Friday 13th- Saturday 14th April

We left Mary Budden on the brightest of mornings… looked in on the women’s weaving project then continued a twisty descent for about 4.5 hours down to Kathgodam Station. It is a rail head before you get into the hills.

We arrived in good time and stood on the hot platform. The train was already there : the Shatabdi Express to Delhi – and we had seats booked in the Air Conditioned (AC) Executive car. AC car does not necessarily mean deluxe on Indian railways but this time it was very pleasant, with plenty of room to stuff baggage overhead. Best of all the loo was civilised, with a seat you could perch on and no view of the track whizzing past below.

I spent much of the journey time writing up the previous blog post, waiting patiently for pictures to upload, often to see them disappear again within minutes. Quite frustrating – but, progress in the end!

Six hours later we drew into Delhi at around 9.00pm. No sooner than the train had stopped, hordes of ‘coolies’ or porters, desperate to take peoples’ bags swarmed in. Jeremy rushed off and told me to stay put. The coolies prowled around surveying the suitcases while I resolutely stared the opposite way. Then Jeremy reappeared with a smartly dressed young man whom he’d arranged to come from the hotel and meet us off the train. The said young man then found himself in the midst of very aggressive argument over which of the coolies should be taking our bags. It got very close to a fight. Each coolie felt he had first reserve. It got so acrimonious that our man seized both the bags himself and marched on, with one of them following intimidatingly close. We steered clear and eventually the menacing pursuant slunk off. ‘Our man’ was quite brave I thought.

Traversing Delhi Railway Station was both scary and surreal – a seething mass of arms and legs, many belonging to people lying down anywhere on the platform awaiting their train. We picked our way through trying not to tread on anyone. I clung to my bag and Jeremy’s rucksack, head down. Suddenly, we popped out of a door into a small car park where another uniformed man greeted us and we were bundled in to the back of the hotel car. As if by magic we were then spirited away from the station madness to the very opposite extreme of an upmarket downtown hotel. As we drove away, Delhi seethed around us. The traffic was thick and chaotic. There were food sellers on every corner, right by the road.

Suddenly we found ourselves in the alternative universe of the hotel whilst still dressed like couple of hill walkers. It was getting late. I felt tired and awkward, as well as hungry. But with barely time to shower or change we still had to grab a bite to eat before getting up very early for our flight the next morning. We made our way up to the restaurant. The nice girl who greeted us also informed me I had the wrong kind of shoes on, (sandals) but that we looked tired so she’d let us in. Hm!!

Only hours later it was time to get up, grab breakfast and get to the airport. Breakfasting in the beautifully planted gardens and being in such a ‘western’ style environment felt very alien. But we tucked in all the same!

***

The flight to Kangra, the airport for Dharamsala/McLeodganj, went smoothly and we were pleased to be met by a driver from Eagles Nest, our next destination above Daramkot. As we left the plains at 800m and started up towards McLeodganj it got more and more windy. We had another 1600m to get to 2400m (that’s just under 8000ft in old money).

McLeodganj itself was a tangle of impossibility – run through by the tiniest of streets, barely passable by one car, let alone two trying travel in opposite directions. Our driver seemed to be cutting a swathe through it all, although we did dip over into the gutter at one point, and nearly lost a hub cap. Tiny shops selling food, woollens, rucksacks and every conceivable bit of Tibetan memorabilia lined the streets. There were far more westerners in evidence than we’d seen so far as well as many red and orange robed Tibetan monks.

The residence of the Dalai Lama was close by and we had been advised he was to going be giving a rare audience to people from overseas in a couple of days time, so a great many had flocked to register for it – including ourselves! We inched out of the car at the Tibetan Secretariat to the Dalai Lama and joined a raggedy queue along with Americans, Italians, Spanish and many others, all dressed in drapey clothes and looking decidedly hipster, and some discussing yoga poses. Registration forms were handed out and then began a long sweaty wait in order to be officially registered for the audience. I felt painfully hungry. We advanced terribly slowly until we were queuing under a plastic roof in a semi enclosed space near what smelt like a kerosene container. The fumes were snaking into my lungs and I was starting to feel sick. I snuck out to breathe some ordinary air just wanting to forget the whole thing and crawl into the nearest cafe. But I went back, and after another age, and distracting myself by talking to some Italians, we were at last admitted to a small fusty office where two officials tapped our details into a computer and asked us questions – as well as taking a photograph. “Where are you from?” one of them asked Jeremy. “Birmingham” he said. “Ah, my mother lives in Birmingham!” Then there were questions about which football team he supported. Need I say more!

Emerging from the dark depths of the little office, my mind returned to food. But Jeremy was keen to get up to Eagles Nest. So we pressed on.

Words cannot describe just how steep and narrow and difficult it was to proceed out of McLeodganj. A true test of clutch control. It all seemed impossible: so many people walking randomly in the tiny space, cars driving at one another, and then the fun of manoeuvring round the occasional cow. Somehow, we pushed through. We were aiming for Daramkot and above.

If I had thought the road to Mary Budden was problematic, this one took the biscuit. The road soon turned into a rough unmade rocky track along which, again and impossibly, cars seemed to be moving. We sat in the back feeling like we on an even bigger bucking bronco than before. The issue of narrowness worsened. Our driver had a worrying tendency to steer to the left taking us to within a perilous hair’s breadth of the edge of a drop plunging thousands of feet. He did this while giving way to an on-coming vehicle and I literally said my prayers… Clearly, someone was listening, as very eventually we pulled up into a small patch of open ground, crammed with vehicles. We got out, feeling slightly shell shocked. Some porters appeared to take our bags and we did the last twenty minutes uphill on foot.

Patience was rewarded. A lovely old house awaited us and a room with views towards the mountains.

The house has a chalet feel with an upstairs gallery off which you access the bedrooms.

We were kindly invited to join Bo and Sheila, the owners, for a drink at Point. It’s a wonderful look out post on the property, with panoramic views down to McLeodganj and beyond. You just have to breathe in the view.

Here’s Jeremy having a go

and yours truly, feeling grateful to have got there.

Some friends of theirs joined us and we all relaxed considerably over a stiff drink. In the fading light, the views became magical, and we retired weary but thankful for dinner.