“It is in the wild places, where the edge of the earth meets the corners of the sky, the human spirit is fed…”  Art Wolfe

Discover trails carved from feet which breathe beneath the sun. Time is plenty and adventure awaits. There are short walks ideal for little feet and longer hikes that will take you to other villages like Dhampus, Pittam Deurali, Forest Camp and the Mardi Himal base camp. There are trails where you may wish to discover and simply enjoy your own company. And you may just be reminded of the big little things that may have been forgotten.

In the Beating Heart of Nature

Living with the rhythm of Sun and Moon, Stars and Earth, Wind and Rain

Winter 7.30pm

We have been rooted to the earth in a way in which that hour between dusk and dawn awaits quiet, for rest and recuperation. Time seems to stop. But at the darkest hour, the throbbing that hums beneath our feet surfaces above the tranquillity.

For the nocturnal, it is an opening of portals to mischief and play, an opportunity to listen to the shadows that stalk the twilight, the hooting of the camouflaged owl and the snuffling of hungry hedgehogs. When the sound of silence plays its first notes, a chord of dark grips the hour with a kind of unsung lullaby that rocks the baby to sleep, akin to the rolling of waves being washed ashore in sequences, some of a longer melodic passage at a higher pitch and the next a lower pitch, but always with regular and constant effect that never ceases, and never the same. It just pulsates with the earth’s cycle, a quiet rhythm of assuming everything.

It is a gorgeous hour. And numbing and humbling all at once.

Summer Rain 6pm

The vault above released its clench and rain poured and the land reclaimed life. The plants drank deeply from its generous offerings and thrived again. The creatures emerged from hibernation, their thirst quenched and their moods lifted. The cycle of life continues its eternal rhythm, a delicate balance revered. And with each crystal drop that falls, the land begins to tell its stories; stories of resilience and endurance, of love and loss, of hope and rebirth… As the months plod way, our promise to complete is near. We stand on the soft grass watching the delicate dance between rain and earth. With eyes closed, we breathe in the fresh scent of precipitation, feeling the cool drops brush against our skin. With each drop that falls, we see gratitude, we see awe, and we see life-giving nectar that feeds the intricate web of life. Every storm that comes and goes leaves behind a whispered song, a reminder of what had been and what could be.

And so here we stand, treading lightly upon this earth, just watching and listening, whilst the raindrops work their magical stories.

Autumn 5.30am

It’s just the lull of your breath and quietude, a catch of ethereal etching in the sky, a canvas caught in whispers of yellow, orange, gold and everything in between. 

Along the jagged ridges from east to west, broad strokes of lower lush hills dwarf dark green forests and pockets of villages. Masses after masses, in verticality, there soar black granite mountainous faces baring its stoicness and masculinity. And beyond the bare towers there lies the ice-queens on the peaks softly perched in his embrace, her white repose lay delicately on his wind-beaten tattooed face. Like a dark warrior, he holds his beloved in his protective cusp from the merciless storms and wind, and there, in the playfulness of the sun’s song and dance, of dusk and dawn, of shadow and silhouette, of wax and wane of the moon, a rasa leela – the dance of the divine love is performed. Their intimacy veiled by the passing clouds, their intertwining so profoundly united that they refuse to depart even in the heat of summer. Time melts away.

Spring 10am

…Thousands of cream winged butterflies streaked and spotted with black, fluttered and swarmed across the site, at first, dotting the wilds daisies and then drowning the vegetable patch with their ungorgeous destruction leaving clumps of yellow eggs under leaves like Braille. And upon metamorphosis, their green younglings eat their way carving hieroglyphics perforations into the spinach. Then the goats left astray, hoofing their way into the patch to chew on the mottled leaves, now congregated with very hungry caterpillars and what is left thereafter is a rather unappetising sight for the humans. Observing this manifestation that occurred over two short weeks, it suddenly made utter sense why the villagers would laboriously harvest their greens at the end of winter before the hatching of butterflies take place. Stacks of edible greens, a common practice spotted around the village are dried in the alchemy of sunshine and their fibre beaten into disfiguration to make gundruk, a dried and preserved preparation often used in stew cooked with soya beans, sesame paste and potatoes.


The day expired in rouge. Throngs of whistling fork-tail birds weighed the trees. The windows became black mirrors and faces watched back. Out there lay stillness from human centrism. Things were beginning to get unsettling as sepia grips the landscape and the forest transmutes into a haunting neighbour. Shadows of dismembered branches thrust deep into the ground to prop new life, stood stoic like haggard limbs beneath the flower moon. Tender tendrils of beans and pumpkin coil their way around the blackened stumps and stalks of corn, their grip at first soft and uncertain, then tight and persistent. Their expanse hovers over the small and delicate but not without blossoms.

Darker forests lay beyond a few strides from the earth walls, harbouring a solitary tiger that hunts for a desperate feed from time to time – a dog or a calf or a deer. It is often shared how piercing the gaze of the majestic mammal is when projected from a single light beam of a passing motorist, sometimes chilling enough to detour their journey. Our land, once a part of their habitat brings rare visitation. Their fathomless growls heard give conversation for the following day and the search for evidence for fresh paw prints becomes detective play. What occurs beyond the periphery is unknown for there is little courage to venture when night falls. The village redraws quietly into submission, knowing it is time for a hunt and meal for the other inhabitants.

Monsoon 5am

Layers and layers, build upon the soundscape
Of rain, pattering, beating, gushing and pouring.
The sky opens up in glee and delight, in sorrow and dismay,
All at once, flooding the earth to her core,
Drowning all, that comes her way hindering her seeds.
In an infinite cycle, un-ending, she tenders to,
Finding relief in crevices, streams and rivers.
Into the roots of life and veins of blood,
Swelling the paddy terraces, overfilled,
Giving birth to some, bestowing death to others.
Finding routes of release
To flow, down and down,
To the all-embracing River Mardi.
Filling her up from bank to bank,
With voluptuous bursts that tears the seams.
Her cusp, swells with life-giving.
And still, more is to come
As the sky, sheds its tears into the days.
In shelter, the gaze continues,
Wondering if, and when, it would ever end.
With the first glimpse of light anew,
The birds awaken to their choruses.
Thick smoke of leisurely mists roll in and out,
Lingering through the tangible and intangible,
Permeating its presence with every creature and their breath,
Whitewashing the sky, unforgivingly…

An extract from Song of Monsoon, Clouds on Tour

“The world reveals itself to those who travel on foot” Werner Herzog