds of silky white clouds flowed over the hilltops all around. As the clouds made their advance, I turned around to see a wall of rain slowly closing in. For the moment, everything was still on Mount Ungaran, almost 1,000 meters above sea level at one of Central Java’s most revered temple complexes.

A few seconds later and the full force of Indonesia’s monsoon season was unleashed. The few people who had managed the walk up the slope of Mount Ungaran all dived into the nearest eighth-century Hindu temple they could find and took shelter.

“ Hujan [rain],” sighed an old Indonesian woman doubled over by the weight of a basket full of snacks.

There was no light in the temple, the inside of which was about the size of an elevator. The temple was part of Gedung Songo (Nine Buildings), a tourist attraction in Bandungan.

There are five temple clusters at Gedung Songo, built more than 1,000 years ago during the Sanjaya dynasty, which ruled Central Java during the eighth and ninth centuries

The temples look as if a strong gust of wind could blow them over, yet although simple in design, they give an insight into classic Javanese architecture.

Built between 730 and 780 AD out of volcanic stone, along with the Dieng Plateau site near Wonosobo they are Central Java’s most ancient Hindu structures.

I poked my head out into the rain and watched as two more old ladies traipsed up the hill carrying bundles of umbrellas available for hire.

The damp air was filled with the scent of rotten eggs, a not-so-fragrant reminder of the nearby hot springs where I later went to dip my feet before the stench became unbearable.

The temples’ builders no doubt picked this spot because of the remarkable views over Central Java.

From the top of the hill I could see for miles, rich vegetation stretching all the way to a looming row of volcanoes, partly obscured by clouds, in the distance.

It had been a mighty task to walk the two kilometers or so to the top of the hill. It was worth it, but I couldn’t help but feel that there was a slight irony in the way this ancient temple complex had been utilized for the benefit of tourists.

Ever the entrepreneurs, the locals were eager to entertain visitors. There was even a rock band belting out tunes at the foot of the complex.

Despite that, there is something enchanting about the scenery in Central Java. Maybe it’s the endless rows of twinkling rice paddies or the ominous backdrop of volcanoes.

I’d traveled to Gedung Songo from the quiet town of Salatiga, which is located a couple of hours’ bus ride from Yogyakarta.

En route, I’d stopped off at Ambarawa, a sleepy town that had the unexpected bonus of a train museum located at the site of an old rail station.

At the museum, a camera crew was filming an Indonesian travel show hosted by a chirpy bilingual Western woman who was enjoying skipping between the massive steam engines on display.

I climbed up onto one of the trains to see what levers could be pulled or knobs turned. Before I knew what hit me the TV host had bounded my way and began excitedly firing off questions.

“So what do you think of the trains? Amazing, right?” she squeaked.

Her enthusiasm was impenetrable. She was obviously amused by the 20 or so trains there, all built in Europe between 1891 and 1927.

Suddenly, there was a deafening whistle as an old steam train pulling two open-air cars rolled into the station like an elephant lazily finding a resting spot.

The highlight wasn’t the museum itself, but the fact that I got to ride this rusting, wood-fueled train 17 kilometers up into the hills on the only running cog railway in Central Java.

The train was about 100 years old and the wear and tear meant that we didn’t get much faster than a brisk walk. The open-air cars had been remodeled to look as they did way back when, giving the ride a real tang of authenticity.

As we pulled out of the station, the sound of the train’s whistle, which could have woken the dead, alerted locals who live next to the tracks to bring out their children, each of whom excitedly waved and beamed their toothless smiles.

At one point, the burden on the old train became so great that the engine had to loop behind us at an old station so as to push the cars, rather than pull them.

As the train started moving again, the scenery opened up to reveal endless rice paddies.

Farmers up to their ankles in mud and water toiled away beneath the morning sun. With the train behind the cars, I walked to the front and felt the gentle breeze as we trundled along the overgrown tracks.

It took about an hour to reach our destination, Bedono, which was also the end of the line and my jumping-off point to the stunning, rain-soaked views at Gedung Songo.