From the window of an alpine plane I watch the Himalayas rise to attention, the succession of peaks stretching beyond the horizon. Beneath me is a white blanket, occasionally punctuated by a dominant peak rising like an unruly bully.
To the east lies Mt Everest, or Sagarmatha, to use its local name.
Nepal has long ignited the imagination of trekkers, and not just those who have a penchant for zip-off trousers and fibreglass walking sticks.
This tiny nation in the Himalayas has eight of the world’s 14 mountains that soar above 8,000 metres. But rather than follow in the footsteps of Edmund Hilary up Everest, I’m attempting the Annapurna circuit, a gentler trek with a less fearful death rate.
The plane lands and the snow disappears. A stark valley cuts its way north, leading me towards vivid green fields and a flurry of mud houses.
Kagbeni is deeply camouflaged, the houses blending into the mountain, distinguished only by peculiar signs advertising their services. A few are tea houses offering basic accommodation to foreign trekkers.
One has avoided an expensive lawsuit. Yak Donalds boasts an impressive menu and the red and yellow wooden window frames draw me inside. There is a Yakburger, a Yakmac meal, but the closest I can find to a McFlurry is goat stew. My meal is delivered after 20 minutes, which is way quicker than the Nepalese standard, and I didn’t need to ask for “no gherkins”.
Amid crumbling mud bricks, Kagbeni gently enchants. Its alleyways are more popular with goats than people. But as dusk descends, wind whips through the valley and I must clamber beneath three yak fur blankets.
Nepal had lulled me into a false sense of warmth. The streets in capital city Kathmandu weave and wind, but the temperature is more for mosquitoes than woolly hats.
Hectic and colourful, Kathmandu was a core stop on the iconic 1960s hippie trail. Judging by the elephant print trousers and ferocious beards, it never lost this status.
There is a Yakburger, a Yakmac meal, but the closest I can find to a McFlurry is goat stew
Scattered around a serene lake, sub-tropical Pokhara is like a benign aunt. It offers everything that’s unavailable once you depart: steak houses, jazz bars and comfortable beds.
From here, the Annapurna circuit is a three-week trek around the Annapurna mountain range. But I’m inexperienced, underprepared and viciously hungover. So I’m cheating, taking a plane to Jomson and attempting only the western part of the route.
From Kagbeni, we head north, to 3,700 metres above sea level and a village that defies religious struggles. Both Hindus and Buddhists regard Muktinath as a sacred place, and a peculiar mix of styles pervades through the streets.
Wooden temples open onto fountains of divine water, but two new hotels look like they’ve come straight from the 1970s guide to bad concrete architecture.
A new road is under construction, linking Muktinath to Pokhara, and it’s a constant source of anger to trekkers. They use words like ‘disgusting’, ‘ruined’ and ‘disgraceful’ to describe the recent development.
As we walk towards Marpha, the road is an irritation, with passing jeeps kicking up clouds of dust. But the complaints have a certain self-centredness, failing to recognise the importance to Nepal of opening up another road that ultimately connects India to China. Along the rest of the route, the trekking trail is separate from the road and I ignore their hyped wrath.
An alpine river blocks our path as we leave the road, the knee-deep water easily navigated by our guide. But I falter, my foot slipping on a rock and my new Berghaus trousers revealing themselves as a flagrant fraud. There’s nothing waterproof about them and I walk on like a penguin, troubled by the chaffing.
Marpha soothes my soul, the charming village benefitting from its strict uniformity. Under local law, each house must be repainted in the village colours of maroon and white every two years.
It’s discombobulating, the meandering alleyways giving no clues as to the direction of travel. But in Marpha I want to get lost. Around corners children bashfully offer a welcome “namaste” and every few houses a ‘best apple pie’ advert.
Marpha markets itself as the “delightful apple capital of Nepal” and I leave with six humongous samples; energy boosts as the trail dips into sub-tropical humidity.
Suddenly I’m dripping with sweat and I curse being unable to unzip my trousers into shorts. When I reach the end of day five, I doubt I’ll ever walk again.
Muscles ache, joints crack and I understand that the quality of a bed is unimportant when trekking in the Annapurna. Just being able to lie down is some kind of magical release of tension.
Each village has these converted homes, miniature bed-and- breakfasts run by enigmatic women who revel in their ability to serve steaming drinks
Sensing my awkwardness, the guide brings a frail 60-year-old Nepalese man to my room. Defying his spindly arms, the masseur punishes me with a bombardment of elbows, ignoring my yelps of pain. Following him down to some natural hot springs, I’m ordered to bathe for 30 minutes, which I spend concocting unutterable curses about the masseur.
But magical Mr Nepalese man I forgive you! I wake with an enviable feeling of energy, renewed and ready for the steepest part of the trek. From 1,200 metres we go up through green meadows, then along rough trails and towards the snow line. The two-kilometre, vertical climb to Poon Hill flashes past in a blur as my revived legs refuse to be delayed.
From this peak, the Annapurna is revealed in all its glory. I look out onto a solid congregation of peaks, 14 of them reaching over 7,000 metres above sea level.
Dauntingly steep and impossibly ragged, they fulfill every preconception I had of trekking in Nepal. They’re undeniably pretty, but it’s their sheer size that is more impressive. The Annapurna peaks kill one in three climbers who attempt their summit, and those odds convince me to ignore my new-found enthusiasm for trekking and descend.
Each day on the trek has provided glimpses of these white peaks, but only at Poon Hill does the Annapurna reveal itself totally. Descending is an anti-climax, and the 3,000 steps we must negotiate bring nothing but pain.
Trekkers ascend past me, eyeing me with confusion. They’re ascending but it’s my face that screams for forgiveness. The masseur had only delayed the inevitable.
It’s left to the Nepalese tea house to bring joy to the final part of my journey. Each village has these converted homes, miniature bed-and-breakfasts run by enigmatic women who revel in their ability to serve steaming drinks. The last one senses my discomfort and plonks a bottle of homemade apple schnapps on the table.
It’s the tea house hospitality and their prevalence that make the Annapurna an ideal trek for beginners. A warm home of cooking and comfort ensures there is no need for dodgy tinned food or pitching tents.
While each day along the trek brought memorable sights, it was the one constant that ensured I kept walking when my legs began to say no.
Throughout it all, I knew that the end of the day would bring a smiling, old lady greeting me with a “namaste” and a piping pot of tea.