Kathmandu

Arriving in Kathmandu is like stepping back in time. A searchlight swoops the sky above the runway as you cross the tarmac to the terminal. Then you walk down bleak glass and brick corridors straight from a 1970's school. In the baggage hall the conveyor soon fills up with thousands of intricately rope-bound boxes and bundles, interspersed only occasionally with a suitcase. The novelty of watching these rotate and fall off wears thin after an hour or so. Another half hour later, my bag finally stumbles in.

Prakash, the delightful manager of my hotel, has come to meet me. We drive through a maze of crowded, semi-surfaced streets, where groups of people huddle round pavement fires and here and there a cow grazes on a pile of rubbish. Houses look half-built and everywhere are patches of wasteland and piles of bricks or rubble.

The hotel is simple and welcoming. I down a curry and an Everest beer and sleep and sleep.

In the morning I meet the wonderful Bharat, who has been organising my trip through a series of emails these last few weeks. He assures me that all is sorted, he will arrange rental of a warm sleeping bag and help in any way he can. Then I hop onto the back of his motorbike so he can show me the way to Thamel. Which turns out to be only a matter of yards.

ATM, coffee, then shopper's paradise: hundreds of shops crammed to the rafters with fake outdoor brands. That is, "Genuine fake". 75 quid later I am kitted out with a North Fake down jacket, windstopper trousers and windstopper shell and sitting drinking tea in the back of the shop with the owner. Snugly wrapped (and in love with down jacket) I potter some more, picking up trekking snacks, medical supplies and lunch before giving in to the urge to go back to the hotel for a snooze.

In the afternoon I meet up with Bharat again, pay him and make arrangements for tomorrow, before wandering out again. Beer and food at the Funky Buddha round the day off nicely.