Wild Frontiers

Dropping down to a lower, more temperate altitude, off with the down jackets, we left the bus behind and descended on foot into the Phobjikha valley, through villages fringed with prayer flags at first, and then into the pine needle carpeted forest, steeply down to the valley floor, crossing and re-crossing the river which was still - even in the mid afternoon sun -  with icicles. I was gathering pinecones and fern leaves as the sun fell behind the mountains, and the light changed so dramatically from gold to icy grey blue. We could see the heavy smoke rising slowly from the village farmhouses at the end of the valley, where we were headed. Back on with the hats and gloves as the ground started sparkling with frost again, and the bitter wind started funnelling through. A huge flock of black necked cranes sat as if they were grounded planes on the runway of the valley floor.

Our guesthouse for the night was a traditional farmhouse, with just enough rooms, heated by pot belied stoves. Humble, family run, just us there, perfect. The fires had all been lit as soon as the owner saw us climbing out of the valley and we arrived glowy-cheeked into the warm.

Christmas night was celebrated with mince pies warmed on the wood burner, good whisky, and a selection of (I think it's fair to say) pretty dire local wine.

I think it may have been the family's first encounter with the concept of Christmas. I would love to hear the story of The Russian Angels (thanks so much, Anna and Kesenia) who appeared midway through the evening to much beautifully told and beautifully nonsense folkloric build up, and presented everyone with bright pink ear muffs, being recounted to the family's neighbours the next morning. I think their entire perception of "Christianity" will be based on this nights events, god (whichever is listening) help them.

The scene we woke up to the next morning, I may have to copyright as a Christmas card image.

After a sustaining breakfast of beef porridge (yes), we spent most of Boxing Day ascending and descending mountains creeping eastwards ever eastwards, in the bus. We arrived at our next nightstop (coming in as a new entry in my "Top 10 Favourite Place Names Ever") -Bumthang (should always be said as if there is an "!" after it) in the dark.

At the highest point above the town, we started our descent into the valley under a tent of thousands of white prayer flags, cobwebbing the road and moving so eerily like ghosts with the wind. A sliver of the 4 day old moon just about illuminated the range of the mountains, and I watched Orion scroll over us from behind the horizon us as we pulled up to our guesthouse.

Tomorrow, we are crossing the highest pass in Bhutan - Thumshing La (4000m), and we will add our own prayer flags to the thousands of wishes already blowing across the Himalayas, surely the most auspicious way to look into the New Year. And we can probably SEE it from such a vantage point.