Daisy: March 2020

Violet’s words and the sound of the rain on the roof of the teahouse transport me back to the shores of Loch Ewe – the childhood home I too dreamed of leaving for a wider world and finding love and respect such as she and Callum seem to have shared. Her descriptions of Ardtuath and Inverewe stir up a tidal pull within me, a flood of longing for my childhood home. It’s a familiar feeling. I remember walking along the shore with Jack just before I left for London, taking leave of the place and the people who’d given me so much.

Jack stopped at the end of the beach, where the sand meets the rocks, and stood gazing out to sea. ‘You’ll miss this, Daisy,’ he said. ‘More than you know.’

I nodded, suddenly unable to speak as un-spilled tears choked me.

He turned to look at me then, searching my face for something. He swallowed hard and then said, ‘Are you sure this is right for you? Uprooting yourself and everything you’ve been working towards, to go and live in a city? So far from the things you love?’

I shrugged, trying to look and sound more sure of myself than I really was. ‘It’ll be an adventure,’ I replied. ‘And a good challenge for me.’

He’d been right though. I did miss it. So much, sometimes, that the loss felt like a phantom limb, still hurting after it had been amputated. But by then it was too late to go back, and I was stuck in a place I’d never really wanted to be.

I turn back to Violet’s journals, as I have done so often to live vicariously, escaping from my own life into hers. I read until lunchtime and then nod off, lulled by the warmth of the stove, and when I waken, it’s late in the afternoon and the rain has stopped.

Next morning, we’re ready to set off again at last. I seem to have done nothing but read, eat and sleep since we got here, and I feel all the better for it.

There’s an awkward moment in the teahouse as I fumble in my money belt, asking Tashi how much I owe for the two nights’ food and lodging. He shakes his head. ‘This is family, Mrs Daisy. I already settle up. And also, I have money for you.’ To my surprise, he pulls a sizeable roll of Nepali rupees from his pocket and hands them to me. ‘Refund for your air tickets to Lukla. You and your mother’s.’

I’m overcome with relief. I’d written off ever seeing the money again. ‘Tashi, you’re a miracle-worker! How did you manage to get this?’

He shrugs. ‘I know someone who works in Yeti Airlines ticket office.’

‘Let me guess,’ I say with a grin. ‘A cousin?’

He looks a bit surprised. ‘No,’ he replies. ‘My cousin who works there is not authorised to pay out refunds. It was my uncle who arranged it.’

I laugh and reach for my heavy backpack, but Tashi gets there first. ‘You don’t carry this, Mrs Daisy. We have porters. They come with us to Lukla, then my cousin there will arrange new ones to come to Phortse.’

Outside, on the porch, Sonam stands chatting with two smiling men. Tashi hands one of them my pack and he swings it on to a large, fan-shaped bamboo basket as if it weighs nothing at all. The basket is already filled almost to the brim with sacks and cardboard boxes, so he uses a piece of rope to tie my bag in position, then hoists the load on to his back, drawing a strap over his shoulders and adjusting it to take the weight around his forehead. Before I can express my mixture of horror and admiration for the heavy load he’s about to lug into the mountains for four days, he and his friend set off down the road, quickly disappearing into the distance.

At a more leisurely pace, Tashi and Sonam shoulder their own packs and say their goodbyes to the owner of the teahouse. I clasp my hands together in the universal gesture of thanks to him and his wife, then follow my Sherpa friends as they set off in the direction the porters took. I feel strangely light, stepping out unhindered by my heavy pack and with only my phone and a bottle of water in my smaller rucksack. I feel my weakness, fear and uncertainty evaporate, replaced by a new sense of purpose. I’m on my way.

It’s a long day’s hike, but the track is well made, winding into the hills where wisps of mist hang like cobwebs in the valleys as the storm clouds lift. We walk steadily, through dense forests of pine and glossy-leaved needlewood trees that drip a patter of yesterday’s rainfall on to our heads and shoulders. My waterproof jacket is completely useless, though, as I quickly grow so hot inside it that sweat drenches my clothes. I take it off and tie it round my waist, resigning myself to being soaked. We trudge upwards, our trajectory steep. At last, we emerge from the forest on to a more open stretch of track and I gasp in amazement. It’s as if the entire hillside has been turned into a vast Jackson Pollock-like canvas, splashed with paint to form a tapestry of colours as rich as a Persian carpet. Scarlet rhododendrons jostle for position alongside the amethyst blooms of Pride of India trees, interspersed with splashes of bright pink camellias. The hills stretch away, row upon row, leading the eye upwards towards the far horizon where the lifting clouds have begun to reveal the higher peaks, topped with snow.

I pull out my phone, trying to capture the scene in a photo, but nothing can do justice to this view. We move forward again, walking over a carpet of rain-bruised blossom, and I snap away as we go. We pass a small house beside the path and some children come out to watch us, their dark eyes smiling as they return my wave.

By the time we reach Kenja and tonight’s teahouse, every muscle in my body is screaming at me to stop walking and lie down. On this, my first day of trekking, we’ve climbed to an altitude of nearly three thousand metres to get over the pass at Deurali and then dropped back down by more metres than we’ve climbed to reach Kenja. And tomorrow we’ll be climbing even higher. But my personal aches and pains seem irrelevant as we walk through villages where the terrible earthquake of 2015 still leaves its mark. Five years on, houses lie in ruins, little more than heaps of stones, and the hillsides are scarred with stretches of bare earth. This whole area was badly hit, Tashi explains. They’re trying to rebuild, but it’s hard getting materials in such a remote place. Even though years have passed, people are still surviving in shacks and makeshift shelters.

The air is still warm, but the humidity has gone now and the setting sun bathes the terraced rice fields in gold as we walk the final kilometres into the village. People stop and turn to watch us passing by, calling out their welcomes. We haven’t seen any other trekkers since the top of the pass, which is lucky because much of Kenja lies in ruins too. Tashi tells me there were many teahouses here before the earthquake, catering for the steady stream of walkers on the trail. But only a couple are open now and we are the only guests in the one we stop at.

I wash off the sweat in a basin in the shared bathroom, and drag a brush through my hair, attempting to tame the frizz a little. Then I check my phone for any news bulletins about the pandemic, both at home and here in Nepal. It’s difficult to find any clear information, but the Nepal Tourism Board has a helpful page, advising that I’m not alone: there are still thousands of foreigners stranded in Nepal. It says to register with the British Embassy in Kathmandu, via their website. One sentence in particular grabs my attention: Conditions are most likely not going to be better in your country and the trip back is going to be long and dangerous. It goes on to say, Don’t worry about your visa, Nepal has granted amnesty on foreign visas and it will be sorted out later. So I send an email to the British Embassy, letting them know where I am, only slightly reassured that perhaps my decision to stay will turn out to have been the right one.

Over supper, I can hardly keep my eyes open. But as soon as I get into my sleeping bag, my legs begin a relentless twitching, as if they’re still climbing the trail, and I’m wide awake again. In the end, I turn over and switch on the light, pulling Violet’s journal out of its plastic wrapper and reading until – at last – my restless legs and mind quieten enough for me to sleep.