Flower power!

My lungs had grown accustomed to the fresh, Himalayan air and I was in no hurry to head back to the city for my last days on Indian soil.

Instead, I was coerced into making the eventful journey to land less trodden and, so, the Valley of Flowers expedition began!

After an overnight bus journey from Dharamsala to Rishikesh (where The Beatles got their guru on), without rest, we took a jeep for 9 hours to make the perilous climb up to Govindghat - a small town used as a spring board for thousands of Sikh pilgrims heading to Hemkund, a holy shrine located at 4200 metres above sea level. Our jeep swept past steep cliff faces, where the remains of fresh landslides had recently fell. As day turned to night, the circuitous road became more treacherous and for the last part of my journey I held my breath and closed my eyes like only the brave do.

After the kind of sleep where your body simply collapses with exhaustion, it was up early to join the pilgrimage up 14km of steep, rocky mountain to Ghangaria - where we were cut off from the rest of the world for 3 days. The 6 hour climb could have been a lot more fluid had we not been stopped every few metres by jolly Sikhs with hand-carved walking sticks. They asked for photographs, details on where we were from, where we were going, were we married, had children, what job we did, what we thought of India and any other questions their very articulate English could dream up.

And then of course we were nudged and trodden on by the mules and stretchers carrying fragile ladies, the deceased and portly adults and children who really could do with the exercise. Not to mention the porters carrying oversized bags (including our own), swaying and buckling under the strain. For many of them, retirement was long overdue. It was an exhausting climb but our spirits were high.

Ghangaria, at an altitude of 3049m, was a series of crumbling guest houses in desperate need of clean bed sheets, lashings of paint and correctly fitted windows and doors to keep the mountain chill out. The restaurants all had duplicate menus, competing to have the highest number of bizarre spellings and staff with quirky bobble hats. But, for India, this small village was amazingly functional considering its isolation from the rest of the world.

Ghangaria was a true symbol of survival against the odds as, despite its sublime beauty, everyday life for its inhabitants was clearly a struggle and I can only guess what the winter months behold.

The Valley of Flowers, a 3km walk from the village across mountain streams, is a glacial corridor carpeted with beautiful wild flowers, which paint the valley blue, purple, pink and red during July and August. The valley, at 3650m, was only discovered by the Western world in 1931 and we really felt like we were discovering it for the first time, barely seeing another soul over the 3 days, and absolutely no Westerners.

Surrounded by towering snow-capped mountains, I was reminded of my own insignificance compared to Mother Earth. Never had I felt so small yet so in awe. And the valley seemed untouched by people, and unaffected. And what would be the perfect way to finish our days of trekking and warm up as the temperatures drop? Beer? A glass of wine? Or maybe something stronger? But, alas, we had to settle with hot chocolates and chai as Ghangaria is a strictly alcohol free settlement.

Tired, but happy to have fallen well and truly off the tourist trail, we made our descent down, once again dodging the pilgrim paraphernalia and porters.

Part of me wanted to stay cut off from the world so I didn't have to say goodbye to this country that I had fallen in love with. I was soon thumped back to reality, though, with a deadly bus journey back along the snaking road.