Having just witnessed heaven before landing: folds of crisp white Himalayas, including Mount Everest and Cho Oyu, Earth was a potential disappointment; though not, as we discovered, if you land in Bhutan.
Our guide and driver, Choki and Sonam, were waiting for us at the exit dressed in dapper, traditional, wrap-around gingham tunic dresses (ghos), long black socks and city-slicker polished shoes; not that dissimilar to men in kilts. Little did we realise at the time that this dynamic duo would play such a profound and integral part in our journey. Nor did we really understand anything about this land-locked, democratic kingdom.
A winding drive up into the mountains of invigorating blue pine forest and we arrived at Amankora. My expectations were met and more as we walked the soft mattress of scented pine needles to our first lodge. It was breathtaking. Set against the real Himalayas with the centrally placed ‘virgin’ snow-white peak of the sacred Jomolhari (considered to be the home of the 16 Arhats and Goddess Jomo), it is privileged. What’s more, it also looks onto a most auspicious monastic ruin; small, sacred, empty and steeped in mystery, wonder and intrigue – the Drukyel dzong: it is, indeed, blessed.
Our suite was, for me, lodge-utopia. It really was just what we desired, a brush of alpine rustic with creature comforts where you wanted them. These included down duvets bedded in crisp linen on emperorsized beds; an enormous free standing bath set into terrazzo along with the sensational potions created in the Aman Spa; stylish furniture with an organic and authentic feel; closet-set vanity units with ‘goddess’ lighting; and a perfect window to frame our celestial view. The love affair with the woodburning stove began here too. (These features are present in all the lodges).
We trekked up to the Tigers Nest – Taksang – with eye-watering vistas across the staggering snow-capped Himalayas above verdant green forests. We turned an enormous brass prayer wheel, brimming with mantras, and admired clusters and lines of fluttering prayer flags – from faded and threadbare to ‘primary’ bright: a symbolic reminder of this country’s seemingly timeless spirituality.
Later we tried our hand at archery and showed a glimpse of potential. We also witnessed the monks practising their dances for the forthcoming festival in the sunstreaked courtyard of the Paro Dzong. Along with the sound of only one drum they leapt, pirouetted, weaved, pranced and floated – their robes flaying around like a swirl of open burgundy and russet umbrellas.
After a striking crimson sunset behind the Paro Valley, my massage in the forested wooden spa was out of this world and into another. With muscles de-knotted and hearts soaring we walked under brilliantly bright stars to the glowing dining room for our Bhutanese spread.
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