What a piece of television this was. I was settling down to the usual Friday-night fare, when I happened upon this little gem. In among the crude comedy-with-an-audience shows, the run-of-the-mill dramas and panel shows, there was this terrific new series – I wasn’t expecting enlightenment and a show to make me question my own life on a Friday night. Friday night telly is all about escape from a busy week at work, but this left me feeling uplifted, humbled and greedy for knowledge.

We’ve had series before where intrepid explorer people from the West (Tribe etc) and shows where people who don’t normally do religion take up residence in a religious place to see if they can cut it (The Monastery and The Convent). This was a mixture of both – a forward-thinking, trendy Anglican priest, Peter Owen Jones, who looks a bit like Robert Plant (not Robert Page as I had originally posted), journeys into the heart of places like China and the Himalayas to compare religion and search for pure spirituality. In this opening episode, he went to China to stay with Shaolin monks. It was an extraordinary journey.

We joined Peter at a Shaolin Monk temple, where he began to learn some martial arts and took a trip around the place to check it out. He was finding the martial arts difficult, and used muscles he had never used before but he wasn't afraid to have a go, tie his hair back and get stuck in. But, to him, this wasn't the key to peaceful Zen-like spirituality he was expecting – this was all about kicking and wearing slippers.

It got even worse when stayed with a group of young martial arts students at a sparse, stark and brutal training boot camp school. He just couldn’t remember the steps or keep up with the others, and he began to get very frustrated. And ill.

After one session, he said in between breaths: “That was f****** nasty”. He went to the toilet to vomit.

Back at the temple, he was becoming unimpressed with all around him. He just didn’t get the Zen lifestyle, and as tourists queued up to have a look around the stunning temple he soon realised that this strain of Buddhism had become more of a brand than a religion. His views were confirmed when a TV crew began filming some of the monks go through some moves. In essence the monks were cool, but they were, ultimately, nothing more than chilled-out showmen.

Disenchanted with the temple, he packed himself off to a monastery in the mountains where an ex-Shaolin held court. When he got there he found a beautiful self-sufficient community that practised elegant movements all day long. From sweeping the floor to carrying supplies up the mountain, everything was done slowly, delicately and with flourishes of crystalline movement. He didn’t get it.

At this mountaintop monastery, Peter woke early again every day, once again got frustrated at the way he couldn’t complete the moves during practise (this is the life of a monk – rise early, practise, harvest vegetables, practise, heal finger acupuncture, practise, cook, eat, practise etc) and still couldn’t get ‘Zen’.

Then, after a chat with one of the Masters, something clicked. The Master told him that emptying one’s mind is harder than one thinks, and that he should look around, feel nature, feel the peace, and breathe. Movement and breath. Sweet, balletic movement and deep, complimentary breathing. That was the key.

Peter suddenly had an epiphany – he realised that his mind was more cluttered than he thought and that the West relied on too much stuff to make them happy. Fags, beer, film, whatever… even God. He supposed that in the West we rely on a God, an external force, to help us feel happy and attain spiritual redemption. Zen relied on the person to make one happy. Make peace with yourself, and you can clear your mind.

After that he stopped worrying about the martial arts steps, and just breathed, accepted movement and relaxed. The transformation was brilliant to watch. Peter may be a beaded necklace-wearing, linen-wearing, long-haired dude of a priest, but he was willing to put his beliefs to one side and get in amongst it. He turned out to be a likeable, engaging host.

In a week where we’ve seen scaremongering documentaries (Half Ton Mum) that either make you point look and make you feel good about yourself at the expense of others or scare you into not eating/drinking/breathing at all, Extreme Pilgrim was a refreshing tonic for this new year. In the end, I learnt that it’s all about what’s inside, and when Peter got it, I got it too. That’s the mark of very good television – taking a viewer on a journey completely in line with its presenter so you experience everything he or she does. I think I need a lie down.