INDIA

October 2025
‘Kumaon Journal’

Finally Shakti bound. It’s been years and finally inbound. To the foothills of the Himalayas, where the forests of the tiger parks meet the trails of the villages. A slow trip, no highlight, no quest, just a walk, a walk from village to village with a friend and to see where that takes us.

DAY 0
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Delhi and Tailors. Not what I was expecting but that’s what happens when you travel with friends, random events. Alistair (ATY) is a good friend, and also one of the world’s best photographers, and he likes his fashion as it turns out so the majority of the day is spent bouncing from tailor to tailor in the quest for that linen jacket and the ultimate gilet.

DAY 1
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The smells the sounds, the horns  blaring, people crossing the road clipping the car as we wind up and up towards our goal of Kumaon and the villages where we will spend the next week. It’s busy it’s loud, but slowly as we climb and climb and climb, it settles and we start to see why we have come.

It’s been a short 1hr flight from Delhi with a punchy 0400hrs wake up call. Security was a nightmare at the airport with my bag being recalled 3 times to be searched for one reason or another (it’s amazing how much hassle one small bottle of tea tree pol can cure in hindsight!!!). We are transferred by bus to our plane, the worn place as it turns out, so then transferred slowly down the line of waiting planes to the smallest and rickiest plane on the runway, but by this stage we have no choice. We proudly position ourselves at the front of the boarding queue only to be told we are not a priority and that anyone in rows 1-10 must board first…and it seems everyone else as well, but we duly oblige and finally board our pot shot plane to the foothills of the Himalayas.

We jump in our car for the 5hr drive up through the foothills. We catch glimpses of the Himalayas no capped and distant on unspsectinv corners as we wind our way up, up an dup into the foothills and away from the chaos of the flatlands. We still drive through town of 200,000, Aloma, a copper mining town amongst other things. Caras edging past each other, trucks and buses driving home their larger size, hnudreds, thousands of people making their way home for Divali, bags, suitcases, provisions, sweets, everything under the hot Indian sun.

5hrs of winding through the hills brings us to a short stop and a gentle amble into our home for the night, the Jwalabanj homestay, minimalist, warm, hillside views, spiced food, hot tea and comfort.

Our lodgings are everything you would wish for in a Himalayan homestay. Clean lines, open fire places, log burning stoves in your room, Kashmir blankets on tour bed and views across the oak tree valley as smoke and village goings on drift up from the valley floor.

An afternoon stroll to the local farmer and a behind the scenes foray into their daily life. Stacking hay for the winter months, thick grass laid out drying in the evening sun, 8ft high cannabis crops reaching for the sky on the neatly terraced hillside. Rocky the dog yapping at our heels as we wander the farm. The stables under the house home to a cow, a couple of goats and more standing in the pitch black, an open fir places like a clay sculpture sitting at the heart of the kitchen, a huge oak bed draped in cloths and blankets fighting off the night-time Himalayan cold air.

Dinner is served as we wander back up to our abode, gently curried fish, fresh rice, spiced broccoli, as the fire crackers int he hearth adn the sunsets behind the hills.

DAY 2
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I wake early, 0430hrs early. At least I have slept more this time. Lying in bed the valley slowly wakes a radio crackles as its owner walks it through the treeline below, a dog barks far off in the distance, birds slowly wake as the house comes to life. A slow orange glow wakes the valley as the sun peaks over the hillside shoulder. Hot tea, shouts in the distance as the farmer discovers nighttime visitors, Another day.

We eat a healthy and local breakfast before our slow amble back up the rocky mule path to the Ridgeline and our waiting car. It’s not far but everything is at a slower pace out here. A short drive brings us to the Ridgeline where we look out at the chain of the Himalayas teasing us with their white snowy peaks off in the distance - at 2,300km long and up to 350kms deep in certain sections, this range holds centuries of mystery, trade, stories untold, even acting as a political and geographical barrier to the Chinese way of life just on the other side.

Our day continues winding along ridgelines, pushing through busy villages and towns, all building for Divali; sons and daughters coming home from the cities, husbands and wives preparing the houses for the festivities (equivalent of Christmas in the Christian world). A mix of spring cleaning and Christmas means the roads are full of families returning and tradesman ploughing their wares. Car-like tetris is a common past theme in any slightly urban area that we pass through as trucks squeeze past cars, cars past pedestrians, pedestrians past cows and livestock. It is a hub Bub of the living worlds, sights and sounds, smells and noise, as crackers are bought, colourful lanyards are draped and the excitement of the next few days builds in the air.

We drive through the hippie village frequented by the likes of Bob Dylan and co, and stop at a women’s co-operative where they are hard at work yarning the wool on old machines, pashminas, blankets, scarves and more. Soft to the touch, locally sourced, with up to 200 women forming part of this co-operative it is a local initiative that reaps the rewards.

Input here the visit to the Temple of Justice as well (bells, tying the bell w 3 knots to make a wish, receiving a blessing from the priest, the dongs of the bell every time someone enters, the smoke, the light, the priests in every corner).

A stop at Mohan’s cafe which used to be an old tea cafe and an old haunt of Dylan’s, where we enjoy a light lunch overlooking the valley before continuing on. Winding winding winding on, through the valleys, along ridge lines, the pine tree keeping is forever company with their sweet smells as car horns ricochet round the valley warning each other of their imminent arrival. We stop on the side of the road, our staging point for our next foray into the hills. On foot from here, we pass pines being tapped for their nectar (used in paint), women cropping the grass on steep steep hillsides giggling at our white faces peering up at them. Through the trees in dappled light, fresh air and sun beams hot spotting us as we make our way. Panchachuli is our destination, a small village homestay looking out over towards the Himalayan range that seems to follow us everywhere we go, showing us a different side of her magnificent facade with each stop. Panchachuli is even more stunning than our previous nights stay, huge rooms with dramatic views (only 3 rooms which is a privilege in itself), locally sourced food, as the slow welcoming rhythm of the Himalayas rocks us off to sleep.

DAY 3
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Our amble back along the hillside brings us back to the car, it’s a driving day today, 4 or 5 hrs or so to bring us to our next stop of Prana. The ridge lines seem steeper here as we wind our way further north towards the border with Nepal. Steep drops to the valley and river below with only a few cement blocks to halt our fall; I decide to look straight ahead, or even better, sleep. As well as avoiding the crushing heights, this means the journey passes fast, through slumber eyes we feel the car stop and start through towns and villages, letting other travellers heading in the other direction past, stopping for suppliers for Divali to take to the team at our destination for the night.

A steep walk into our home for the next 3 nights or so this time, an hour or more, a marvel when you think that there is no road into this place and all of the materials had to be transported by porters or mules. The property itself is stunning, a modern take with local materials, clean lines, neatly cut wood, glass panes affording breathtaking views out to, yes you guessed it, the Himalayas. The peaks of Panchachuli and Nanda Devi standing proud above, the lands of Nepal just a few kilometres away.

DAY 4
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Setting off out of the back of the property we are soon alone, walking on old trading paths where the hooves of mules have trodden for years before. shortly we turn off on a smaller path which clings to the hillside ripping steeply off to our right hand side to the valley below. Not the good with heights at the best of times, my mind soon wobbles and I am clinging tightly to the tufts off grass on my right hand side with I am adamant will save my life if it comes to it with their roots ‘deeply embedded’ in at least 5cms of soil! I make out to a small plateau and manage to raise my eyes to the stunning views all around, the glacial river flows below, icy waters tumbling from the mountains and coursing down the valley.

I steal a glance over and notice a handful of women working away, harvesting the grass on steep steep inclines much more than what I have just conquered, oblivious to the height and the impending death that awaits them below. Scythe in hand they chop away, gathering the grass and carrying on - they look up and wave careless and free as I lean even harder into my welcome little plateau of safety.
We move on winding our way down from the ridge, through pines, small homesteads, weed fields, fig trees, lemon trees, twisted old walnut trees. I am not sure I have ever seen anywhere so lush and fertile, every inch is used wisely and bountifully either for trade or for every day living. With our first stop we sit for a rest already moist from our exertions in the Himalayan sun. Pradeep our mountain guide squats to the floor and commences to crack aged walnuts with a rounded stone, their crack as they split open sounding fresh in the crisp mountain air, their taste even sweeter than usual. We are then taken on a tour of different tasting walnuts, some sweeter than others, I am not quite sure how or why the difference, but their is most definitely a flavour that defines each nut, or maybe it is just in the magic of the moment.

We carry on down the hillside, weaving from one house to the next. Their is no trespassing here, it’s their way of life, meandering through the houses from house to house, in and out of backyards, poking a head in through a door to wish a happy ‘Namaste’, edging our way around the odd skittish cow, reassuring the barking dog, it’s a true immersion in a real and slow way of life. No judgement, no expectation, just a welcoming smile and an offer of friendship in the form of walnuts, or cucumber juice, or just a toothy smile and wave.

The next ‘Namaste’ is one that sets our photographic minds ablaze. Painter Girl. A girl is painting a room in the family house and is covered from head to foot in paint. Her glittering smile is shy and embarrassed, but she agrees to a quick fashion shoot in the middle of the Himalayas, her crystal clear eyes inquisitive of why the interest, embarrassed that we fid her unkempt attire so alluring. Paint splatter, hands covered, naked feet covered, her grinning face covered, the vain attempt at overalls covered.

Next stop is a grandmother head to toe in mud as she renovates the inside of her house, the whites of her eyes setting off her smile in the darkness of the room. Plastered in mud to the extent where you wonder whether she is actually any good at her project, more mud surely on her than on the interior of the darkened room.

The hashish roller is next. A face cracked gentleman sitting legs splayed on the roof of his house, the valley dropping off behind him and the peaks of the Himalayas barely visible behind him. He sits amidst a crop of marijuana plants freshly harvested cut from his field. He strips the buds and rubs them between his hands harder and harder as the resin sticks to his palms. Then onto another plant and another and another. Eventually the sticky palms are scraped clean and folded into what will become a small block of hashish. He works away, intrigued by our intrigue, looking at us quizzically as we admire his handicraft, something that is then sold on to local villages or passes through, a local plant, a local high, and one of the freshest and most pungent around.

An afternoon at a slower pace, enjoying the wood fired sauna and plunge pool, sitting back and just watching the Himalayan backdrop unfold before your eyes. This place moves at its own pace with the shouts of shepherds bringing their cows in at night, the crack crack crack of woodpeckers hammering at the aged old oak trees, flits of birds moving from one tree to the next, whilst all the time the tapestry of the Himalayas moves and shifts as clouds come and go revealing another snowy peak not seen before.

DAY 5
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I sleep well up here. It’s just around the 2,000m mark and the air is fresh adn clean and there is just no noise. If there is noise, then its natural or human, nothing mechanical or artificial, I think that’s what has hit me the most, it is truly back to nature, slow paced, real and truly bringing you back to the basics of the human spirit. With a knock at the door, the lovely Yogi kindly brings me some morning tea as I watch the carpet of cloud lift from the Himalayan range from the comfort of my bed, pink tipped mountain peaks with the rising morning sun.

Breakfast on the terrace in the warming sun before setting off to the ridge-line, that alludes us up until now, rising up above the lodge like a stickleback ridge with pine trees for spines. A slow and gentle climb interlaced with the shade of oaks and pines and the dappled sun warming the mountain path. We pass by small holdings, we stop for the ever unfolding views, we visit a shepherds hut just below the summit, a location that seems to make sense - it’s a tiny oasis in these mountains of god a handful of cattle tethered to the wood fencing, a young goat chewing at the hay, marijuana plants growing 8ft tall interspersed with chillies, lemon trees and more. It may be basic but you get the logic, it has a homely feel. Grandma sits on the wall watching her daughter in law work, mucking out the stables with her bare hands, stopping and scraping manure filled hay from the old stable floor and pitching it into he waist high wicker woven basket sitting in the sun.

We reach the summit with valley views stretching out either side of us, rivers switchbacking along the valley floor, snowy peaks standing proudly above their forest shrouded foothills. A Himalayan griffin floats by on the thermals, climbing higher and drifting  effortlessly out of sight. wIth a 5ft wingspan, it moves swiftly and silently without even a murmur of its wings, a seasoned professional on thermal flow.

We wander back home to the comfort of Prana, our mountain base hideaway, more tea, more views, and the unwelcome feeling of a last night on the horizon. But before that, dumpling lessons with the chef. A guru from birth it seems, a lookalike of the Dalai Lama, a ,one from the age of 8 - 26 years old and a fine dining chef based high in the Himalayan mountains. Yeshi has a warm smile an infections laugh and everything that he prepares for you is consumed with vigour.

DAY 6
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A small change of plan today and instead of making our way back to Panchachuli where we stayed on night 2, we head one valley over to Kanna and the last remaining homestay that we have not stayed in. It’s a long drive back through the land of winding hills to our home for the night. We walk down hidden steps into what feels like the heart of the mountain village and settle into our lodgings for the night. Kanna has kept its local feel more than the other houses of our trip so far and it is one of my favourites.

The village spreads up the hill behind us and down into the valley below, whilst our two tiered house sits proudly on its terrace soaking up the village sounds around. We go for one last evening stroll exploring the local surrounds, kids playing still excited by Diwali, an old lady on her heads and knees sweeping her terrace, crackers popping, a bespectacled rotund lady complaining to us that the wild boars have eaten all of her yams as she wafts a half chewed stalk at us clearly in despair. The sun sets across the misty Himalayan foothills, we return to our lodgings to a hot shower, a warm meal, the overflow of the wood burning stove, and hot water bottles in our beds.

DAY 7
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The drive is long today. 6+hrs long before we reach Phatnagar and our short hop flight back to Delhi; but it’s one of the best drive to date. Winding roads weaving their way down the valleys slowly but surely, traffic jams as we pass through mountain villages, lakeside towns with brightly cured gondolas and families punting from one shore to the next, a boy feeding fish, a crumpled car on the side of the road the first evidence of any accident we have seen all week which is a marvel in itself. The road keeps on telling stories, families, couples, labourers and shopkeepers, all going about their business as we pass by just a flash in our memory of this hidden land.

Delhi is busy, but it is also somehow welcoming. The week is done. time for home.